The Lost Princess

19-year-old Frankie Martin is a regular London girl returning back home from a wild Halloween bash, using the underground train. But this particular line, Picadilly, is known to always be deserted on All Hallows Eve, and not a soul dares to enter the train. But once Frankie enters, all makes sense....

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Chapter 1:

He's been staring at me for 43 minutes.

Scratch that, 44.

I'm sitting in the tattered remains of the train,  dead bodies all around, curled up in a ball, staring at him.

And he's staring back.

He's just standing there, eyes like a hawk, watching my uneven breathing.

I'm too scared to function.

My face jerks to the side and lets out a high shriek when he runs over to me, impossibly fast.

He continues to stare, but now he's just uncomfortably close.

"You don't remember me, do you, love?" he asks solemnly. 

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One hour before...

I can't wait to go home. All I need is my bed.

I mean, the party was fun, but I'm not much of a Halloween fanatic.

It gives me the creeps, to be totally honest here.

Parading around, making fun of the dead and just begging for a swift kick in the ass from the undead? I'd rather be at home painting, or reading.

Yeah, I'm a wild one.

Sleep is aching in my entire body and I slug my purse over my shoulder.

It's dark in London tonight, darker than usual. It's unsettling, there's always a comforting light or two on to make me feel secure. And there's usually always people on the street, this town is usually such a lively place, even at night.

I clutch my bag closer to my chest and continue on the ticket hall. Despite everyone at the parties' warnings and fairytales about taking the underground on Halloween night, I'm freaking going anyway. It's either this, or walking for miles and miles on end. And if they think I'm walking alone all that way on Halloween night, they're ALL nutters.

Stupid rumors are swirling that some weird shit goes down on the trains on Halloween night, like malfunctions and stuff, which is just a load of bull. And they even tried convincing me that people that DO go are usually never heard from again.

People will believe anything. 

I swipe my OysterCard in the ticket machine and the doors lift, granting me entrance to the escalators to the underground. By this time, it's usually overflowing with people to catch the last train of the night. I always laugh at the scrambling Londoners running for the last train, cursing loudly and dropping things on the way.

But, tonight wasn't my lucky night of people watching I guess, because.....not a soul could be found.

I swallow hard at the eerie silence when as I walk though the tunnels to get to my line home--Picadilly.

I reach it and plop down on a bench, glancing down at my arms. There were actual people here now, which comforted me a little, but something still felt....off.

I can overhear some of their worried whispers about the rumors, and the laughing skeptics who just wanna go home from a long day at work.

Every centimeter of hair on my body was pointed towards the ceiling, standing straight up. I brush the goosebumps away and put my hands in my lap, waiting for the train.

I look up at the sign, the train should be here any second. Thank god.

The scar on the back of my hand started to hurt again. I hate this stupid thing, it decides when it wants to burn whenever the hell it feels like. And no one, not even doctors, can explain it.

I look down and see that the frankenstien boot I was sporting lace was untied. I calmly but cautiously bent over to tie my boot lace, tidying up my costume.

Something about how quiet it was made me even more alert than I would be if there were the usual creepy people around. About to loop the laces to seal the knot on my boot, I hear dark voices appear to my right side almost instantaneously.