"9 to 5 jobs are horrid. I mean, don't get me wrong, but we spend most of our day working only to get home tired with no energy to do anything else than sit in front of the telly and drool," Rachel stared at her metro card entering and exiting the reading machine, pushing them with a smirk when they squealed.
"Do you know how many germs are on these things?" she eyeballed me.
I pursed my lips to show her how grateful I'd be if she finished her rant early, allowing me a moment of silence so I could think of how miserable my life was. It was dull, the kind of dull only middle-aged mothers should experience.
"And don't get me started on the bosses," Rachel's heels clattered on the stairs as we made our way towards the platform.
"If only," I muttered when the telecom woman warned us all to stay away from the thin line which separated a bleak life from a gory death.
The rattling of subway wagons and rusty wheels was approaching, but that did not stop Rachel from continuing her chatter, even when my eyes wandered the crowds for any strange figures. There was always a drunk on the platform, causing ruckus and annoyance, or a family arguing what line they should take to reach their destination or even a scared tourist who did not speak English, too shy to even attempt asking the locals where this next subway was heading. But today luck was not on my side as everyone waiting had a pasty face, red eyes, and a frown so long it exceeded their chins and dropped all the way to the ground.
The only item out-of-place was an ad plastered to the wall. Don't get me wrong, it was a typical electoral campaign ad. It promised a new homeless shelter would be erected if only citizens would come and vote for Bob as the new president!, because, hey, Bob's the best, he's a total family man, he won't screw the taxpayers and look at that, he wants to build this homeless shelter, I mean come on guys, how can you not support this awesome human being?
I tilted my head, a wolfish smile curling my lips.
Someone had scribbled a mustache on Bob and his once green eyes – showcased by another ad I had seen moments before as we jammed our cards into the machine – were purple. I had no idea who was the mastermind of this new coup, but I definitely wanted to meet them.
Shaking my head, I decided zombies were fuller of life than the gaggle of corpses surrounding me and sighed in relief; the subway screeched to a halt and the doors opened with a polite ping. We jostled inside the cramped wagon, holding on the metal poles built for our comfort and which, after years of use, were showing signs of decay. Someone had scratched their name on them and had drawn a little heart for more impact. Another had just written "fuck you" in big, bold letters.
What made it worse was the armpit of a sweaty athlete just above my head. A foul scent traveled to my nose and I refrained from gagging.
"What?" Rachel rolled her eyes, thinking I was reacting to her speech. "Of course you don't understand, you don't have a 9 to 5."
A weak smile flowered on my face and blood pooled into my stomach, making me want to barf. Please, get out at the next station, please, I begged the athlete, keeping my eyes away from his swaying junk. God, I hate shorts.
Rachel, on the other hand, was staring straight at it. The athlete stared back, and they smiled at one another for an eternity like love-struck puppies. They weren't even blinking.
"Come on, Rach, give him your number already," I groaned and waved my hand in front of her face.
No movement. I repeated the gesture with him – no response. It was like interacting with a brick wall.
"What the hell?"
Hell decided to talk back.
There were more than fifty people in the tubular wagon, and they all turned their eyes on me, purple light flooding their eyeballs, overpowering the neon blue I was accustomed to until the lightbulbs popped, and we were drenched in an amethyst glow.
I blinked and my throat contorted, unsure whether it should scream or not.
"We have been waiting for you," the athlete spoke, one hand clutching my arm.
We were supposed to arrive at the next station, but the telecom was silent even as the train continued to race, screeching at every too-wide turn.
"Wh-who's we?" my teeth chattered, and I yelped when Rachel grabbed me as well.
"We are everywhere," he hissed and from his mouth erupted more than one voice.
At least fifty had joined in, sneering their disapproval.
"You are late."
A wave of dizziness – caused either by the unusual circumstance in which I found myself in or by me missing two meals that day – washed over me and my head bumped against the bar. The cold metal woke up my mushy brain, yelling at it to find a way out.
Jump out the window if you must.
"We are The Coven," Rachel grabbed my other arm. "We see all, we hear all, we know all."
"Ok," tears sprung to my eyes.
"Oh, great, now she's crying," the athlete spoke, his voice breaking apart from the chorus. "Good job guys, we scared this one too."
A maelstrom of swearing broke the horror-movie atmosphere. More lightbulbs popped.
"Oops," another voice distinguished itself.
"Jesus, Lorraine, it was your job to make sure weird shit doesn't happen. I'm Mike, by the way," the athlete extended his hand to me, but I found it impossible to shake it.
A few seconds later, it dawned on him he and his other friend were holding me hostage and they let me slump against the bar, wheezing with shock.
"You're the VP, not me," a blonde woman spoke, the purple light in her eyes flickering. "We have little time, get done with it."
"Done with what?"
My knees were quickly giving in to the pressure of talking with spirits or specters or whatever these creatures were. Only one thing was certain to me: they were possessing the bodies of everyone inside.
"We are here for a reason, Petra. Humans rarely get to talk to us, so you're actually quite lucky.��
"Oh, really?" my chest tightened, and all signs pointed to the beginning of an anxiety attack.
Mike fumbled through the pockets of his shorts and pulled out a piece of paper.
"Congratulations," he unfurled the parchment and handed it to me.
I took it with a trembling hand and a suspicious glance at his face.
"What's this?"
"Read."
Frankly, at that moment, I had nothing better to do.
To our newest President,
Congratulations! If you wish to pass the title to someone else, no can do, sorry, the gods have already spoken, and they clearly stated you are to be appointed President.
Sign here for agreement.
I blinked, unsure if I should laugh or cry.
This was a bad dream; it had to be.
"President of what?" I stared at Mike. "A secret organization of...spirits?"
Mike nodded and smiled. "Yes." Then, after a brief hesitation, "We are not exactly spirits mind you. Sprit is a pejorative term; you should be mindful of that unless you want someone to get offended and... well...conjure up a demon."
"Oh. Great." I forced a smile, not caring how fake it looked.
"We like to be called the Shadow People."
"Yey," I mumbled, feeling like I had had a drink too many.
"We're not as harmful as the general public believes," Lorraine gave her best shot at helping me out without realizing there was nothing she could do.
"Shadow people?" I asked, the term rolling off my tongue with strange familiarity.
Mike nodded. I glanced at Rachel, at her devilish grin. She knew that wherever she went, I would follow. Even if it meant I was going to hell.
As if he could guess my thoughts, Mike handed me a pen. I signed.
"Welcome to The Coven, Ms. President."