Rules of Passage

My apartment was exactly what you’d expect from a cop who spent more time at the precinct than at home. The wallpaper peeled at the corners like old scabs, the carpet was a mottled gray that might have been blue in another decade, and the persistent smell of mildew suggested the plumbing was older than the landlord cared to admit. It wasn’t much, but it was my refuge from the chaos of New York City—my own rundown castle.

One lethargic Sunday afternoon, as the city exhaled the heat from the relentless August sun, I stood on the fringes of my small bathroom, scrutinizing my reflection in the faded mirror. I needed to shave, my beard a rough map of the past stressful week. As I nudged the mirror to get a better angle, it shifted slightly, revealing a corner of yellowed paper tucked behind it.

Curious, I pried the mirror further open. It creaked in protest, the sound sharp in the quiet apartment. Behind it, I found an envelope, the paper thin and brittle to the touch. Written on the front in a hurried scrawl was, “Rules of Passage”

My brow furrowed. My first thought was a prank—some twisted joke played by a fellow officer or a friend. But as I sliced the envelope open and unfolded the letter inside, the list of rules I found was anything but ordinary:

Do not make eye contact.
Do not speak to them.
Never carry more than can fit in your pockets.
Do not take what is not dropped.
Ignore all pleas for help.
Do not eat or drink anything.
Avoid the man in the conductor’s uniform.
Never go beyond the last platform.
Never board the train.
If you wish to leave, you must jump in front of the train.

I read through the list twice, then a third time. My initial reaction was disbelief mixed with an uneasy chuckle. It had to be a joke—a bizarre, detailed, and somewhat macabre joke, but a joke nonetheless. I imagined my buddy Rick’s laughter when I’d confess to being spooked, the precinct’s break room echoing with hoots and hollers.

Shaking my head, I placed the letter on the bathroom counter, my detective’s mind idly noting the lack of dust around the mirror. It was odd, given the general neglect of my cleaning habits. The rules themselves were nonsensical, yet oddly specific. Avoid the man in the conductor’s uniform? Never board the train? It read like a bad movie script.

The practical part of me wanted to crumple the paper up and forget it ever existed. Yet something nagged at me—a whisper of curiosity, or perhaps the echo of instinct honed by years on the force telling me not to dismiss it outright.

With a resigned sigh, I tucked the letter into my jacket pocket, figuring it might make for an amusing story to share with Rick the next day. As I reset the mirror, my reflection staring back at me seemed to carry a hint of caution, as if the tired eyes looking back at me also whispered, Be careful.

I left the bathroom, the letter’s words echoing in my mind. It was just a prank, I reassured myself. But as the city outside buzzed and the shadows in my apartment deepened with the setting sun, the list of rules felt more like a warning than a joke. And deep down, as the evening crept over New York, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my life had just taken a turn.

A week had passed since I discovered the bizarre list of rules behind my bathroom mirror. Each day, the letter’s presence gnawed at me, an itch in the back of my mind that wouldn’t subside. The rules haunted my thoughts, whispering through my daily routines, disturbing my sleep. Finally, unable to quell my growing obsession, I decided to investigate.

It was late, the kind of late that blanketed the city in a deep, uneasy quiet. I stood before my bathroom mirror, the letter in hand, rereading each rule as if trying to decode a secret message hidden in plain sight. With a deep inhale, I gripped the edges of the mirror and pulled. The mirror gave way with a groan, revealing not just the wall behind, but an opening—a dark, elongated tunnel that seemed to stretch into an impossible nothingness.

Curiosity, sharp and demanding, overtook my hesitation. Flashlight in hand, I stepped into the tunnel. The air was cool and damp, the walls rough and encrusted with what looked like centuries of grime. I walked for what felt like miles, the beam of my flashlight a small, brave spot of light against the overwhelming dark.

Suddenly, the tunnel ended, and I stepped out onto a platform. I blinked in astonishment—before me lay a subway station, seemingly ripped from the 1940s. It was perfectly preserved, as if it were still in use; advertisements for “Victory Bonds” adorned the walls, and the scent of old, dry wood mixed with a faint trace of tobacco smoke hung in the air.

My footsteps echoed on the stone platform as I moved cautiously forward. The station was eerily quiet—no announcements, no clattering of trains. Then I saw them—people, or rather, figures that resembled people, each dressed in period attire, their faces blurred and indistinct, going about their business as if I wasn’t there.

I remembered the first rule: Do not make eye contact. Lowering my gaze, I observed them from the corners of my eyes. They didn’t speak or interact with me; they seemed completely unaware of my presence, phantoms of a bygone era caught in a loop of routine.

A sudden chill made me shiver, and I pulled my jacket tighter around me. As I ventured deeper into the station, I recalled the second rule: Do not speak to them. I bit my tongue as a spectral old man nearly bumped into me, muttering apologies to no one as he shuffled past, newspaper under arm.

My attention then shifted as a figure distinct from the rest paced the platform. It was a man in a conductor’s uniform, his face harsh and creased with what looked like perpetual anger. The uniform was impeccable, the buttons polished to a shine, and his cap pulled low over his brow.

As I watched, the conductor stopped and surveyed the platform with a scowl, his eyes seeming to look right through the spectral passengers. I kept my distance, observing the conductor’s routine, noting his paths and stops.

The longer I stayed, the more the place felt suffocating, a strange pressure building in my ears. Remembering the final rule, I knew it was time to leave. I couldn’t risk getting trapped here. I turned towards the tunnel, then hesitated. On the ground near where I had appeared was a handful of coins, old and tarnished. *Do not take what is not dropped,* the rule echoed in my mind. These were dropped, so it must be fine, right?

I picked them up, rationalizing that it was worth the risk for proof that I wasn’t hallucinating. With one last wary glance at the stern-faced conductor, I turned back to the tunnel to realize it was sealed. I placed my hand on the wall and felt nothing but cold, unyielding stone. I remembered what I had to do, and scanned the scene until I saw a track with a train only beginning to take off. It accelerated at an impossible rate, but I was able to make it to the edge of the platform just in time.

I jumped in front of the phantom machine that made no sound as it raced towards me. Closing my eyes at the last moment, I braced for impact—only to find myself tumbling onto the cold, hard tiles of my bathroom floor.

Gasping for air, clutching the coins in my fist, I lay there for a moment, the reality of my apartment crashing back around me. I had escaped the station, but the station hadn’t quite left me. As I stood, shaky and disoriented, the weight of the coins in my hand was a solid, undeniable confirmation of the night’s reality.

The portal was real. The rules were real. And I had a fist full of evidence.

The first trip through the mirror-tunnel left me both exhilarated and terrified. The coins I’d pocketed—a handful of pre-world war two nickels and dimes—were tangible proof of my unbelievable journey. As morning light seeped through the grimy windows of my apartment, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the events of the night replaying in my mind like a looped film reel.

Determined to understand the value of my find, I decided to visit a local antique shop known for its collection of coins and historical memorabilia. The small bell above the door jingled as I entered, the musty smell of old books and rust greeting me. The shopkeeper, a stooped old man with thick glasses perched on his nose, looked up from his newspaper as I approached the counter.

“Can I help you?” the shopkeeper asked, eyeing my nervous demeanor.

“I found these in my grandfather’s attic,” I lied smoothly, placing the coins on the counter. “Wondered if they might be worth anything.”

The shopkeeper picked up a coin, his eyes narrowing as he examined it. “Hmm, pre-war coins, quite a nice find indeed.” He tested each coin with a small magnifying glass, then looked up at me, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “Not something you see every day. Where did you say you found them?”

“My grandfather’s attic, he was a bit of a collector,” I repeated, maintaining my façade of casual disinterest.

After a few minutes of haggling, I walked out of the shop with a substantial amount of cash, much more than I had anticipated. The weight of the money in my pocket felt like a burning promise of potential. However, before I made it out the door, the shop owner said something that stuck in the back of my mind:

“A word of caution,” the shopkeeper said, his voice low and urgent. “The treasures of the past often come with a price. Be sure you’re willing to pay it.”

Fueled by success, my visits to the station became more frequent. Each journey through the tunnel was a calculated risk, but the temptation of easy wealth was too strong to resist. I followed the rules meticulously: never making eye contact, never speaking to the spectral passengers, and always avoiding the conductor. My collection grew—old bills, more coins, even a few historical trinkets small enough to fit in my pockets.

But with the increasing visits, my behavior at work began to change. I was distracted, my thoughts constantly wandering to my next trip through the mirror. My colleagues took notice, especially when I started showing up with new watches and unexplained cash. Rumors started, whispers of evidence tampering, or worse.

Rick Dalton, a fellow detective and supposed friend, confronted me one day in the locker room. “Hey, Johnny, you hitting the casino these nights? You’ve got the look of a man who’s found a gold mine.”

“Just some good luck on a few bets,” I deflected, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

Rick raised an eyebrow but didn’t push further. The conversation, however, heightened my paranoia. I knew I needed to be more careful, but the call of the coins, the whisper of the wind through the station, was irresistible.

One afternoon, after pocketing a particularly rare find—a 1941 Liberty Half Dollar—I decided it was time to lay low for a while. I had enough stashed away to ease up, but as I turned to leave the station, I felt a chilling gaze on my back. Twisting around, I saw the conductor, standing far down the platform, staring directly at me. My heart skipped a beat; had I been too greedy? I quickly averted my gaze and rushed to a platform with a train just starting to accelerate.

Jumping in front of the approaching train, I braced for the now-familiar jolt, only to awaken in my bed, sweating and shaken. The room felt colder, the shadows deeper, and as I clutched the Liberty Dollar, I realized I had crossed a line. The game was changing, and the rules might not protect me much longer.

The precinct was bustling, the air thick with the usual blend of coffee, anxiety, and determination. I felt the weight of eyes on me as I navigated through the desks, my recent financial uptick not going unnoticed among my colleagues. Whispers followed me like shadows, each murmur a thread weaving a net of suspicion.

Rick Dalton finally cornered me near the water cooler, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity. “Johnny, can we talk?” he asked, nodding towards the empty interrogation room.

Inside, the room felt colder than usual, the stark light highlighting the seriousness on Rick’s face. “It’s about these sudden gains of yours, John. People are talking. They’re saying you might be into something… off the books.”

My stomach tightened. I’d known this conversation was coming, yet it did little to ease the sting. “Rick, it’s nothing shady. I swear.”

Rick raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Then explain it to me. Make me believe it because right now, it looks bad, man.”

I hesitated, the secrets of the mirror and the station heavy on my tongue. I’d kept it all so close, but Rick’s trustful eyes, the history we shared, all demanded the truth.

“It’s… complicated. More than you can imagine,” I started, my voice low. “But I’ll show you. Both of you.” I added, noticing Lucy Grant hovering near the door, her intuition clearly piqued.

Later that evening, under the guise of casual beers, I led Rick and Lucy into my dimly lit apartment. The mirror, once just a reflective surface, now felt like the gateway to pandemonium.

“Before I show you, you need to promise me—whatever you see, whatever you hear, you keep it between us. And follow my rules strictly,” I instructed, my tone grave.

Lucy, ever the skeptic, crossed her arms. “You’re freaking me out, John.”

Rick clapped me on the back with a half-hearted chuckle. “Lead the way, officer.”

I pulled the mirror aside, revealing the dark, elongated tunnel behind it. Rick’s chuckle died in his throat, his eyes widening in disbelief, while Lucy let out a low whistle.

“Holy hell, John, what is this?” Rick stepped closer, his detective instincts kicking in, examining the edges, the depth.
“It’s a tunnel to another time, another place. Sounds crazy, but that’s the best way I can explain it,” I said, stepping into the darkness to demonstrate. Hesitant yet intrigued, Rick and Lucy followed.

The walk through the tunnel was quiet, the air thick with anticipation and the cool dampness of the unseen world around us.

Emerging onto the platform of the station, we were each hit by the authenticity of the scene. The smell of coal and old wood, the sound of distant trains, the murmur of spectral passengers in period attire—all of it was overwhelming.

“This is unbelievable…” Lucy murmured, her previous skepticism vanished, replaced by awe and a hint of fear. “It’s like we’ve stepped into the past.”

I reiterated the rules: no eye contact, no speaking to the passengers, take only what is dropped, and most importantly, never board the train or go beyond the last platform. When it’s time to go, jump in front of a train.
“Why all the rules?” Rick asked, scanning the bustling ghosts of the past.

“They’re not just for show. I don’t know what happens if you break them, but I promise you it’s nothing good,” I emphasized, watching a porter pass by with a cart of luggage.

We moved cautiously along the platform, the spectral figures brushing past us, each locked in their own silent world. The temptation to interact was palpable, but my stern reminder of the rules echoed in our minds.

As we turned to leave, a glint of silver caught my eye—an old coin, lying just beside the tracks. I picked it up, showing it to Rick and Lucy. “Everything here is real, from back then. And it’s valuable. But we must be careful.”

We spent a few minutes wandering around, collecting oddities off the floor. When we were all ready, with a nod, we jumped down on the tracks and let the blinding light race towards us. Moments later, we came to on the bathroom floor, followed by several minutes of silence.

“What now?” Lucy asked, the reality of our discovery settling in.

“Now, we decide what to do next,” I said, knowing well that the temptation of the station, its dangers cloaked in allure, would test us all.

Weeks passed as Rick, Lucy, and I regularly visited the station, our pockets growing heavier with each visit. The temptation of wealth overshadowed the dangers, the rules becoming more of a guideline than a lifeline. It was a late summer evening when we found ourselves once again on the familiar platform, the air thick with anticipation and the musty scent of the past.

Lucy, her eyes gleaming with a dangerous curiosity, pulled Rick aside as I rummaged through a pile of abandoned suitcases. “I want to try something,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant rumble of trains.

Before Rick could protest, Lucy approached one of the spectral passengers—a woman in a faded, flowery dress, her face a blur of muted features. With deft fingers, Lucy slipped the woman’s necklace off and into her pocket, a victorious grin spreading across her face. But as she turned to Rick, her triumph faltered at his expression of pure, unadulterated horror.

Confused, Lucy spun back to the woman, only to find herself staring into a face now hauntingly clear, mascara-stained tears streaking down her cheeks. “Help me,” the woman pleaded, her voice a chilling whisper.

“I’m… I’m sorry, I…” Lucy stammered, her words swallowed by the sudden, deafening silence that descended upon the station. I, realizing the unfolding catastrophe, could only watch as every spectral figure turned towards Lucy, their faces contorted in a collective rage.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” Lucy whimpered, her voice small and broken as the ghostly crowd advanced, their hands outstretched, grasping, tearing. In the distance, the conductor’s eyes blazed with a fury that burned through the very fabric of reality.

Lucy’s screams echoed through the station as the vengeful specters descended upon her, their incorporeal forms suddenly all too solid, all too violent. Rick, his mind reeling, stumbled back towards the tracks, his voice cracking as he yelled to me, “We need to leave, now!”

I, transfixed by the spot where Lucy had stood just moments before, barely registered Rick’s words. As we turned to flee, the conductor materialized before us, his presence a suffocating force, his anger palpable. He pointed at me, then at Rick, his eyes promising retribution as he strode towards us with purposeful steps.

“Jump, now! In front of the train!” I screamed, my voice raw with desperation.

But Rick, consumed by panic, made a fateful decision. As the spectral train glided into the station, its form a shimmering aberration, Rick leaped through its closing doors, my anguished cries fading behind him.

Reaching the platform’s edge, I could only watch as the train carried Rick away, his face a mask of sheer terror pressed against the window. The conductor, his scowl deepening, watched the train disappear into the abyss, his vengeance unsated.

With a pounding heart and ragged breaths, I steeled myself for the inevitable. As the next train approached, I closed my eyes, whispered apologies to my fallen friends, and jumped.

My hands shook as I stared at the blank wall where the hole once was, the ghost of the portal that had swallowed my friends now just a patch of mismatched paint in my dimly lit bathroom. The reality of Rick’s terrified face pressed against the train window haunted me, the echo of Lucy’s screams merged with the constant, oppressive silence of my apartment.

In a frantic haze, I grabbed a hammer and began to tear into the drywall, each strike a mix of hope and desperation. Dust and plaster flew around me as I dismantled the wall piece by piece, revealing not the eerie station or the darkened tunnel but the mundane sight of my kitchen tiles through a jagged hole.

With nothing left to do, I put the mirror back up, covering the scars of my frenzy. The reflection that stared back at me was a man broken, eyes hollow, the weight of my unshared secret.

The following weeks were a blur of police activity and whispered rumors. I participated in the searches for Rick and Lucy, my gut twisting with every false lead and dead end. The precinct was rife with speculation and suspicion, the eyes of my colleagues probing and questioning. I maintained a facade of concerned confusion, but inside, I was a tumult of guilt and fear.

At night, I lay awake, the images of my last visit replaying behind my eyelids—the anger in the conductor’s eyes, the spectral hands reaching for Lucy, Rick’s decision to board the train. The rules we had broken haunted me, each one a lash against my conscience.

Weeks turned into a month, and the search for Rick and Lucy began to dwindle, the case growing cold but never settling. The precinct slowly returned to its usual rhythm, but I felt detached, moving through my duties as though underwater.

One quiet evening, as I sat at my kitchen table nursing a beer, a faint tapping sound pulled me from my thoughts. It was rhythmic, insistent. With a heavy heart, I stood and made my way to the bathroom. The sound grew louder as I approached.

I reached out a trembling hand and took the mirror down once more, expecting to see the dark tunnel stretching out before me. Instead, there was only the wall, innocuous and taunting. I replaced the mirror, but as I turned to leave, a small envelope slid out from under the edge of the frame.

I picked it up, the paper familiar yet ominously heavy in my hand. I tore it open and a single, folded piece of paper fell into my palm. Unfolding it, I read the new set of rules, my heart sinking with each word:

Do not return for them.
Do not look for doors where there are none.
The past cannot be saved.
Remember them as they were.

Credit: George Wofford

YouTube