Modern Classics

MODERN CLASSICS

The car rocked softly on the rails as Barry sat back, smoothing out his shirt, displaying a battered hockey mask and machete dripping blood.

“I’m telling you, nothing better than this for good old fashioned horror! Jason is a beast! Total classic!” He grinned across the aisle at the older man who smiled back at him.

Barry watched the man shake his head slightly, thick graying hair falling into his eyes. He couldn’t think of an odder individual to have this conversation with. What old dude really asks ‘who is the ultimate monster’ on the L at 4 AM with a total stranger. Certainly the question was prompted by his t-shirt and it was far from the strangest thing that had happened to him riding home after last call. Still, discussing horror flicks with a grandfather on the train made for one hell of a status.

Barry sat forward as the man sighed deeply, pushing his hair back with one hand, wagging his finger with the other. His voice didn’t carry much volume, more of a gravelly whisper. It reminded Barry of Clint Eastwood after polishing off a carton of smokes.

“Classic? I think not my boy. That’s the problem with you kids, you don’t know the past. You want a brute? A silent killing machine? A giant of terror? It has to be The Monster,” the man said.

“The Monster?” Barry asked, running through every horror movie he could think of, trying to puzzle out what creature he was referring to.

“Of course. You would know him more by the name of his creator as do most people these days, Frankenstein.”

“Frankenstein? For real?” Barry laughed. “Are you talking about that big flathead from those old black and white flicks? Man he couldn’t scare my grandmother and she is afraid of the damn postman!”

The old man smiled broadly and nodded. “As I said, you all forget the past. The Monster is an inhuman devil, a murderous behemoth capable of rending a man limb from limb, crushing his skull in the palm of his hand as if it were no more than a light bulb. I recall a time where he waded into a room full of large, brawny lumbermen, 19 of them in all. Not one was left intact, much less alive. When it was done, it took the physician days to determine how many men there had even been.”

Barry’s eyes grew wide at what sounded like an excellent scene that somehow, in years of watching gore on the screen, he missed. “Wow, that does sound pretty awesome, what movie was that in, I need to see that!”

Scratching at the thick stubble on his chin with one yellowed, ragged nail, the man waved dismissively. “The point is that your ‘ultimate monster’ is nothing more than a feeble copy of a true beast.” Smiling, the old man gestured towards the front of the car at the passenger huddled in the corner seat. “Your ‘beast’ isn’t even as large as our sleeping friend over there.”

Barry looked over to the rather large figure, really taking notice of him just now. Draped in a long black overcoat, he sat hunched in the corner, tucked back in the shadows by the window. The man was truly huge, taking up the two seat bench easily. Even seated, his head was at eye level to Barry. He had not moved nor made a sound, so much so that Barry wasn’t even sure he was breathing.

“Hey man, you know that guy?” Barry asked softly, glancing back at the old man. No answer was forthcoming, the man was slipping out of his well-worn suit jacket to scratch vigorously at his shoulder. Looking back to the corner, Barry swallowed hard, hoping he wasn’t riding the train with a dead body.

“Buddy, you OK?” Silence. A little louder he called “Hey pal, you asleep?” Still nothing. He glanced back over at the old man who appeared to have lost interest in the whole exchange, instead chasing the itch from his shoulder down across his chest. Barry stood and took a few tentative steps. “Hey, are you all right?” The silence was broken only by the scratching echoing through the car. Barry crept forward, his stomach sinking as he saw through the shadows a little more. He was ten feet away, yet the man had not moved, hands resting in his lap, head hanging down, face covered with long black hair. “Sir?”

“Oh man, I think that guy is dead,” Barry groaned as the moon broke through the clouds, light through the window revealing the too pale skin of his hands, the yellow green hue of a fading bruise. Barry’s heart froze when, at the sound of his voice, the man’s head snapped up, freezing him in place with terror as he locked eyes with the cold yellow glow of that awful gaze. Willing his body to flee, Barry leapt for the door.

Instantly, Barry felt himself snatched from the air, his arm circled by iron hard fingers that bit into the bone. The behemoth stood, the eight foot ceiling of the car pressing down on its head, dangling Barry by his arm. As Barry felt his skin split, bone cracking, he vaguely remembered the old man behind him.

“Mr. Talbot! Larry! Run!”

The old man smiled, then stood, taller than before. He smiled wider, impossibly wide, one claw extended.

“Dead? Him?” Talbot asked. “That just isn’t possible. Don’t you see? I told you he was a legend,” he growled through his snout.

Barry thumped to the floor, leaving what was left of his ruined left arm in The Monster’s grasp. Talbot crouched over him, breath reeking of rotten meat, paws on his shoulders holding him still. He leaned close, thick gray fur brushing Barry’s cheek.

“Legends never die.”