The Chanting Man

One day, back when I had regular work hours and commuted back and forth just slightly off of rush hour, I found myself on a crowded train. Shocking, I'm sure.

As I stood there, facing out into the blackness of the subway tunnel over the heads of some anonymous ants, I heard a chanting voice, dark and deep, coming from behind me. I turned to look. A very out-of-place looking man, red skinned and black haired, was sitting on the other side of the car, eyes closed, singing in no language I recognized (and I recognize a good few). I smiled and went back to my book.

After a few stations, I realized that the chanting hadn't ceased, even when the doors opened, and I hadn't heard the chanting when I got onto the train. I turned again to look, and this time his eyes were open- and he was staring straight at me. His eyes were the same black as his hair. The chant changed slightly as I looked at him, then returned as I managed to look away.

Normally when something odd happens on a train, people will look, acknowledge, and then NOT-look, which isn't the same as ignoring. But no one else seemed to notice the man, no matter how loud he chanted. Even the people sitting right next to him didn't seem to notice. But I noticed, and he was looking at me.

This could have been creepy... maybe it should have been. But all I felt the entire time was a sense of content and purposefulness. As if this were something beneficial and directed at me.

Eventually, we got to my stop, and I exited the train. I noticed that the chanting stopped, turned slightly, and saw that the man had come off the train here, as well. Aha, I thought, maybe if I slow down, he will pass me and I can see where he goes.

But when I turned again a few steps later, he had vanished. There was no one remotely like him on the entire platform.