The Shaving Man

Please note: this story was provided by the author and published as is.

I never wanted to be someone who was, as Dad would say, “nothing but a name and a handshake”. In the rare moments we’d talk, he’d warn me about all the people who just woke up, went to work, collected their paycheck, then went home. Dad was a scientist working on stem cell research, so it was easy for him to say. Even though the stress of the job aged him terribly, he knew he was doing good work. He had a purpose. As for me, I never knew what my purpose was going to be. 

After college, I worked a few odd jobs—waiter, cashier, landscaper. Then, after Dad died, I knew I needed to get my act together. That’s when I saw the job listing—“Subway Security Officer.” It felt like a sign from the universe. I always knew the subways were dangerous—my friends and I were obsessed with “The Subway Stalker”, an urban legend about a monster who lured victims by mimicking voices. But, it was just a story. I never took it seriously. At least, not until Dad died.

They found his body near the end of the subway platform, his skin was torn to shreds, insides spilling out. Mom passed out when she had to go identify him. That’s when I started to understand that all legends come from somewhere. The Subway Stalker might not be real, but a real danger was down in those tunnels.

So, when I saw the Subway Security Officer job listing, I knew it was my opportunity to do something good for this world. I applied. A couple hours later, I got the interview. A few hours after that, I got the job. My orientation was a couple of YouTube videos, then I was off to make the world a better place.

As of writing this, I’ve been working down there for three days. But, after what I’ve seen, I’m not sure I can make it a fourth. 

When I arrived on the first day, my “office” was a booth next to the turnstiles, surrounded by a moat of piss and beer. Inside, there was a print-out with simple instructions—how to clock in, clock out, and call for help. At the bottom was my boss’s name, Winston, along with his phone number and a simple note: Only leave the booth if you absolutely have to.

I got assigned the night shift to start—11PM to 7AM. The first night bled together, the subway a rotating door of drunks, homeless people, and suits. The first wave came from the bars—mostly frat types and their tired girlfriends. I’d sit and watch them shove each, spilling beer onto the platform as they argued about college rivalries. Once they left, the homeless crowd would come down, inspecting the benches for a place to sleep. They’d spread out across any flat surface, wrapping themselves in blankets and coats. They were the most peaceful part of my shift, although the most depressing. One woman was sleeping upright on one of the benches, her mouth wide open. There was an old man in a suit, running a razor across his scalp. The gesture was slow, careful. There wasn’t much hair left, but he shaved what was there, staring blankly as each strand fell. He reminded me a little of my Dad, especially in his later years. 

Toward the tail end of my shift, the real suits arrived—businessmen and women who moved through the turnstiles like a cold breeze, eyes stuck to their phones. These were the people Dad warned me about—nothing but a name and handshake. I’m sure my job wasn’t as complex as theirs, but it felt as important. If something bad happened, I was the one calling for help. Although, nothing bad seemed to be happening. So, all I had to do was stay in the booth. 

I spent my hours scrolling my phone, half-watching the platform. I fought the urge to sleep with podcasts and caffeine, avoiding the fantasy of my warm bed. I made it the whole first night without an interaction. Then, I got a knock on my window.  

The man was standing in front of the booth, his face close to the glass. He was about my age, tall and thin with a mannequin smile. His suit was impossibly clean—pitch black with a liquid sheen, as if it had been poured onto him. The only imperfection was his tie—wrapped a bit too tight around his throat, as if it was keeping his head attached. 

I turned on the microphone and asked if he had a payment issue. I waited for him to say something, to gesture toward the card machine or point at the map. But, he just smiled, holding the silence like he owned it. When he eventually spoke, it was just above a whisper. “I want to shake your hand,” he said. “To introduce myself.” Then, he motioned me toward him, coaxing me to leave. I asked again if there was an issue, but he didn’t react—his smile stayed steady, eyes open, nostrils flared. The motion of his hand felt animatronic, like the mechanical rat at an amusement park. But, there was also something enchanting about the movement. I wanted to be a good security guard, the kind people knew, trusted. But, I knew the rules—only leave the booth if you absolutely have to. Maybe this was Winston, testing me. 

I told the man that, unless he had an issue, I wasn’t leaving the booth. Slowly, he dropped his hand, his smile quickly following. As he walked to the turnstile, I felt the sweat release from my body, filling me with a cold, strange feeling. 

A second later, a kid in an Eagles jersey walked by and spit on the booth’s window, shaking me out of my trance. I watched as he hopped the turnstile and ran down the platform toward some construction area. He kept running, forcing his way into the shadows. The darkness there seemed heavier than the rest of the station, like you’d get lost before you started. I closed my eyes and imagined the tunnel, stretching forward like a long sleep. The only thing that kept me awake were the sounds of people rushing by, the morning commute picking up to a steady hum. I remember this same feeling of trying to stay awake from when I was a kid. Back then, it was to try and catch Dad before bed. 

At first, it was just coming home late. Then, he’d go two or three days without seeing us. Each time, it felt like he had been gone for years—his wrinkles deeper, skin paler, eyes more vacant. He and Mom would scream at each other. She’d slam cabinets, he’d throw those stupid corporate mugs with his company’s logo on it—two black silhouettes, melding together at the shoulders, arms entwined. He always had excuses—some project, some deadline. But his eyes told a different story. Haunted. Hollow. Weekends were more of the same—always caught up “at the lab.” My Mom and brothers were the ones at my basketball games, my graduations, my prom pictures. Dad always had a reason, just never one that made any sense.

I kept thinking about Dad as I clocked out and walked the half mile back to my apartment. I barely slept after my shift, the morning light bright, unforgiving. The hours moved slow, and then all at once. Before I knew it, I was back in the booth, like I’d never left. 

More drunks. More homeless. Same old man shaving. Bodies in and out, in and out. Then, another knock on the glass, like clockwork. The same young man laid his hand on the glass, smiling with just his mouth. In that moment, I dubbed him Mr. Strange.

Even though the train was pulling up, he acted like he had all the time in the world. I turned on the microphone and asked if everything was okay.

“It must be nice in the booth,” he said, slowly, like his words were valuable. “Do you feel safe?”

He laughed, but I wasn’t sure what was funny. It sounded forced, like he was trying the sound for the first time. 

Again, I asked if everything was alright. He stopped laughing, his expression dropping. 

“You ask a lot of questions,” he said. He leaned forward a bit, and that’s when I noticed the ID tag in his pocket. I couldn’t see the name or picture, but I saw that familiar logo—two bodies melding together. I always found it strange that Dad’s company didn’t have a name, but he claimed it was for privacy reasons since stem cell research was so “controversial.” 

I asked Mr. Strange if he worked in stem cell research, pointing to his badge. He looked around, his fingers drumming on the glass. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead, moving fast on his smooth skin. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped it away. But, when he wiped, he pressed too hard. His face dented a little, wilting under the fluorescent light. He began to sweat more—thick, viscous beads rolling down his cheeks like melted wax. The harder he wiped, the worse it got—his features pooling, slipping out of place. Now, his left eye sat a little too low. His mouth, once perfectly shaped, bent unevenly at the corners. 

I’d never seen anyone have a stroke before, but this must have been it. I reached for my radio to call Winston, struggling to unhook it. My hand was shaking. I looked down to grab it, but I was too slow. When I looked up, he was gone. 

I took a second to catch my breath. As I looked around the platform, I realized everyone’s face looked a little off. It was probably from the lack of sleep.

When I got home that morning, I passed out until mid-afternoon. Then, I dragged myself to the local pub for some beer and french fries. As I dipped the fries in ketchup, their pale limbs dripping, I thought about Dad’s accident. From what I could see so far, the subway was sketchy, but it wasn’t monstrous. Based on Dad’s injuries, I was expecting to find human-sized rats down there. But, so far, all I found were men in suits, people down on their luck, and a long, dark hallway. 

Before I knew it, I was three beers down and my shift was about to begin. 

It was Saturday night, so the crowds in the station had a different energy. Drunk girls poured beer in the tracks. Frat bros shadowboxed. Every once in a while, someone would fall face first on the platform. It was a circus, but not a dangerous one. I even found some of it kind of funny. But, like every other night, the energy died down around 2 AM.

Tonight, the benches were mostly cleared, except for the old man shaving. He had the razor in his hand, but wasn’t using it. There was a slight tremor in his fingers, the metal blade knocking against the bench. His face was composed, but I could see panic in it, like recalling a bad dream.  

As he raised the blade to his scalp, I looked away, opening Instagram. I scrolled through a few videos, but my distraction didn’t last long. 

I heard glass break. I looked out my window—the booth across from mine was shattered, glass everywhere. There was a brick on the ground, along with that same idiot kid in the Eagles jersey. He flipped me off, then took off running. 

Alarms started blaring. I stood up, catching Winston’s note out of the corner of my eye. Only if I absolutely had to. I looked at the other booth, people scurrying away from the broken glass. This was vandalism, a crime. I had to do something. I couldn’t be a booth coward forever. 

I opened the door and chased after him.

Between my french fry dinner and lack of sleep, I wasn’t moving fast. But, I needed to catch him. I was tired of being a pushover, of letting people get away with whatever they wanted. These were small fires now, but I’d seen what happens when you ignore smoke.

As he ran into the hallway at the end of the platform, I stopped for a second, catching my breath. The narrow passage stretched forward, a tunnel of black mud. Its low ceiling crossed with rusted pipes and sagging cables, dark water dripping onto the floor. There was faded caution tape, old construction tools scattered in dust. The boy’s voice echoed, calling me every name in the book. I took a last breath to gather myself. As I did, the void seemed to breathe back. Then, I took off. 

I squeezed between scaffolds, trying to follow the voice. Everytime I thought I was close, I heard him coming from a different direction, like we were racing through a funhouse. I tried to take my phone out for a flashlight, but my equipment belt was falling. As I adjusted it, I lost my balance. My foot hit something. I flew forward, landing hard on my shoulder. I heard the boy laugh in the distance.

Pain shot up my arm. I sat up, groaning, then turned to see what I tripped on. It looked like some kind of bucket. I shined my light on it. It only took a second to realize what was in there. I tensed to stop myself from vomiting.

A coppery stench rose from it—coating the back of my throat. At first, I thought it might be moldy fabric, scraps from a nearby factory. I was wrong. 

The bucket was full of body parts.

I’d never seen detached human skin before—how pale and wet it was, how glistening. Pieces clung in damp, sagging sheets, their edges curled like burnt paper. Some had the ridges of fingerprints, the faint lines of knuckles, the ghostly imprint of veins. A portion of a face lay near the top, an eyelid still attached, half-closed in a lifeless wink.

The air around it was damp, humid with decay. Time slowed to nothing, then sped ahead uncontrollably, like waking from a nightmare. I grabbed my radio and called for help.

When Winston arrived, he was more intrigued than disturbed. I had made my way back to the booth, my shoulder aching. He shook my hand and introduced himself, which only made the pain worse. This was my first time seeing him in person. He was twice my age—a burly man with kind eyes, fit to be a sitcom husband. He told me the police were on their way. The station was only a block away, but I guess they were taking their time because after 30 minutes, they still weren’t here. When I asked if he could call again, he told me to take tomorrow off. Apparently, I looked “affected”. I had no idea how he wasn’t.

I got back to my apartment around 5 AM. My roommate was asleep with the controller on his chest, his video game playing at full volume. Through the window, I noticed the sun rising between the buildings. I went out to the fire escape and smoked a joint, staring at the quiet street. With each inhale, I saw the bucket of guts. With each exhale, I saw Dad’s shredded skin. Mom protected me from the sight of it, but my imagination made it so much worse. 

As a kid, I thought Dad had the coolest job—stem cell breakthroughs were all over the news. People talked about cancer cures, eradicating paralysis, erasing the common cold. Then the documentaries came out. People went to court. The details were never confirmed, but I read every Reddit theory about Dad’s nameless company. Why wouldn’t they disclose their office information? What, or who, could a person generate with the right cocktail of stem cells and data?

After that, I started to wonder what he knew. How much did those secrets weigh on him? Why’d he never talk to us about his work? Or, more importantly, who didn’t want him to talk about his work?

The sun was over the buildings now, and it was surprisingly warm out. I was properly stoned, so I went inside and poured myself a gin and tonic, scrambled some eggs, and plotted my little vacation.

By 3 PM, I was drunk. I stumbled down to the pub and ordered more french fries, zoning off into whatever game was on the TV. When I finished a drink, I’d flag the bartender, avoiding eye contact. I was starting to feel good, or at least feel something. Lack of sleep mixed with paranoia. I must have consumed half a bottle of gin. When I blinked, I saw the skin, then shook it away. Drink. Blink. Shake. Again and again. Then, the bartender slided me the check. 

I nodded, then mumbled a thank you. As I reached for my wallet, I felt something—the feeling of eyes, of someone else’s concentration. I turned toward it. There was a man. I knew that man. He was standing in front of the window, staring. Not at me, though. He was staring at himself. The razor pressed to his old, grey skin, pushing, carving, eyes vacant, scared. People passed on the street behind him, avoiding the sight of the blood. I couldn’t though. I was transfixed—the blood dripping, lines moving at different speeds—dark and slow, red and quick. He wasn’t blinking. Just staring, mouth slightly open. Staring at himself—the shaving man. 

I looked at the check and signed in quickly. When I looked back, he was gone. 

I pushed through the bar crowd and ran outside. He was down the block, moving faster than I thought he could, a panicked cadence. I followed behind. Not too close, but close enough. I knew it was none of my business, but there was something about the old man, something sad and familiar. Maybe someone was up late, waiting for him to come home.

I kept following, always a block behind. When he arrived at that familiar subway station, he stopped and looked around, like he’d forgotten something. Then, he rushed down a driveway and grabbed a small recycling bin. As he went down the station, I followed. Toll paid, then down the platform. I hid behind people, jumping from group to group, moving with him toward the hallway—that long, dark hallway of pipes and corners. I kept following, retracing my steps from yesterday, more keen to the rolling echoes, the distant yells. 

Then, all of a sudden, he stopped, dropping the bin. 

He was standing in front of a clothes rack of a dozen black suits. I hid behind a pillar and listened. Clothes ruffling, then the groan of stretched limbs. I peaked around—his jacket and shirt were off now; he was working on his pants. I studied his body. Something was off about it—his skin bunched oddly, like patches of moss, sagging like wet paper. 

Once he was naked, he went back in his pants and pulled out a syringe. Without hesitation, he stabbed it in his leg. As he pressed down, his head fell back, mouth open, a strained sound of pleasure. Once it was done, he pulled out the needle and tossed it toward me. That’s when I noticed the logo on it, that stupid, familiar logo. Then, he pulled out the razor again. 

He started with the top of his head, the sharp edge moving down that familiar path. Gnarled hands to face. Slow, deliberate pulls. As he dragged, ribbons of flesh fell to his feet. Blood welled at the seams, beading before dripping. The wounds didn’t look normal though—the blood stopped quickly. No muscles or guts or bone. Just… skin. More skin. Fresh skin. It was smooth, unblemished. 

He exhaled shakily with each stroke. He shaved his forehead, his cheeks, his eyelids, unspooling himself in the tunnel’s darkness. But, he didn’t grow hideous. No. Underneath was something better. Half of a taut, youthful brow. A smooth neck. His breath hitched in pain, then satisfaction. Soon, his knuckles were no longer swollen and stiff. His fingers were new—slender, youthful. He worked methodically, like a scientist. Carving. Discarding. Jumping from section to section, shedding time like trimming a hedge. As the skin hit the bucket, it would make a terrible, splatting sound. Then, I got the smell. It put me over. 

I gagged.  

The sound rose above his slicing. He turned toward me, slowly.  

He was only halfway done, the old bits clinging to his naked body. Half of his face was still hanging off, the wrinkles wet with blood. On one side, I saw the old man. On the other, I saw a younger man, a familiar man.

Mr. Strange. 

When we locked eyes, he looked scared. I took a step back, my heart in my throat.

“Wait,” he said, reaching out to me. “Stop!”

The shift was instant. His posture stiffened as his eyes sharpened. Then, he lunged at me.

I jumped back, falling into a sprint. I leapt over benches, pushed off walls. I did whatever I could to get away. His footsteps were right behind though—fast, light. 

Created by: Danny Ingrassia