It is as if you are on a subway.

The creaking metro hurtles underneath the bustling streets of New York, where business men tread with heavy steps, the breath fogging the frigid air. Children dart about, their tiny bodies loaded down with fabric and fur. Even with the metal tube encasing you, you hear the tingling sounds of Christmas bells and the humming of carolers through the layers of aging cement. You had expected throngs of people to be on the five o’clock subway, since businesses were closing for the holidays and workers were eagerly returning to their hearths, their families garbed in green and red, bellies bursting with eggnog and gingerbread. 

But you are like a clown without an audience. 

The plastic green and blue seats hold nobody, and the hanging hand handles swing erratically, mimicking the movements of the swaying subway which groans agonizingly as it plows along the creaking tracks to nowhere. You don’t know how long you have been on the train. Did I pass my stop already? you wonder. Or was my destination still ahead, silently awaiting my arrival? Where exactly is the end of the line?

You stare at the gaping black windows and sigh. The cabin lights flicker, extinguish, then ignite again. It is dangerously quiet. You still hear Christmas carols being hummed in the distance. 

A metallic robotic voice reverberates through the cabin. “Next up, Graveheart Street.”

The blackened windows transmogrify and become translucent, revealing an empty station. You stare at the ghostly station and, with a jolt, realize that it is not vacant. A lifeless-looking man stands amidst the cavernous station, staring at you. You stare in return. He is so still that the window appears to be a painting. 

“Welcome to Graveheart street,” the robotic voice intones. The debilitated metro halts and the door unfolds with a moan. 

The air of Grace Hart street gusts in. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to warm your goosebumps as the eeriness of the hollow station inundates the metro. Your pupils dilate upon the image of the sinister man. He does not move. You look away, waiting for the door to close and your journey home to resume. You furrow your eyebrows in turmoil. Where is my home?

A few protracted and uncanny moments pass and you conclude that the torpid man will not board the subway. You begin to count out of boredom. 

One... Two... Three…. Four... Five….. Is that man moving?…. Six…….Why is he coming in here?

It was as though the metro was waiting for this man alone. Usually the doors close automatically once the required period of time expires. But the ghostly train waits patiently for the man’s zombiean amble and the door remains ajar for what seems to be an aeon before the man’s torn shoes tread into the creaking cabin. The man stops, looks around, and then stares. You muster a forged smile before looking down at the ground. You hear his metronomic steps approaching and the plastic blue seat across from you groans as the man’s ample weight collapses into it. 

You behold the haunting image. 

His cheeks are hollowed in, showcasing prominent cheekbones that clutch large, bulging black eyes. His skin is so sallow and grey that his scalp appears to be exposed skull. His neck displays a pair of sternocleidomastoids that protrude against his thin and ashy dermis. His arms and legs resemble twigs, fragile and atrophied. He is sparsely clothed, wearing only a long, button-down, greying cardigan, even though it is a searingly frigid winter. His aura exudes expiration and grief, in contrast to the festive holiday spirit of the aboveground world. 

 The man’s chest does not seem to be moving at all, and despite the gyrations of the old metro, the man barely sways, seemingly violating the law of inertia. With the sound of cracking bone, he slowly turns his neck to you. 

“Hello.”

You do not reply but give him a quick glance of acknowledgment before looking down again. 

“Hello,” repeats the man. He has a demonic voice and even sitting six feet away from him, you can smell his rotting breath. 

“Hello,”  you respond quickly, resisting the urge to pinch your nose.

“Heading somewhere?”

“Yes,” you say. “Home.” But a strange buzzing confusion arises in the back of your neck.

You hear the plastic chair creak again as the eerie man leans back. 

“Home,” he says softly, “I haven’t heard of that word in a while ”

You glance up at him and examine his appearance once again. It seems like he is barely living, and is a shell of a body that has recently passed. 

“Everybody has a home,” you say, inverting your own thoughts. “It’s Christmas. My family is waiting for my arrival.” Family?

“Like you have one of those,” the man scoffs, repeating your thoughts, “I’m Cotard.” He reaches his skeleton hand across the aisle to you and you shake it reluctantly. The cold and slimy sensation jolts your senses and you realize how haunted this moment is. The air is chillier and seems to be tightening around Cotard and you. You feel trapped as if you are entombed six feet under, hobnobbing with the decaying man. 

“I’m alive, aren’t I?” 

Cotard’s black eyes stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t know, are you?”

“I’m pretty sure I am,” you say unconfidently and pinch your arms, “I can feel pain and I’m talking right? That must mean I’m alive.”

Cotard leans forward and you gasp as he twists off his thumb. Blood gushes from the stub, and the pure white bone surrounded by red flesh and veins gleams under the pallid light of the metro. 

“I feel pain and I’m talking,” he said, “Does that mean I’m alive?”

You do not say anything but watch in horror as he carelessly tosses his severed thumb down through the traincar. 

“Is there really a definition of what is alive or not?” Cotard says thoughtfully, “One can act as dead while being alive. Children do it all the time while playing. Pretending to drown for attention or pretending to be dead while playing sword fights. The same with adults. Adults can try to identify as deceased while their heart is pumping so they can avoid the suffering of life. But of course, who can ever escape the hauntingness of life?” He smiled, “I would suppose you would think the same thing?”

“This is a dream,” you snap, “You aren’t here, are you? You are just a product of my imagination. A result of my boredom from being alone on a metro. You aren’t here. I’m talking to a blue chair right now waiting for my destination.”

“Perhaps,” Cotard sighed, “But are you sure you’re even here? I could be the one alive and you could be the outcome of my insanity.”

“Nonsense,” you reply, “You look like you are barely fed, barely living. You look absolutely ghastly and your skin so greying that I would think you’re transparent. Your body appears so shrunken that I could assume that your organs aren’t there. As for me--” you pat yourself down “--I am healthy and going home for a Christmas feast. You cannot say I’m the one dead.”

“Ah but you see,” Cotard says, “You were the one questioning whether you’re alive in the first place, Dearie.” He stands up suddenly as the robotic woman announces the train's arrival at Crypt Station. 

. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” Cotard bows as the door snaps open to a once again hauntingly empty station, “I would assume we would meet again unless you, well, decide to stay alive.” 

You stand up angrily and run to the door of the train. “What is that supposed to mean!”

But the metro’s door closes with a snap and Cotard turns around to face you from the empty station. He stands in the same position as he did when he was at Graveheart station but this time, a smile is etched on his face, his eyes burning with madness, as he holds up his thumbless hand and starts waving to you creepily as if you were his closest friend. You feel the metro groan and move again, its speed whirling faster than ever before. The window shifts  from the haunting image of the waving Cotrad to an infinite black as you proceed ever farther down the routeless track. 

You are engulfed in darkness. Your eyes close and you begin to wonder. I am alive...right?

Suddenly, a bright light glows around your eyelids and voices soar around you as if you have arrived in heaven. I’m dead, you conclude, like Cotard

Someone’s hand grips your arm and shakes it. 

Let me rest…

“She’s been on electroconvulsive therapy for forty minutes,” someone says, “She must be tired. Don’t wake her up just yet.”

“I’m sorry,” a scared voice answers, “She looked so lifeless. I was worried that the disorder actually got to her.”

Disorder?

“Don’t worry, this delusion disorder won’t make her die. It’s symptoms are just depression and hallucinations. In the meantime, we can fill out some paperwork. Can you tell me how when this happened.”

“Well,” says the scared voice again, “It all started when her husband died when he fell through the tracks of a subway in New York on Christmas day. She became depressed to the point where I believe dementia got to her. She forgot about me, our family, her name, our home address, and I believe she forgot herself.” The voice pauses as if to calm the breathing. “She started to become shell-like. She doesn’t know her name and started thinking she was dead. She told me that she doesn’t have organs and that her muscles were decaying. I told her she was wrong and that she was just hallucinating. But she tried to prove that she was dead by hurting herself. She said that dead people don’t feel pain.”

“Is that why her hand is hurt?” You hear the scratching of a pen against paper. 

“Yes. She took a butcher’s knife and sliced through her thumb. Yet, she didn’t scream. She stared at her severed thumb and shrugged like it was a daily ordeal. I was scared that she had some other disorder because I researched that these cases are rare with depressed patients with dementia. So I brought her here a week ago and she started going on electroconvulsive therapy. But, she still looks so...so lifeless. I think she is dead everytime I visit her.”

Pen scratches on paper again and silence follows. 

“It’s a very unfortunate and rare syndrome that doesn’t have a cure. We just have to put her on therapy until her condition wears off and she feels more, well, human. I believe the doctor has filled you in regarding her condition?”

Silence screams. It reminds you of the haunting stillness of Graveheart station when you met Cotard. Behind your closed eyelids, you see Cotard standing next to you, his decaying body under his greying tattered robes. His black eyes stare and he again wears his ghostly smile. 

You hear his voice in your mind. We meet again.

Then the eerie image of Cotard disappears and the frightened voice says, “Yes, the doctor informed me yesterday. My mother has Cotard’s Delusion, also known as Walking Corpse Syndrome.”