Neve Emek: Room 102 - Part 6 of ?

6

The door creaked open just enough to let the light spill out, and in the narrow gap a face appeared. The man beyond the door was old, in his late sixties, or perhaps older. He was bald save for a few wisps of hair sticking out at odd angles, and his face bore the hardened lines of years, marked with pale scars that caught the overhead lightbulb that kept flickering in a steady beat. His clothes hung loose on him, rumpled and stained.

He peered at me, eyes small but alert, before abruptly drifting past me and towards the empty pathway, then back at me again. Though it was impossible to know for sure, it felt as though he had caught something in the darkness – something he didn’t want me to notice.

“Who are you?” he said, as I was about to follow his gaze to the pathway. Like the other Israelis I had encountered up to that point, he had a thick accent. “What business you got here?”

I cleared my throat, forcing myself to keep calm, but it was easier said than done. Something about the man’s constant flickering behind me put me on edge, like he was keeping an eye out for something that I wasn’t meant to see.

“My name’s Sami, sir. I came here because of, uh, some inheritance issues. Apparently, this place,” I took a pause, letting my eyes briefly settle on the large building up ahead. “It used to belong to my grandfather.” And when the man failed to reply. “I’m sorry, but… may I know who you are? I don’t remember the solicitor saying—”

“You came alone?”

“I’m sorry?”

He opened the door wider, leaning in. “Did you… knock on the doors?”

He said the last phrase in a lower voice, as if he feared someone might overhear us. I arched my brows unbeknownst as soon as I picked up on this shift in tone. The doors?

“I thought this place was abandoned,” I said, adding. “It’s not?”

“No.”

“But the lights—”

“People here don’t like to wander outside past midnight.”

“…Wander? But what has this to do with me?”

He gave a short nod before following it up with the very words I feared I might hear coming here. “You’re Palestinian, aren’t you? I know the old man was.”

“You knew my grandfather?”

“Just answer the bloody question.”

“I am, yes,” I said. “Why is this relevant?”

A smirk formed on his lips as he briefly looked away, as if amused by my reaction, refusing to reply. Was he mocking me?  

“Sir, why is this relevant?”

 “You’re asking me why,” he said. “But don’t you know the answer already?”

“I—”

“Anyway, best you keep that fact to yourself.” He smirked again. “Just in case.”

“Just in case?” I repeated to myself before shifting my focus back to the stranger, who shouldn’t be here, on this property. “And who are, exactly? Why do you keep beating around the bush?”

“Me? I’m the caretaker.”

“The… caretaker?” I said. “But how come the solicitor did not—”

“Mr Sami, you might not know, but my family’s kept these grounds for generations. Long before settlers came.”

“But I’ve never heard of you. If that were the case, wouldn’t my grandfather have told me?”

“Well, you didn’t know about the property, either,” he said, his voice laced with confidence. “Did you?”

“Right. Please,” I said, waving my hand to gesture ‘go on.’

“Your grandfather treated us well, fed us and gave us a roof over our heads. Which is exactly why I have no bad blood with the Palestinians. But the others? That’s another story.”

“The settlers took over the country decades ago…” I paused, trying to process it all. “Are you telling me that deep-rooted grudge continues to this day?”

“It’s pretty much alive, yes. That’s why keeping your identity, at least for now, is the best course of action.”

Hearing this, a sudden thought crossed my mind.

“You know about the conditions for the transfer of ownership. How?”

A why smile formed on his lips before fading. “Like I mentioned, my family has been taking care of the property for ages. Isn’t it natural that your grandfather confided in us?”

I wasn’t convinced, not nearly as as I wanted to be. But it was getting colder by the hour, and I had no place to stay the night. Though not the wisest decision, I changed the topic. But not because I trusted the guy. Only I figured that there’d be enough time later on to question the caretaker’s background and identity. My priority was to find shelter from the cold.

“I know this comes out of nowhere… but where do I, uh, stay?” I said, then quickly added upon seeing the caretaker arch his brows. “I thought there’d be a guesthouse or something here. But there’s none. It seems.”

“Neve Emek is not known for its hospitality, no. But…”

 “But?”

He hesitated. Why? Why would—that was when I noticed him glance at the building. It happened so quickly that I failed to follow his gaze before he addressed me again. Did he notice me?

“You see that building over there?”

“Yeah, sure. Hard to miss.”

“Your grandfather built and designed it himself back in the good ol’ days. Before the settlers came, that is. There should be plenty of rooms there where you can stay the night. Been closed for years… but it stands.”

I frowned. This was a first for me. From what I could recall from my childhood in the occupied Palestine, my family was in no position to either own this place, not to mention have the financial means to design this kind of huge structure.

“When was this place built again?”

“Should be ’03.”

“That’s five years before we fled…” I said under my breath, the confusion mounting and reaching new heights. Where did Seedi get all that—

“Or—” he hesitated, “—you can stay here. With me.”

I was too lost in my mind to realise what he was meaning. “Stay, where?”

“Here,” he said, gesturing at the small hut. “Not nearly as spacious, but just enough for a single guy like me. I have a room to spare, if you don’t mind the critter. You know? Spiders and things like that.”

 “Well, I’d rather not impose. Thanks, uh, anyway.”

It took him half a second to reply for some reason. “Oh, yeah? Your call, then. But don’t tell me I didn’t try to help you.”

“Help me? I don’t think I—”

Before I could finish asking, the caretaker shuffled back inside momentarily and returned with a ring of keys that clinked in his hand. The ring was huge and the keys… Why were there so many? Sure, the building itself was massive, but did it really have so many rooms?

“Here. See this bronze one? It’s for the old wing, west side. Stairs down to the end, turn right. You’ll find one of the guestrooms down the hallway. Place is a maze. Don’t wander, it’s easy to lose yourself.”

“Lose myself? How come?”

“Place is a maze. Mr Khalil was, let’s say, an interesting man. He liked a good chase and was a man of few words. Never told me why he built this place like this, but I believe he had his reasons.”

I took the keys, albeit reluctantly after hearing this, before another thought crossed my mind. “One more thing: do you perhaps know where the bus stop is? Tried looking for it on my way here, but don’t recall seeing it.”

“The bus comes once a day. Five hours between stops, and only at dawn. You miss it, you walk. But I wouldn’t do that if I were you. The closest town is several miles east. It’ll take hours on foot.”

“Right. So, uh, where is it?”

He pointed towards the blackness beyond the burial ground, like I knew this place like the back of my hand.

“You’ll see a signpost. Northwest.”

“I’m not following, sir.”

“See that synagogue?”

I squinted. “I see a minaret—”

“Once you pass the synagogue, you keep walking till you see the signpost. Should be easy enough. Anything else?”

“No—” The door shut with a hollow thud before I could finish my sentence. “—thank you.”

With the keys clutched in my hand, the perpetual darkness that seemed to hang over the burial ground stretched and expanded around me. What the fuck? It was almost as though the guy was in a hurry. Or like he didn’t want me around for too long. And didn’t he just call the place a maze? Why not help me navigate the place than just—

A whistle.

I whipped around, holding my breath.

Behind me spanned several acres of tombs and tombs only.

I let my eyes sweep around, trying to find the source of the sudden din, when my gaze settled on a grave marker in the distance. Eyes open wide and breath hitched in my throat, I watched as the silhouette of a child sprinted into the depths beyond the burial ground, towards some sort of forested area adjacent to the place.

My legs moved of their own accord for reasons I could not fathom or decipher. They had their own will. Like I was possessed by something other than the will of my mind. Even now, in safety, I cannot and dare not say what caused me to do such a dangerous thing. But I guess this was the pivotal point in the sequence of events that would soon start happening to me, and I was nothing but a pawn in a larger scheme at the time.

The earth grew uneven beneath my feet as I neared the marker. My breath came fast, misting the air. Just as I reached out, the ground gave way beneath me.

I lurched forwards, catching myself at the last moment, gravel skittering down into a hollow below. What the…

An open grave yawned at my feet – freshly dug.

I staggered back, my heart hammering against my ribs. For a moment, I thought I saw movement within, the flicker of something pale, but when I blinked, it was gone. It looked… familiar. Like something I had seen before. I could swear I had seen it, but… The thoughts eluded me. If I concentrated just enough, then maybe, surely, I’d have to remember. Right? So, why couldn’t I?

Moreover, whose grave was this? Freshly dug, gaping wide. Had someone from the village passed away recently? That would explain why it was dug open the night before the actual funeral took place. Still, I wasn’t convinced. Not entirely. Not enough. I was missing something. But what?

My first thought was to go back to the hut and inquire about the grave. But I didn’t. Something stopped me. Difficult to say what. I guess it was my intuition telling me to stay away.

Instead, I leaned closer to the grave and peered into the hollow; the earth smelled damp and raw. My eyes strained against the dark, half-expecting to see something shift beneath the soil, a hand clawing its way up or a shrewd face staring back. But nothing of the sort happened.

I exhaled and relaxed the grip on my suitcase. See, I told myself, it was nothing. Ghosts aren’t real. Shouldn’t be. I was just tired, and it showed. I needed to get some sleep, to clear my mind, and stop it from wreaking havoc inside me. With these thoughts fresh in my mind, I started for the building, or rather, The House of the Crossing. Why was it called that? Should’ve asked the caretaker. Well, if things went according to plan, I’d be trapped here for the next six months, so there was no need to rush things.

 When I arrived at the gate, I figured the largest key would fit into the lock, and that was exactly what happened. Once I twisted the key, the hinges groaned as though the gate hadn’t been opened in decades, and the latch snapped back with a clank. When I pushed, the gate barely swung. Instead, it more or less collapsed inwards and sent a small rain of dust drifting down from above the frame.

The first thing that struck me as I passed the doorway was this stale, thick, and sickening air unlike any other. Hard to describe using plain words, but it had this nauseating rank of a place sealed for too long, where the air had no means to circulate or ventilate. Damp wood, mildew, the subtle odour of rust – all of it blended into a staleness that instantly caused me to gag and cover my nose.

The next thing that arrested me was the entrance or some kind of lobby spanning before me. It was vast, almost canonical in its proportions. The ceiling vaulted high above in arches, where patches of ceiling had fallen away to reveal the skeletal structure of the building.

The entire building was literally falling apart.

It should be dark as hell here, too, under normal circumstances, but some moonlight had managed to trickle in through the narrow, high windows, which were clouded with grime, so that light barely entered and shadows pooled where the light could not reach.

I stepped forwards, the soles of my feet aching from the ceaseless walking. Once, I thought, this place had been a polished and sophisticated structure akin to and no less than a museum, but nothing was left of its former glory. Almost as though it had been subjected to some heavy disturbances over the last few years. And I wasn’t talking about the fires. No, something else had happened in this place, and whatever it was, I didn’t want to know. At least for as long as I stayed here.

On either side of the lobby, corridors stretched away into darkness, lined with several doors. The caretaker had warned me about the maze, and boy, he sure did not exaggerate – not one bit. The very architecture seemed to have been built to disorient on purpose. But why would my grandfather do such a thing? I recalled him as a laid-back guy who had thrown his former life away to start over in a new country, a new place to save his family. He wasn’t the kind of man who’d build a place like this.

Or maybe I didn’t know him. Not as much as I thought I did.

The left corridor narrowed almost immediately as soon as I turned the corner, the vaulted space of the main hall giving way to claustrophobic stone passageways. The striped wallpaper was slick beneath a film of mould that climbed up in mottled green patches. In places, the paint had peeled away as well, revealing rough stonework beneath. Where did all this moisture come from? It made little sense! Sure, the entire place was in bad shape, but the cracks on the ceilings were superficial.

I froze more than once as I kept following the corridor, convinced I heard a footstep trailing behind me or the rasp of breath from within the shadows. But when I snapped around, there was only the long and narrow corridor vanishing into shadow behind me and nothing else. Like I was hallucinating it all.

There were alcoves in this part of the building as well. They looked like shrines or chapels, which were small and crumbling spaces tucked off the main artery. Each contained remnants of something that once belonged there, like a rotting bench, a distorted table that might have been an altar once, and niches where candles had burned down to wax and been left to die.

Deeper still, the corridor split and branched in ways that made no sense whatsoever. It took me a moment to assure myself I hadn’t got lost. Again, easier said than done, when a stranger had just told me not to get lost moments earlier.

So, what exactly was I seeing, and why did it confuse me so?

From what I could tell from this angle and position, a set of steps seemed to descend to another hallway, only to rise again and reconnect with the storey I was still standing on, but from the opposite end. Like in a winding circuit. But it wasn’t until I set off down one of the hallways that I understood why that stairwell was there.

Dead-end. Barricaded. Completely.

It was impossible to move past the heap of whatever parts of the building had collapsed and blocked the entire left wing. At least through this hallway. I had to retract my steps and follow the steps down a floor, then follow them up to the other side of the blocked path. And so I did.

The other side of the left wing was just as bad, with its own set of several branches of hallways and stairwells to explore. Some passages I followed ended abruptly at brick walls, while others were literal traps leading several feet down into the abyss. One misstep or rushed move, and I would have fallen to my death.

I doubled back more than once, uncertain whether I had already passed the same crack on the ceiling or the same broken lantern hook. Where was that bloody guestroom, anyway? Why wouldn’t it show itself?

I must’ve walked in circles for several minutes before I ventured to one of the narrower hallways and spotted a crooked sign nailed above a door. Guestroom 4. Surprisingly, in English, too. I was too drained to question why that was the case; instead, I spent the next few minutes trying to slide the correct key into the lock, twisting and turning hard until it gave with a reluctant groan.

A rush of stale air spilt out a soon as I opened the door, causing me to retch yet again, but for a much shorter time now. Seemed like I had adjusted to the rank smell and mildew in record time.

The guestroom was larger than I had imagined, more spacious and expanding in places too dark to see completely. The ceiling here hung low, and in the far corner, parts of the walls had collapsed and caused a jagged hole of some sort, where a flickering light spilt in from the other room it was connected to. It wasn’t anything too large, but when I peered through the hole, I noticed that the flickering came from a lit candle placed directly on what looked like a half-sunken bed. But it wasn’t the why that made me frown. It was the how. There were no doors in that room, no means for anybody to enter. So, how did that candle end up there, and who had lit it?

As I was having these thoughts, I felt something on my shoulder. Like a brief but firm squeeze. Once I turned and searched my surroundings, well aware that I would find nothing, both the bed and the candle disappeared. I blinked several times, trying to summon them back to life, but they remained elusive.

Was I dreaming stuff again? I couldn’t tell.

Inside the guestroom was a narrow bed that stood against the wall. The mattress was sagging in the middle, and the sheets, if they could still be called that, were little more than strips of fabric, eaten away by mould and something else that had stained it brown. A table sat nearby, one leg uneven, and littered with curled scraps of paper and something that might once have been a candle stub, now fused to the wood.

I placed both my suitcase and backpack in the corner, near the door, and moved cautiously around the space. At the other end, across the hole in the wall, I noticed a wardrobe slumping against the plaster. Its doors were almost rotted off their hinges. But that wasn’t the reason it caught my attention.

I heard something. At least, I thought I did.

A knock. No, tapping. From within.

I advanced towards it, unable to stop myself.

My breath caught in my throat as I got within reach, my ears straining to make out what kind of sound I thought I was hearing. But when I pulled the door open wide, my motions rushed and panicked, and only dust rolled out before me. It took me a few seconds to regain my bearings and calm myself down. That was when I caught the outline of a hatch inside the wardrobe. Though I tried to pull and push it open several times, it remained firmly shut.

The wardrobe itself wouldn’t budge either. It had been nailed to the wall and floor, tightly secured. I’d need tools to pry the screws loose. Maybe the caretaker could help me? Or… maybe I’d find another way in. Surely, the caretaker, if anybody, should have the tools needed to pry this massive thing?

But for now. Sleep had priority. I had to sleep. To fall asleep.  

The idea of lying on the mattress, however, made my skin crawl. Either that or… sleeping on the floor infested with critters. Just to put this on record, not a big fan of critters. Especially the ones that had made this place their home.

Sitting down first, I tested the weight of the frame. It shrieked under me. Literally. That was how bad things were. I lay back slowly the second time, eyes fixed on the ceiling, trying not to think about the damp pressing in from all sides, or the mould that might seep into my mouth as I slept.

Sleep embraced me into its arms not long afterwards, lulling me into a false sense of drowsiness as the darkness around me shifted subtly. But I couldn’t keep my eyelids open. Not for much longer.

That was when I saw it. From the corner of my eye.

A small figure near the collapsed wall.

The doll.

The… doll?

The…

Neve Emek: Room 102 - Part 5 of ?

5

By the time the village came into view, the darkness had thickened so much that I could barely see the winding path ahead leading into the village.

Neve Emek was smaller than I had imagined, though, and far stranger. It was nothing but a scattering of houses crouched together at the edge of the road, their shapes blurred and angular against the night sky, with no sign of life.

At first, I thought the people must simply be asleep. It was late, after all, and perhaps they lived by stricter rules here, far from city life and its routines. But the closer I drew, the harder it was to convince myself that was the case. No lamplight flickered behind the shutters, no dogs barked at the sound of my approach. The houses looked not asleep but… abandoned. As though their inhabitants had left years ago and never returned.

I forced myself along a narrow lane that cut through the centre of the village. The shops there leaned against one another, weathered by the passage of time. A wooden sign swung from a chain above a grocery store, the letters faded to nothing. Also, the chain groaned with every gust of wind, a rasping sound that was far too loud in the quiet. Some of the windows were boarded up, others frostbitten and too dirty to my liking.

I tried the grocery store door without thinking, expecting it to be locked. I mean, this whole place looked desolate, so why would I think otherwise? Instead, it gave way with a screech and opened. The sound was so sharp I froze in place, before glancing behind me to see if anyone had heard.

But there was no one. Just me and the dark.

The smell hit first. A pungent, suffocating reek of decay that coiled out from every corner like it was a living thing. I gagged, pressing my sleeve to my face, and stepped inside before instinct warned me back. What remained of the shop’s shelves sagged inwards, wood damaged and swollen with damp. Dust too coated everything in a thick film, but beneath it, dark stains marked the walls where jars had cracked and leaked downwards in hardened trails. A few, however, lay shattered on the floor, where the contents had set into misshapen lumps, mouldering, buzzing with insects.

Something shifted in the shadows at the back as I staggered back – a faint wet sound, like something dragging over tile. My gut tightened. I didn’t wait to see what it was; instead, I stumbled back into the open air and slammed the slanted door shut behind me. The smell clung to my clothes still – to my bare skin – as if I had carried a piece of the rot out with me.

I pressed on. What choice was there? Yet, this wasn’t what I had imagined coming here, this kind of desertion. Where on earth were the villagers? More pressing, where was I to stay the night? I came here thinking there had be a guesthouse at least, but from what I could see, this entire place was abandoned and left to its own demise, riddled with uneven streets that twisted and ended in sudden dead-ends. There was nowhere to go.

I searched desperately for a lit window, some sign that people still resided here. But every turn revealed only ruin and destruction: blackened timbers, walls scarred by what seemed like fire, and doors that hung from broken hinges to reveal nothing but hollow darkness inside. I saw whole roofs collapsed. What on earth had happened to this place? Had I been right in my suspicions?

The night deepened as I wandered, the silence thickening until I began to feel like the last moving thing in the world. Even the stars overhead seemed distant, fading behind a blurry haze, as though the village swallowed their light.

And then, when I had all but given up hope, I saw it. A faint glow ahead, so small I thought at first it was a trick of my eyes. But the closer I came, the more it steadied. A single source of light at the far edge of the village. Relieved, I took a deep breath and briefly shut my eyes before advancing.

It seemed to come from beyond the last row of dilapidated houses, where the land fell away and merged with the shadows. I frowned. It was the place from the photographs I received from the solicitor. The burial grounds.

But as I approached this mysterious place, I couldn’t shake the thought that perhaps the silence was some kind of foreboding. In hindsight, I guess that was indeed the case. Why would people just leave behind their entire livelihoods? It made little sense. I should have put more effort into finding an answer than dismissing it as nothing, but I didn’t. I just moved on command.

The road narrowed into a crooked path so that stones jut up through the dirt, until the last of the houses disappeared behind me at last. For a moment, I thought I had reached the end of the village entirely, that there was nothing more than earth and the gloom beyond this point. But then my eyes adjusted, and I saw… shapes. Not human, just… uneven and sticking up from the dirt.

I broke off, grimacing and trying to make sense of what I was seeing, when I crept closer and realised they were nothing but gravestones. Dozens of them, maybe more, scattered across the sloping field to my right. They leaned at odd angles, some split down the middle, others swallowed halfway by the ground.

It took me a moment to ground myself, to convince my frantically beating heart that nothing was out of the ordinary. It was easier said than done.

The gravestones seemed like eyes under the moonlight, marking my every step along the pathway like a shadow. I slowed without meaning to, with my suitcase dragging behind. I wanted to pass this place without looking too long, but something stopped me from doing so. I couldn’t tell what. And then I saw it again, that glow of light I had seen earlier but forgotten about.

It came from just beyond the graves. In the direction of the towering building up ahead. The structure was too large for a cemetery, with wings spreading out on either side. A sign at the gate read Bayt al-Maʿbar. The House of the Crossing. But what was such a massive building doing in this place, not to mention right at the heart of a burial ground?

I followed the line of the narrow road with my eyes, unsure whether to proceed or make my way back to the other side of the cemetery, when a single building crouched at the edge of the large building caught my attention. Its shutters were closed, except for one window lit from within.

Someone was inside. But why would anybody live in this place? Also, the solicitor said nothing about people living here. More pressing still, why hadn’t this person left like the others? Something about this whole situation was off.

I set down the suitcase, shoulders stiff and moved forwards. Hesitating. It took me a few seconds to gather my scattered thoughts, to summon enough courage to knock on the door. I had no other place to go. The nearest town was several hours away on foot. Not to mention, I had endured a long flight without getting enough sleep. Calling the solicitor at this hour felt odd, too. I didn’t know the woman, and she did not know me. The last time I contacted her, we booked a meeting at her office a few towns over. But I arrived a day earlier to check the place out for myself. Like I said, I thought this place was supposed to be a normal village – not whatever this was.

By the third knock, a shuffle reverberated through the quiet from the inside. I stepped back. A lot of thoughts raced through my head and weighed me down, but none of them quite stuck. All I could feel in those harrowing moments where time seemed to stop was the beat of my frantic heart in my ears.

Then… stillness.

I held my breath.

Neve Emek: Room 102 - Part 4 of ?

4

My fingers were sticky with sweat as I dragged the suitcase from the carousel.

The doll was no longer with me. I didn’t leave it behind on purpose, though. No, nothing like that. But things… just got out of control. The last thing I wanted was to leave a kid with that… doll. You know? Why would I? Something about it put me on high alert, and although it was impossible for it to—I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore. But something told me not to leave that thing with the kid. In the end, I ended up doing just that.

I was reaching for my backpack in the overhead compartment when I noticed belatedly that the woman and the kid who had sat beside me were gone. The seats were empty. Clean. Like they were never really there. Naturally, I searched for them as I walked down the aisle and between travellers, catching glimpses of countless hurried faces. Still, I couldn’t find them. I scanned the departing passengers several times in the terminal, too. But my desperate search yielded nothing. They were nowhere in sight. Just gone.

And so I gave up and directed my focus on a much more pressing matter.

I’d never set foot in Tel Aviv before. The signage was unfamiliar, and the announcements were in a language I did not speak or understand. I must’ve gone in circles for several minutes trying to figure out where I was supposed to go, when I finally stumbled upon an information desk. Behind it, a woman sat hunched forwards. Her eyes were fixed on a computer screen, but she glanced up briefly as I crept closer. I must’ve looked quite out of place and awkward by the way a flicker of irritation passed through her wide-set eyes behind the thick, granny glasses.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you think you can help me? There’s this place I need to get to. It’s called, uh, Neve Emek.”

The clerk lifted again. “Neve… Emek?”

“Yes,” I said. “How do I—”

She cut me off. “You have family there?”

I hesitated. The tone of her voice told me I couldn’t tell the truth, not the whole truth, that is. So I lied. I had an British passport, and there was no way this woman could discern me from an Israeli. “Yes,” I said finally, hoping the explanation sounded plausible enough. “Got some… uh… inheritance issues I need to take care of so… yeah.”

Her eyes narrowed, just a fraction, as if she was gauging whether I was telling the truth or lying. Why was she even asking me these questions? Was it routine here to do so?

“Well, there’s no train going there,” she said. “But you can take a train to Haifa, then a bus or taxi once there. Terminal 3. Next train leaves in twenty minutes. Better hurry.”

“Right, uh, thanks.”

Even as I followed the signs to the underground train station and took the escalators down, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the questions the clerk asked me were not routine. The mention of Neve Emek had changed something in the way that woman looked and talked to me. I was certain. But there was no time to dwell on these things. I had to catch up to the train.

I never felt as out of place as I did standing on the steps and slowly descending to the platform below. It was like entering a time capsule, of which I felt like an impostor among a sea of uncanny faces that seemed to distort under the lights, especially this deep below the ground with nothing but artificial lights to guide me.

Trains arrived and departed in a fast sequence as I stepped onto the platform and lowered my suitcase to the ground, feeling the wheels settle heavily. I shifted my weight from foot to foot as I waited, listening to the clatter of arrivals and the din of passengers moving through the station. I hardly waited five or so minutes before my train arrived, the doors sliding open with a hiss, and I stepped inside.

The carriage was nearly full; I moved along the carriage, searching for an empty seat, but found none. Settling instead somewhere near the exit doors, I placed my suitcase at my feet and pressed my palms against its cool surface, letting the rhythmic sway of the train breathe with me. Outside, the platform and city lights blurred into streaks, buildings and streets sliding past like a scene from a fast-moving film, carrying me further from the airport and deeper into the unfamiliar night. The carriage itself was quiet, with the occasional clack of wheels against track the only thing that pierced through the prevailing silence.

And yet, I felt it again, that subtle uneasiness that had gripped me at the terminal. Like I was being watched, though no one looked at me. I shook my head, trying to shake off these harrowing thoughts that led nowhere. I was tired. Drained. I told myself I had to be. But it was easier said than done. So, I steered my thoughts in another direction.

The only way for me to reach Neve Emek was either by taking the bus or a taxi in Haifa. But even though I looked the place up on the map on my phone, I couldn’t find the village. I even tried its old name, hoping for some trace, but that too returned nothing. It occurred to me then that the village must be one of those old Palestinian settlements sieged by illegal settlers, rumoured to have been set on fire, and the few that survived were forcefully displaced.

I recalled a news segment about it happening far more often than what was shown in the news, but was later ‘debunked’ as being propaganda with no truth to it. And for whatever reason, all records of those villages got removed from every archive in existence all over the world. I guess the government at the time wanted to cover up for what the extremists were doing as part of their plan for a ‘greater Israel’ – and, perhaps, to a certain extent, even protect those whom they supported in secret. Therefore, my only means to find the village, I realised now, depended entirely on the Israelis' knowledge of its existence.

The train slowed, pulling me out of my mind. Overhead signs flickered in Hebrew and English. Haifa, next stop. I gathered my suitcase and moved closer to the doors. As I was doing that, however, I saw that kid again. The one who sat beside me on the aeroplane. Beaming wide.

I froze.

The doors opened. Hissing.

Someone pushed me out of the way and out onto the platform. Even then, I could not move of my own accord, like I had lost all control over my extremities. Only when the doors closed could I move, like the weight over me had lifted the moment every chance of me stepping back into the train was out of the way.

My legs almost gave way under me as I tried to wrap my head around what had just happened. But it made no sense. No sense whatsoever! Was I really seeing things? What was wrong with me? Trying to dispel the disorientation, I shook my head repeatedly, but the questions clung and disturbed me, nonetheless. Something was wrong – very, very wrong. But what? Just… what? Things like this never happened to me. Ever.

Sure, I had not been sober for ages, and the possibility of me seeing things that weren’t there was more than just a possibility, but… I don’t even know what to say, how to explain all of this madness. It was like a curse had fallen over me, wrapping around me like a thick fog I could not see or shake off. Perhaps it was this very moment, as I not only noticed but felt something wasn’t as it was supposed to, that I should’ve returned and not look back – even if the curiosity would’ve eaten my heart out for the remainder of my life.

But I didn’t. I chose to ignore it and move on.

Not a single vehicle waited as I approached the taxi stand, which made the entire place seem almost unreal under the harsh glare of the lampposts, painting long and sharp shadows across the cracked pavement. The air was too still, the usual sound of idling engines and conversation absent, leaving a silence so deep it gave me the heebie-jeebies, though I was a grown-ass man. Every time I looked over my shoulder, however, the distant terminal and the darkened streets beyond it felt intensified in this desolate place devoid of souls.

I paused and forced my shoulders to relax. My hand drifted towards the letter, my eyes tracing the name ‘Neve Emek’ over and over again as if repeating it aloud would give an answer, some hint of direction. But that didn’t happen.

Then, finally, a taxi rolled slowly into view, headlights cutting through the pooling shadows. A man stepped out, clad in a worn leather jacket. He leaned against the car, bringing a cigarette to his lips. The faint glow flickered, casting sharp angles across his face as he inhaled, and the thin trail of smoke curled into the night. Even from a distance, I could see that heavy, acrid scent clinging to him.

When he noticed me, the chauffeur exhaled a long plume of smoke, and his hooded eyes met mine for a second as he took another draw from the cigarette. It wasn’t hostility I saw there, but caution, as if he were assessing the purpose for me being here at this very hour, at this very place. I guess he could tell I wasn’t a local by the way I was acting like a fish out of water and was thus on high alert.

“What do you want?”

“I, uh…” I cleared my throat. “I need to get to Neve Emek. You know the place?”

He squinted at me through the smoke. “That’s far. You got money?”

“Yeah. Money’s not a problem,” I said, trying to sound confident.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, the faint orange glow of the cigarette tip trembling between his fingers. Then, with a sharp flick of his wrist, the cigarette clattered to the asphalt and he ground it under his heel, muttering something in Hebrew I couldn’t catch, before adding:

“Get in.”

The taxi scraped along the uneven asphalt as we pulled away from the train station, the streetlights flickering past in a blur of motion. The landscape itself opened into acres of olive groves and low hills stretching towards the horizon as the day drew to a close and night settled, albeit too slowly. I frowned as the unfamiliar world passed me by in a haze and the city gradually disappeared, replaced by narrow roads winding through scrub and dust.

We’d been driving ten minutes without a word when he finally spoke.

“Neve Emek,” he said. “Not many people go there. Especially at night.”

“I guess I like quiet places,” I said, watching the fields slip past the window, unbothered and not as vigilant as I should be in the backseat of a stranger’s vehicle in the middle of the bloody night.

He made a sound, something between a laugh and a snort. “Quiet, yeah. Too quiet, maybe.” He tapped the steering wheel with his fingers. “You got family there or something?”

This was what the clerk also asked. Family… I mean, it wasn’t entirely a lie. I did once have a family in that village, only now they were either displaced or buried in that burial ground I was supposed to inherit.

“Something like that.”

He looked at me in the mirror again, his eyes lingering a little longer this time. “You don’t sound local.”

“I’m not.”

“American?”

The words slipped me before I could hinder them. “No.”

“Sounds American to me. Where you from?”

I hesitated, well aware that I just fucked up pretty badly. Why did I even say that? I wasn’t supposed to let anybody, especially a local, aware of my real identity. But there was no way I could tell the man my real roots. That’d be too risky in this situation, if not foolish.

“My family used to live near Neve Emek. A long time ago.”

The driver didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the road. His expression was unreadable; I couldn’t tell whether he believed my lie or was simply occupied with another thought. That is, up until he suddenly locked eyes with me through the rear-view mirror and said something so chilling that my heart skipped several beats.

“Ah. You mean before ’48. ”I couldn’t even get a word in before he quietly added, not taking his eyes off me for even a second. “You’re one of those families, then.”

I said nothing. Couldn’t. The words got stuck in my throat.

 “You know, they rebuilt that place from nothing,” he said. “Ashes and stones. Took years.”

“I heard,” I said. “My grandfather used to talk about it. Said he could still smell the olive trees burning, even from the hills.”

The driver’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Olive trees,” he repeated. “Funny thing to remember.”

“They… were his,” I said.

The road narrowed in the windshield, and the fields gave way to clusters of dilapidated huts marked by fire and soot, before the taxi once again pulled up at the edge of a rough, uneven dirt track. It was at this moment that I shifted my gaze away from the windshield, just in time to see the driver’s eyes flicking away from mine in the rear-view mirror. My eyes narrowed, but not for long. Instead, I lurched forwards abruptly, and the vehicle came to a stop.

“What’s going on?” I said, looking out into the empty landscape cloaked in darkness, trying to make sense of what was happening and calming myself down.

“Neve Emek,” the chauffeur said. “Get out.”

“Neve—what?” I repeated, confusion mounting, as I took a gander at the window, where some distant lights did indeed reveal to me that there was a village up ahead. But the distance was too great. I’d have to walk on foot for at least half an hour. So, naturally, I opened my mouth to protest, to insist he drive me closer to the village, but something in the way he rested his hand on the wheel stopped me. What the fuck was this guy’s deal, even?

As soon as I stepped out, the taxi swung back onto the empty road behind me and disappeared out of sight. Great. Now what? To think I’d have to walk to the village in this suffocating darkness did little to soothe me. On the contrary. I didn’t know this place, didn’t know the people, or what awaited me once I set foot there. Not to mention it was bitterly cold – so darn cold!

The narrow, single-lane road was darker than I’d wanted, twisting between low hills and uprooted olive groves that were no more; even the shadows were deep enough to swallow a person whole. But these things were hardly what set a shiver down my spine. From here, this distance, I could feel the silence, the way the world held its breath in eerie anticipation as the wind bit at my face repeatedly. Relentlessly.

And I was alone.

All alone in this forsaken place with nowhere else to go but forwards.

Neve Emek: Room 102 - Part 3 of ?

3

I wheeled the suitcase across the linoleum floor, which drowned beneath the constant buzz of announcements reverberating from the ceiling. None of it mattered, though. Not to me, at least. They were simply noise in the background, the din of a world in constant transit.

At the check-in counter, the line pressed forwards, albeit unevenly, each traveller inching closer to the desk. By the time it was my turn, however, I had already gone through each motion several times in my head out of habit. Used to have severe anxiety as a youth, so thinking about what to do, what to say, and how to do all this put my mind at ease. And that was exactly what I did even now, with the passport in my hand and the things I was to say fully memorised. Even so, the clerk barely looked at me. Not even as I placed the suitcase onto the belt and the weight caused blinking on the digital screen. What happened instead was that the clerk, a young woman in formal attire, said something under her breath. It happened so quickly that I barely registered that she was saying something.

What was taking so long, anyway?

I let my gaze wander at that point. Not sure why. Maybe it was the feeling of something watching me or the constant background noise of announcements, but… I don’t know how to explain all this. Maybe it was my unsound mind playing tricks or just intuition, if you will. All I knew was that I felt something that shouldn’t be there. Not really. But as I looked across the terminal, people of all walks of life came into my line of sight. Some sat in rows of benches, chatting with fellow travellers, while others stood with cups of coffee in their hands, relaxing, or entire families walking briskly to catch their plane. I scanned the place without thinking much. Why would I? That is, until I turned my head in the opposite direction.

They were staring at me. All of them.

Dozens of eyes turned towards me without warning, blank and empty like a shell without soul, like a room full of mannequins. Motionless. As if the entire airport had stopped breathing… to watch me. But not just watch me, to keep an eye on me. I think. Even now, in the comfort of my own skin, I’m not sure how to describe this feeling that rose in my gut. Only, I… feared. There was nothing but darkness in those eyes that fixed on me, no reflection, no blinking, no recognition. Only. Vast. Darkness. Like they were all dead inside or pretty darn good actors trying to mess with my senses. Maybe it was both.  

When I blinked unwittingly, the world resumed. Those hollow eyes that followed me were no more. Like it was all in my head. It had to be. So, why did I doubt myself? I could swear those people looked at me, that they followed me with hostile eyes. Yet… it all happened so abruptly, so fast, that I couldn’t wrap my head around what was happening until the moment passed and—

“Here,” the clerk said, sliding the boarding pass across the counter.

Right. I almost forgot.

I murmured a brief thank you, albeit still shaken, took the ticket and got out of the line.

The terminal spanned ahead in a blur, with people passing by with hurried steps on either side, signs pointing in every direction. I drifted towards the escalators, which was the only way I could describe it without sounding completely mad. Like a ghost or something, not quite myself. Not yet. Each step was weighed down by a heavy burden, harrowing thoughts that got nowhere the more I thought things over. Was I slowly losing my sanity?

On the second floor, the overhead lights washed everything in a pale glow. One even flickered for a few seconds as I passed by, then stopped completely. Not that I put too much thought into these strange occurrences. I had no reason to at the time. Had I known half of what I knew as I was putting all these thoughts into paper, I might have figured out something wasn’t as it seemed. But I didn’t know.

The air here seemed thinner, clearer. Even the chatter of the numerous travellers trying to check in dimmed, replaced by the low rhythm of conveyor belts and the sound of trays being stacked in the distance. But as I started for the security checkpoint up ahead, I understood the reason behind this arcane stillness that did not last as long as I wished it would. In jagged lines stood several stanchions, guiding travellers like they were all cattle.

I joined the queue and watched as the people ahead slipped off their shoes, belts, and electronics, piling them into grey plastic bins. When my turn finally came, I did the same without thinking, shedding little pieces of myself. The detector did not find anything unusual, but that detail did not stop the security from thoroughly searching me, like I were posing a security threat by my mere existence. What I didn’t know was that things were about to get worse. At the police control, that is.

The officer turned the pages slowly as I slid over my passport, far too slowly in my humble opinion, the way someone leafed through a diary instead of a document. His eyes traced every line, every crease, every ink mark as though it might tell him something that would allow him to deny my entrance. Then, finally, he looked up. But the way he looked at me, judging, told me he didn’t like what he was seeing.  

“Where are you travelling?”

“Israel, sir.”

He raised his brow. “And what is the purpose of your visit?”

“A legal matter,” I said. “Is… there a problem?”

The officer looked dead in my eyes as I asked this, as if he weighed the options in his head before choosing to remain silent and extending his hand to return the passport. I barely nudged the passport when he shot out his hand and wrapped it around my arm, pulling me close so that no one else could hear him. No one but me. I’d never felt this scared in my adult life. Never heard words of warning of this scale before. Like I was doing something I wasn’t supposed to.

“Be careful or you’ll face the same fate…”

Then he let go as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

I was so out of it, honestly, that it didn’t even occur to me to ask what this was about or why he was telling me this. Or what he meant by ‘you’ll face the same fate’. The same fate as who, exactly? I wished I could go back in time and ask him how he knew… Then again, things had started spiralling out of control the day I received that letter from the solicitor. Even if I did ask him back then, I might not have understood it. Not really. Not all of it.

Instead, I snatched the passport and slipped through the police control without a word. Moving blindly at first, unable to think straight still, my feet carried me faster than my thoughts, weaving through the maze of corridors and signs, past travellers in haste and the constant hum of wheels on the floors.

It wasn’t until I spotted the gates on the overhead screens that I slowed and drew a shaky, deep breath. What had just happened to me? And why had the other passengers not said anything? The guy was literally—a breath. On my neck. So fleeting. Gasping, I turned around. My chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm, the frantic beat like a drum in my ears. What was that? I knew I… heard something. Like a whisper. Or maybe just… breathing.

Fuck! What was the matter with me? It was nothing. There was nothing behind me. Nothing at all. Nothing could explain what just happened.

The departure lounge opened up before me as I finally gathered enough courage to keep advancing. Windows showed the runways outside and made the entire place much brighter at once. Even the aeroplanes, with their wide wings, seemed like birds ready to release into the air from where I stood.

The whole lounge was riddled with benches along the walls, occupied by people slouched under the harsh light, the majority staring at their phones. Overhead, monitors showed several flight numbers and destinations, some delayed and blinking red. I sat down on one of the vacant benches and pulled out a battered paperback from my backpack, and tried to read despite the noises around me since the boarding was not due for another ninety minutes. But the words blurred together, turning into nonsense no matter how many times I tried to focus. With all those people around me and the constant bellow of children running amok like they owned the place, it would be a miracle to understand even a single sentence of what I was reading. Trying to read, that is.

Things didn’t get any better by the fact that time dragged more slowly here. At least that was how it felt. For a while. I could swear an hour had passed already, maybe more. But the clock above the gate disagreed with me, it seemed. But that was hardly the strangest part of all of this. The world outside had shifted, and the sky dimmed. I wasn’t an astrologist or a scientist, but I knew that the sun wasn’t supposed to give way to night until an hour later in this part of the world. So, what exactly was this ominous feeling swelling in my gut and taking over every inch of my being?

Restless, I put the book away and approached the airport staff in a neon vest to ask whether I had found the wrong gate, or whether my plane had been delayed. But before I could reach him, something tapped against my feet in the milling crowd, and I lost sight of the man.

A porcelain doll.

Its face was unnaturally pale, lips painted dark like crimson. With its glossy, black eyes, it stared up at me—no, it looked through me. Like it had a soul equal to mine. Its neatly arranged hair draped down its shoulders, tied sleekly with a white ribbon. The design was unmistakably vintage, one of those Japanese dolls that had once been all the rage in the 90s.

Turning it in my hands, the porcelain was cold and heavier than it looked. I checked the crevices for a tag, a name – anything that might help me find its owner, thinking maybe someone had lost it and tucked a number inside. That was when a curl of hair brushed against my arm, warm to the touch. It wasn’t made of plastic or whatever it was supposed to be made of. Was it real or—I frowned, almost losing my grip of it. For the briefest of seconds, its lips moved. A tiny shift, almost invisible. As though it had read my mind and mocked me with a crooked grin. Like it were a person, not an inanimate thing.

“Final call for boarding, Gate 14. Final call.”

The announcement pulled me back into reality. Hard. It was my gate.

I shoved the doll into my backpack and started jogging, then broke into a full sprint as I saw the gate attendants glance at their watches. Fumbling in my pocket for a short while, catching my breath, I handed over the passport for inspection, and then tried to calm my racing heart before a final nod from the lead attendant signalled I could proceed.

I lunged through the sliding doors and onto the jet bridge, which was unusually narrow for some reason and vacant now that every other passenger beside me had already passed through. I wasn’t claustrophobic by any means, never had been, but something about the feeling of being trapped got hold of me and disturbed my senses. It felt like the bloody walls were closing in, suffocating me. Thankfully, it didn’t last for too long.

At the cabin door, the stewards greeted me with wide smiles as they welcomed me aboard.

“Sorry,” I said, feeling apologetic for causing the delay, even though I had technically not been late. Only, time seemed to have… shifted. Somehow. Unnaturally. How? I don’t know. I just knew.

 As I was walking down the aisle, head dropped low, still trying to wrap my head around this whole thing, it hit me that the shadows moved erratically, pivoting in my direction as I passed by. Like the passengers were all turning their heads towards me. Not in the casual, fleeting way strangers glance at someone passing, but with some kind of intensity, as though I had entered a place uninvited. When I looked up, however, the shadows returned to normal. No one was looking at me. No one…

I hurried to my seat near the emergency exit, beside the wings. The woman already seated there pulled her daughter close as she noticed me, probably out of habit. Apologetically, I took off my jacket and was about to place my backpack on the overhead compartment, when I noticed the girl staring at something with curious eyes. The doll. It poked out of the backpack I had failed to zip in my haste to reach the plane.

She shifted her gaze to mine as she saw me hesitate, so I pulled it free. I mean, the doll wasn’t even mine to begin with. Neither did I have any use for it. Better it stay with someone who wants it, right?

“Ma’am? Uhm, do you mind if I… gave this to your daughter?” I said, probing carefully not to sound like a darn predator. “I found it at the airport and I thought… that maybe…”

The child’s mother, who had been occupied with her phone at the time, now flickered between me and the doll, as if she wasn’t quite sure what to tell me, before giving the ‘go ahead’ sign.

The girl’s face lit up as I handed it over. “Here, take it.”

Believe me when I say the kid didn’t once let go of the doll, not even once. She kept playing with it, turning to show me now and then that she had a blast and was grateful. It reminded me of my daughter and our bond, of all the memories we shared back when life wasn’t this cruel and miserable. Then I caught myself smiling subtly. But not for too long. It moved. Or rather, its head tilted. The doll’s head. Looking at me, trying to. Seeing that, my smile faded, and something twisted in my gut. Feeling unsettled, I was about to ask the girl to give the doll back when the intercom buzzed without warning.

“Cabin crew, prepare for take-off.”

The stewards started moving down the aisle, reminding passengers to stay seated and fasten their seatbelts. A few passengers were still standing, adjusting carry-ons or stretching their legs before the final roll. The stewards guided them gently back to their seats, as professionally as they were trained to.

A few minutes later, seatbelts clicked shut across the cabin, and the plane took off. Lights out. No other sound present but that of the engines spurting to life and picking up. Faster. The world slipping away, becoming nothing but a speck in the sky…

My eyes drifted to the doll unbeknownst to myself, like in a trace or a bad dream of which there was no escape. My eyes narrowed as I took in the sight before me, trying to make sense of it. Huh? Its mouth. It was wider now, like it was smiling. Grinning? Or perhaps… laughing?

Then it faded.

The smile.

When I took my eyes off it, the girl was staring at me. Inside her sockets were no eyes, only empty holes overflowed with crimson blood. I flinched, tried to stand up, but the seatbelt tethered me back in place.

A hand fell on my shoulder.

I flinched.

“Sir, please remain seated.”

I blinked, wheezing. My eyes settled on the girl again, but she wasn’t looking at me anymore. Just playing with that… thing.

“Sir? Is everything okay?”

The child and her mother now turned to face me, like they were expecting a reply too. Or perhaps gauging my response, assessing how far gone I was, what kind of answer I would give.

“…Yeah. I’m… I’m fine, thank you. I just—” I wetted my lips, feeling my throat become dry. “—something to drink.” I faced the stewardess now, white as a sheet, completely out of it. “Please.”