I am sitting next to a cannibal inside a train. How do I know this? He smells disgusting, like rotting flesh from a corpse of a dead animal you might find in a shed, in a drain, or under your front porch. Not only that, he keeps muttering to himself about how everyone smells delicious… I want to move to a different seat, to stand even, but I cannot. The train is packed; there are no free seats and there are people standing in the way, too.
It’s the worst kind of luck, really. Here I am on the way to London sat next to a man twice my age who stinks of flesh and as if he has not showered in days. He is unshaven and dirt taints his skin a darker colour than what it is underneath, or at least, so I presume. I shall definitely be reporting him to the authorities once I arrive at London. For now I am as far away from him in the booth as possible, pressed against the glass of the window as I write this. I can see the smoke from the train blast by the window sometimes, as I watch the scenery speed by.
I am attempting to ignore him by distracting myself by the beautiful countryside I can see along the way, and by studying the others on the train.
He keeps looking at me in this, this weird, creepy way. It’s scaring me. I just asked the train attendant if I could move, and he gave me a pitying look before shaking his head. Maybe this man won’t hurt me… I hope he won’t.
He keeps brushing his hand against my arm, or even grabbing my wrist! He let go but it’s scaring me deeply. I’m begged the train attendant to let me move but he says I can’t and I can’t edge past this man I am sat next to because the booth is too small to do so!
I’m terrified that something might happen to me, so I am writing this as I tremble and attempt not to cry… If you ever read this, I love you so, so much and you’re the best parents anyone could ever wish for. I’m sorry for every time I was rude or crude and I’m sorry for any trouble I’ve given you throughout the years. You mean the world to me and I love you so much.
All my love, Sara.
This is it, this is the last straw! He grabbed my hand and pulled it to his mouth before he licked it, I managed to yank it away and in just a moment I am forcing my way out and moving, I’ll squeeze into the tiniest corner just to get away from him! This will be my last entry for no~
The writing in that diary trailed off into a squiggle and then a massive ink spill across the page…
Days later, a story emerged in the newspaper:
15th of October, 1830
Woman Hospitalised After Attack By Cannibal On Train | Arm Badly Injured, 30 Stitches Needed.