(Decided to write a brief Torn-based spook story since I'm still new and finding my footing.)
If there is a flat space in Torn some soul will sleep there. Yet there are places even the desperate only sleep once. One such place is a rattle trap on the East side where the tracks squeal past in a swell of sound. Of all the little whispers about that place, Sal's is the most common thread, although embellishments change the tapestry across the seedy landscape of Torn's downtrodden. It goes a little something like this:
Weeds growing through the track bit at Sal's ankles as they stumbled through the unknown city and over the chain link fence. There was a gang in hot pursuit and Sal was running out of options. Quickly clambering up a drainpipe gave the lanky teen a bit of respite as the closest pursuers whipped by without looking up. The shudder of a train passing made it clear this was no roof to chill on.
Four floors up Sal found a crack in the window, allowing easy entry, the curtains almost embracing them. The floor creaked alarmingly. It smelled like stale pipe smoke and herbs Sal couldn't name. The studio flat was perfect. Sal threw their haul into the corner and curled up to lick wounds and recuperate.
Sal woke up feeling a creeping sense of dread. It itched in a senseless, nagging way. The dusky shadows of night woven through aging streetlamps filled the corners of the room. Although Sal rubbed their ears a low hum persisted. Unthinkingly Sal sought it, sensitive fingers brushing moldering drywall. And then the seeking hand sunk in to the wrist, sliding up Sal's arm with a sticky greediness.
Stumbling backwards Sal sat down hard. Had they been awake? Were they now awake?
Upon Sal's wrist perched a mechanical item that must have come from the wall while being alien to anything in Sal's experience. Excitement formed a current in Sal's exhausted mind. This mechanical item had fine, filigree feathers with delicate metal limbs that had caught Sal's sleeve. It looked much like a jeweller made songbird. It was finer than anything Sal had ever seen, living off the scant change gleaned from travelers in the train station. Sal stroked the cool, strange metal, dismissing the cobweb quality of the wall in the sudden swell of hope for life.
Then the bird's painted eyes met Sal's.
"No," Sal whimpered.
Those painted eyes slid to the window, drawing Sal's gaze down to the jagged chain link fence. It looked much further than four stories.
"Fly?" sang the voice Sal heard. It was both Sal's voice and something whirring and chiming underneath, repeating, "Fly," like a clockwork mantra.
The heat was still on with the loot huddled in the corner, but the grating consciousness ground into Sal's will. Their feet found the floor of their own volition. As Sal glanced at the off-colored walls, musical laughter fused with the sense of dread that had woken them. Little metal feet remained firmly attached to their wrist, pulling at skin and hair as Sal flew through the window.
Sal was cornered in the subway not two hours later. Never much of a fighter, the results live on because the thugs were left in a strange state. One thug's eyeball was missing as people stepped over hands past holding weapons to get to the westbound subway track. The one that survived joined the priesthood and only spoke about Sal's repeated words upon the platform and the Westward direction Sal ran underground.
"No, fly, fly, fly. No, fly," Sal spoke and ducked, according to legend, as if expecting the blow from above. Sal's right hand ended at the wrist. Whether Sal still lives and still hears voices is very much up to the individual teller. Most agree that Sal will not allow the sky to gaze upon them again and their loot has never been traced.