He seemed to be in his forties. Or maybe not – I am a terrible judge of age, after all (like I am a terrible judge of many other things; like for instance, character). He had a cap on and his hands were buried deep into his jacket pockets. He was slightly hunched against the cold wind. His collar was up, but didn’t quite hide a grizzled beard. Can’t remember if he had glasses, but my faded memory seems to paint him with a pair. Two years later, and after I had only glimpsed him for a couple of seconds as the slowing train rolled into the station, you cannot really expect more accuracy from me. All in all, he looked like the nice kind of dad who takes his kids hiking and introduces them to Tolkien.
If only it hadn’t been for his backpack.
It had keyrings hanging from every zipper, possibly even keyrings hanging from keyrings that were hanging from keyrings. And all of them were full of little plush toys – they were the sort of fluffy thing you can buy at airports, from news stands and souvenir shops and in every stationery store. Dozens of those teddies and puppies and kitten and bunnies were hanging from his backpack, almost obscuring it from sight.
For a moment there, I think my face lit up at the sight of them. Then I imagine it must have instantly darkened, for I had recognized him for what he was, for what he had to be. I knew his kind. I had seen and read about them. Admittedly, his collection was somewhat less gruesome than those of his more famous kin (like little fingers or left ears or even locks of hair – let’s face it, body parts whose body of origin is deceased almost always make for pretty gruesome souvenirs), but in a way it was a lot more sinister.
It also immediately shed light on his modus operandi. Given the wooded hills in the neighbourhood, it wasn’t hard to guess – how he stalked his prey early in the morning when they were leaving for classes; how he singled out his victim in the train station and how the switch in his brain flipped to “on”, deciding that harvest day had arrived; how he lay in wait for little schoolgirls or schoolboys on their way home; how he made his move on the meandering paths through the woods where no one would see and no one would hear; how he lured or threatened or silently stuck out his hand… how finally he would detach his latest trophy from their schoolbags and add it to his —
I shuddered. I had been mesmerized by the pile of plush animals hanging from his backpack, little spots of pastel and neon colors, swinging with every movement. I was amazed at the audacity of the display. He was clearly the worst kind of Collector, one who hides the evidence of serial crimes in plain sight. I could almost perceive his evil aura as he moved for the train doors and looked up in alarm to see if anyone else had noticed anything strange… and then the moment was gone.
The train jerked back into movement. The faces around as impassible as ever. The choking feel of an evil presence erased. The Collector safely hidden in the morning commuter crowd. Still, I knew what I had seen…
Unless, of course, he was a harmless guy with a kid’s heart and a love of plush key rings. One can never tell for sure.
