I stood on the platform, huddled against a square light post, the only shelter against the cold, biting November wind as I waited for the last train of the night. The train was late.

Delayed at work, I had raced to the train stop to catch my usual train home. I arrived just in time to see it pulling away. I went back to the old pickup I kept at the commuter lot to take back and forth to work and the station. I sat in it until the clock on the dash showed me it was 10 minutes before the last train’s arrival. Sometimes the train arrived early and I did not want caught on the wrong side of the track’s unable to get to the side of the platform where the conductor’s opened the doors.

So I waited for the delayed train. I would have checked online to see if the reason for the delay was posted on the website or to see if they had an estimated time of arrival. But my phone’s battery had died, leaving me without my usual podcasts to listen to or the information I wanted.

Sue sat on the bench a short distance a way.

I knew Sue. On my first day riding the commuter train, Sue had barked at me. She didn’t like me sitting across from her. All of the other seats were taken, but Sue wanted to stretch her legs out on the seats across from her. Her bags took up the seat next to her instead of being placed in the overhead storage.

“Where do you expect me to sit?” I asked.

“Not here,” she said.

I ignored her and her angry glares until the train thinned after the next stop and I moved away from her.

I learned quickly she acted that way with other passengers as well. One evening home I sat a few rows away, but could not avoid hearing her as she complained about the county’s retirement system. She wanted to cash out and retire early from her job, but they weren’t offering a buyout to her. I tried to tune her out to listen to my book, but her voice was too loud, too angry. The woman across the corridor from her nodded sympathetically. “My sister had that …” but Sue cut her off.

“I didn’t ask about your sister,” Sue said. “I don’t care about your sister.”

The woman’s eyes widened. She had listened to Sue at length and Sue’s response had taken her aback.

“Sue likes monologues, not dialogues,” I told the woman.

Sue glared at me. “No one asked you,” she said.

After that, I moved to the Quiet Car. The occasional social interactions with fellow passengers were not worth having to hear Sue’s voice carrying over even the sound of the locomotive.

One morning, though, Sue’s usual ride had failed to show up. From the train stop parking lot to Sue’s office was a short walk, but Sue didn’t like to make it.

She asked me to give her a ride and in a moment of softheartedness, I agreed. Each morning she climbed in and I got to hear her harangue against the world. The topic varied. Her complaints didn’t. Though the ride was but moments, it darkened my mornings. Yet still, she had asked and it was on my way.

On this cold night, I spoke up to her. “Sue, do you know what time it is?”

“No,” she answered quickly. “I don’t have a watch.”

The train arrived and I waited for her to board and then followed. Fortunately on the late train, there were plenty of open seats. I sat down. Sue put down her bags across from her, put her feet up, and as she did, her coat sleeve pulled up. There, clearly apparent on her wrist, was her watch.

(To be continued)

The Los Angeles Times writes about one of my favorite shows:

Professional wrestling has long been the odd cousin of who we are, that sequined and booted carnival of scowls and grimaces, of hammerlocks and backflips, of mad men aflight; all make-believe, but in the spark of the moment, wonderfully alive with the scent of blood and the glimmer of pomp. “Lucha” captures this with eight cameras, editing booths and back stories woven with Aztec folklore that seek to compete with the dominant programming on World Wrestling Entertainment.

With menace and winked charm, “Lucha” is emblematic of the style of El Rey Network, begun in 2013 by filmmaker Robert Rodriguez. The network conjures the mischievous shadows and gonzo bloodletting in two of Rodriguez’s films “From Dusk Till Dawn,” a tale of vampires and hoodlums starring George Clooney and Quentin Tarantino, and “Sin City,” a noirish thriller starring Bruce Willis and based on Frank Miller’s graphic novel of the same name.

The show works in supernatural elements really well into the self-contained universe it resides in.

My favorite match from last season where after one grueling trios tag match, the team must face another team.

What evil, despicable, fanatic would do something like this? I mean, besides me.

In what sounds like a scene from one of his legendary horror films, the head of Nosferatu director FW Murnau, who died in 1931, has been stolen from his family plot in a cemetery in Germany.

The grave-robbing occurred in Stahnsdorf, about 12 miles south-west of central Berlin, according to Variety. The graves of Murnau’s brothers were reportedly not disturbed.

Wax residue is said to have been found near the grave, suggesting that candles had been lit, and a possible occult motive for the theft.

Perhaps Doctor Frankenstein should give lessons on how to rob graves.

MARTINSBURG, W.Va. — Two men accused of tampering with more than 20 caskets at a Martinsburg cemetery last year were sentenced Monday to 26 years in prison apiece in Berkeley County Circuit Court.

snip

In April, Bowers told the court that it was his idea to go to Rosedale Cemetery last spring and remove jewelry from the bodies of the deceased, and that Ruffner went along with the plan on two trips to the burial grounds at 917 Cemetery Road.

Bowers told authorities he helped Ruffner and a third unidentified male open crypts from a mausoleum in the cemetery and take jewelry from the bodies, according to court records.

Bowers said a clothes hanger was used to get the jewelry from within the caskets, and the jewelry was taken to the Martinsburg Mall to exchange at a “cash-for-gold” business, records said.

This is incredibly awesome, from the fog to the monster to the way Batman’s cape flutters in the wind.

Non-horror related (or maybe it is horror-related to you and lovers undead or monstrous), but what are your favorite types of kisses? Long and slow, nibbles, passionate with lots of tongue?

Also, how do you stand on biting?

I’ve never heard this story before from Mandy Patinkin and it made me love him even more because I know how he feels.

Under my New Year’s resolution for healthy eating, should I count whisky as a grain?

Well, sort of.