The Cardboard Ticket

It was the summer of 2003, and my family had decided to visit my grandparents in the dusty town of Red Oak, Kansas. To break the monotony, my aunt suggested we visit the traveling exhibit at the local historical society: ‘The Sunken City: Artifacts from the Deep.’ It was about a fictional city called Marinus that supposedly sank into the ocean centuries ago, and it featured recovered relics and a rather cheesy recreated ship’s corridor. My cousins were excited; I was bored, but it beat sitting in grandpa’s stuffy house.

We paid our entrance, and each of us received a small, laminated card with a name and a brief description. My card read ‘Evelyn Marsh, Stewardess, Age 24.’ My cousin Danny got ‘Captain Henry Ford, Navigator, Age 56.’ The exhibit handouts explained that these were ‘spirits of the deep’ that had been ‘summoned’ to guide us through the display. It was silly, but I played along.

As we walked through a long, dimly lit hallway lined with glass cases filled with barnacle-encrusted trinkets, I lagged behind, examining a rusted compass. The air was cool and smelled of salt and dust. Suddenly, I felt a gentle but definite tug on the back of my t-shirt, right at the collar. I spun around, expecting to catch my cousin playing a prank. But the hallway behind me was empty, stretching back to the entrance with no one in sight. The family was a dozen steps ahead, their backs to me.

I thought I had imagined it, so I turned back to the case. Then it happened again—another tug, stronger this time, as if someone was trying to pull me backward. My heart pounded, and I lurched forward, nearly stumbling. I called out to my mom, who turned with a quizzical look. I told her I felt something pull my shirt, but she just said, ‘Probably a loose thread caught on the display.’ I checked my shirt—no loose threads. I decided to ignore it and hurried to catch up.

We reached the end of the exhibit, a room with a model of the sunken city, and I thought it was over. But as I stood looking at the tiny buildings, the card in my hand grew cold. I looked down to see the name ‘Evelyn Marsh’ was now slightly raised, as if embossed. I ran my finger over it, and I felt a pulse. That’s when I noticed the name ‘Evelyn’ had a faint red tinge, like dried blood.

That night, back at my grandparents’ house, I couldn’t shake the feeling. I had hung my shirt over the chair in my room, and in the middle of the night, I was awakened by a distinct rustling sound. I flicked on the lamp, and the shirt was on the floor, laying flat as if someone had carefully placed it. I checked the card, which I had left on the nightstand—it was gone. But I saw it later under the bed, torn in half. On the floor, written in what looked like old, dried ink, were the words: ‘She wants her name back.’

I told my mom the next morning, but she dismissed it as my imagination or a prank, even though the card was torn. But I noticed a new exhibit brochure on the kitchen counter, an advertisement for the Sunken City exhibit that had not been there before. Opening it, I saw a list of the ‘passengers’ of the Marinus. Under ‘Stewardess,’ the name was not Evelyn Marsh, but I recognized it: ‘Evelyn Marsh, Age 24’ was listed as ‘Lost, never recovered.’ The accompanying photo showed a young woman with a stern face, staring directly at the camera. Her eyes seemed to follow me, and I saw a glint of something around her neck—a small locket shaped like a ship’s wheel.

At breakfast, my grandpa mentioned that the exhibition was scheduled to leave next week. I felt a growing dread. I didn’t want to go back, but I knew I had to. The tugging had felt intentional, pleading. That afternoon, I returned to the historical society alone. The exhibit was nearly empty, and I walked straight to the hallway where I had felt the pulls. There, in a display case I had missed, was a small, tarnished locket, identical to the one in the photo. A nearby placard said it was recovered from the wreck site. The locket was open, and inside was a tiny portrait of a woman, beneath it an inscription: ‘For E.M., my love, forever.’

I reached out to touch the glass, and the locket snapped shut with a click. Then, I felt a cold, firm hand press against the center of my back, pushing me forward. I stumbled, and when I turned, there she was: a translucent figure in an old-fashioned uniform, her face sad, her hand outstretched. She pointed to the locket, then to my chest, where the card had been. I understood. She wanted the locket, not to possess me, but to have it returned to her—the one object that tied her to the love she had lost when the city sank. I managed to find the exhibit’s curator and asked about the locket. He said it was from a private collection, and it had never been sold.

I left, but the haunting continued. Every night, I’d wake to find my shirt pulled off the chair, or water rings on the floor, as if a wet figure had stood beside my bed. The card, though torn, never left my mind. On the last day of the exhibit, I went back, and the curator, now looking haggard, told me he had found the locket missing. He said a note was left, written in the same ink as the words under my bed: ‘Give it to her.’ I knew what I had to do.

That evening, I took the locket, which the curator had accidentally left on his desk, and drove to the nearest lake. I waded into the cold water and threw the locket as far as I could. As it sank, I felt a warm breeze, and the weight on my chest lifted. I never felt the tug again, and the card in my pocket was void of any marking, just a plain piece of cardboard. But sometimes, late at night, I still see her in my dreams, standing at the bottom of the lake, holding the locket, finally at peace. And I know she watches over me, grateful that I gave her the one thing she had lost. The Sunken City exhibit moved on, but I never forgot the pull of the deep, or the need to set things right.