Aarav didn't know how long he had been driving. The speedometer needle trembled near ninety, yet the highway stretched endlessly before him like a black ribbon into nothingness. Sweat clung to his skin, the steering wheel slick under his palms.
Every fiber of him screamed to keep moving, to not look back. But no matter how fast he drove, he couldn't escape the faint rattle of chains behind him.
It was softer now, almost like it wanted him to believe it had faded, but the rhythm was steady—mocking, patient.
Then, through the haze of his headlights, something appeared on the roadside.
A building.
An old inn stood crookedly at the shoulder of the road, its neon sign buzzing weakly. The words barely glowed, but he could make them out:
"Mile Marker 66 Rest Inn."
Relief and suspicion collided in his chest. He hadn't seen a single sign of life for hours, yet here was a place to stop. His instincts screamed that it was wrong, but exhaustion weighed heavier.
His hands trembled as he turned the wheel, pulling into the gravel lot.
The inn looked abandoned. Paint peeled off the wooden walls, the windows were cloudy with grime, and the air smelled of damp wood and mildew. Still, one light burned faintly above the front door, swaying with the buzzing neon.
Aarav parked the car and sat for a moment, engine idling, staring at the building. Every shadow seemed to twitch. Every creak of the cooling engine sounded like footsteps.
Finally, he shut it off. Silence slammed down like a hammer.
He stepped out, gravel crunching under his shoes. The chain sound had stopped, but the silence was worse. The air felt heavier here, as though the night itself was holding its breath.
A rusted bell above the door jingled weakly when he pushed it open. The lobby smelled of dust and mold, but there was warmth inside. A fireplace burned faintly, logs crackling.
At the counter sat an old man, hunched and wrinkled, eyes hidden under the brim of a dusty cap. He looked up slowly, his mouth stretching into a grin that showed too many yellow teeth.
"Late night, huh?" His voice rasped, dry like sandpaper.
Aarav cleared his throat. "I—I need a room. Just for a few hours."
The old man chuckled, sliding a thick leather book toward him. "Most folks who come here say the same. They never stay long."
Aarav's hand hesitated as he picked up the pen to sign. His eyes flicked over the guest book. The pages were filled with names, but something was wrong.
The dates.
They stretched back decades. Names repeated. Some were written in shaky hands, others scrawled in panic. One line made Aarav's blood freeze:
"Ravi Kumar – Room 3 – 1987"
That was his father's name.
Aarav's chest tightened. He looked up sharply. "Who else has stayed here?"
The old man's grin never faltered. "Oh, travelers, like yourself. Folks who took the wrong road. Folks who heard the call."
Before Aarav could respond, the fire crackled louder. He turned toward it and froze.
The flames flickered violently, shaping themselves into images—faces twisted in agony, pale figures in wedding dresses, shadows clutching chains. The air smelled of smoke and flowers—jasmine, overwhelming, choking.
The old man's voice slithered through the haze.
"She's marked you, boy. Once she rides with you, there's no turning back. The bride doesn't let go."
Aarav staggered back. "You know about her?"
The old man laughed, a hollow, rasping sound. "We all do. We're all still here because of her."
The words echoed unnaturally, as though spoken by many voices at once. Aarav's eyes darted back to the guest book—and the names were changing, letters rearranging themselves into one word.
"Aarav."
Written over and over, filling every page.
The pen in his hand snapped, black ink spilling across his skin. His reflection in the counter glass distorted, his face pale, lips cracked, eyes hollow like the bride's.
The old man's grin widened. "Welcome to Mile Marker 66. You'll be staying… forever."
The fireplace roared. The flames turned white, blinding. The air filled with the rattling of chains, so loud now it drowned out his thoughts.
Aarav stumbled toward the door, yanking at the handle, but it wouldn't budge. The inn groaned, wood creaking like bones snapping. From upstairs, he heard the sound of footsteps—dozens of them—heels dragging across the floorboards.
The bride's veil appeared at the top of the staircase, flowing unnaturally as though underwater. Her hollow eyes locked on him.
Aarav slammed his fists against the door, desperate. With one last heave, it burst open, and he fell back into the night air.
He scrambled to his car, throwing himself inside, engine roaring to life once more. He sped down the highway, gravel spitting behind him.
In the rearview mirror, the inn grew smaller, swallowed by darkness.
But as the taillights faded, the neon sign flickered one last time.
"Vacancy."
And in the back seat, the chain rattled again.