Chapter 1: The Midnight Mist
The city of Kolkata never truly sleeps, but at 2:45 AM, it holds its breath. A thick, oppressive fog had descended upon the bypass, swallowing the streetlights and turning the world into a grey, hazy void. Arnab gripped the steering wheel of his weathered yellow taxi, his knuckles white. The leather of the seat was cracked, and the scent of stale tobacco and cheap air freshener hung heavy in the damp air. He was exhausted; his eyes were bloodshot from sixteen hours of navigating through the chaotic pulse of the city.
He was just about to flip the 'For Hire' sign to 'Private' and head back to his cramped apartment in Ultadanga when he felt it. A sudden, sharp drop in temperature. It was so cold that his breath began to plume in front of him like white smoke.
"One last trip," he muttered to himself, rubbing his tired face. "Just one more to pay for the radiator repairs."
As he slowed down near a desolate bus stand, he glanced into the rearview mirror to check his hair. His heart skipped a violent beat. His breath hitched in his throat, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.
A woman was sitting in the back seat.
She was dressed in a white saree, the fabric so pale it seemed to glow faintly in the dark interior of the cab. Her long, jet-black hair was drenched, dripping water onto the seat covers, though it hadn't rained for hours. She sat perfectly still, her head bowed, her face lost in a curtain of damp tresses.
Arnab slammed on the brakes, the tires screeching against the wet asphalt. He turned around, his chest heaving. "Sister? How... how did you get in? The doors were locked!"
The woman didn't move. She didn't even look up. "Old Cemetery Road," she whispered.
The voice didn't sound like it came from her throat. It sounded like it was coming from the floorboards, from the wind outside, from the very cracks in the dashboard. It was a dry, rasping sound—like sandpaper on bone.
Arnab's instinct screamed at him to run. Every nerve in his body told him to jump out of the car and never look back. But as he looked into the rearview mirror again, his eyes met hers. For a split second, the hair parted, and he saw a single, dark eye staring back. It wasn't the eye of a living person. It was a hollow pit of infinite sorrow and cold rage.
"I... I can't go that far," Arnab stammered, his hand trembling as he reached for the door handle.
"Drive," she commanded.
Suddenly, the locks on all four doors clicked shut simultaneously with a metallic thud. The engine, which had been idling roughly, roared to life on its own. The taxi began to move, the steering wheel spinning under Arnab's hands as if an invisible ghost were at the helm. He tried to pull the wheel back, but it was locked in place.
As they accelerated into the fog, Arnab looked at his digital meter. The red LEDs were flickering frantically. Instead of showing the fare, the numbers were spinning backward.
2026... 2024... 2020... 2016...
The year on the meter stopped at 2015.
Arnab felt a wave of nausea hit him. That year. The year he had tried so hard to bury under layers of work and distractions. The year of the bridge, the rain, and the girl who never made it home.
"Do you remember the rain that night, Arnab?" the woman asked. Her voice was closer now, right behind his ear. He could smell the scent of the river—muddy, stagnant water and the faint, metallic tang of blood.
"I don't know what you're talking about!" Arnab cried out, tears of terror stinging his eyes. "I'm just a driver! Please, take my money, take the car, just let me go!"
"You were always a fast driver," she whispered, her hand—pale, blue-veined, and deathly cold—creeping over the edge of his seat. "But you weren't fast enough to outrun your conscience."
The streetlights outside began to vanish one by one, plunging the taxi into total darkness. The only light came from the dashboard, which was now glowing with an eerie, sickly green hue. Arnab looked out the side window and realized with horror that they were no longer on the bypass. The concrete buildings had been replaced by ancient, gnarled banyan trees that leaned over the road like skeletal giants.
The road ahead didn't lead to the cemetery. It led into a memory.
A memory of a rainy night ten years ago, a sharp turn, and a white saree disappearing under the murky waters of the Hooghly River.
"We're almost there," the woman said, and for the first time, she leaned forward into the light.
Arnab looked at the mirror and screamed. The seat behind him was empty in the reflection, but he could feel her frozen breath on his neck.