Parth, Ruhi, and Xavior sat cross-legged in a circle, a box of sizzling kebabs and colorful chutneys at the center. The terrace light behind Ruhi cast a shallow pool of glow, beyond which the full-moon night stretched in a misty, pale blur.
It was their first-Friday-of-the-month ritual, an unspoken pact carried out religiously on the boys’ hostel terrace.
Ruhi was the boldest among them, and besides, it was her idea.
She had slipped past the watchman as he scrolled through YouTube during his dinner break. Getting out was always trickier, but Xavior’s cigarette offers to the watchman bought her enough time to vanish back to the girls’ hostel next door.
The kebabs weren’t the draw, though.
It was the horror they devoured all month — books, films, rumors. Those couple of hours were for the stories they shared, with hair bristling and fear flickering in their eyes.
Tonight, Parth had just returned from his trip home — carrying a story unlike the others. He said it was real.
Ruhi stabbed a kebab, dripping it into mint chutney. “So? What’s the story, Parth?”
Xavior, halfway to devouring his tomato chutney soaked bite, didn’t bother to look up.
Parth leaned forward, voice low. “I saw a ghost. A real one.”
Xavior froze mid-bite. “What? For real?”
Parth nodded. “On the way back from my relatives’ place…”
It had been past midnight. Parth slouched in the back seat while his dad drove and his mom sat drowsily beside him. His body ached for a bed, for the stretch of legs against cool sheets.
“This shortcut cuts through town,” Dad said, easing toward a narrow road branching from the highway. “Saves three, maybe four hours.”
“Why take a risk at this time?” Mom muttered.
“I’ve taken it before,” Dad replied, turning the wheel decisively.
For a mile the road wound between trees, then opened to empty fields. Under the full moon’s glow, everything looked eerily still. Another turn led to another stretch — and then they saw it.
A truck stood in the open field, headlights glaring. A few figures crouched in front of it, knees hugged to their chests, faces buried. Beside them, a woman stood waving toward the car, the light burned behind her, reducing her to a silhouette.
“Stop,” Mom urged. “Looks like an accident. They need help.”
Dad pressed harder on the accelerator.
They sped on, turned another corner — only to see the same truck, the same figures, the same woman waving. This time, she appeared closer.
Mom said nothing.
Another turn. The scene again. And again. Each time the woman nearer, her dark outline dragging toward to the road.
On the terrace, the kebabs and chutneys sat untouched. Ruhi and Xavior leaned in, eyes wide.
“Maybe the road circled back?” Ruhi whispered.
“And she was walking toward the road,” Xavior added, though it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than a genuine doubt.
Parth’s gaze was fixed on the shadows, as if he could see her even now.
“That’s what we told ourselves. Until the fifth time. She was at the edge of the road. In the full moonlight, we saw her face.”
He shuddered.
“Her face looked long… pulled. Stretched upward by something invisible. And she was laughing. A low, cunning laugh…”
Parth paused. Then, his whisper dropped into silence.
“… She had no eyes. Just white, sightless orbs. And still… something was staring at us.”
Parth’s gaze moved over them, one by one, his stare unsettling.
“Then Dad floored the accelerator. We shot past a giant tree — and it all stopped.”
The final words felt conjured, yet both of them wanted to believe.
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