The metro is the lifeline of Delhi, an intricate network of arteries pulsating through the city's sprawling expanse. Day and night, it tirelessly carries its diverse passengers in synchronized motion, a silent witness to their journeys. It operates with unwavering precision, unaffected by the chaos that reigns above. In a city of endless contrastsâbetween the wealthy and the impoverished, the hurried and the lostâthe metro remains a machine of neutrality. It is an equalizer, a vessel indifferent to the lives it bears, asking no questions and making no judgments.
Inside, the air is a peculiar mix of human energy and mechanical rhythm. The hushed conversations of commuters blend with the staccato of clicking heels on the floor, underscored by the steady hum of the engine. For some, the metro offers solace, a brief respite from the noise of the city; for others, it is a mere bridge between destinations, a transition they pass through without thought. Each carriage holds its own secrets, whispered between hurried glances or shared in the silence of solitary riders. Day after day, these metal compartments tell stories without wordsâof ambitions sparked and delayed, of dreams nurtured or abandoned, and of fleeting connections made in the anonymity of the crowd.
But as the sun dips below the horizon, the atmosphere begins to shift. The once-familiar hum that filled the bustling platforms takes on a colder tone, resonating with a strange emptiness. The vibrant throngs of commuters thin out, replaced by isolated figures moving through the shadows. The warmth of human presence fades, and the fluorescent lights overhead flicker intermittently, casting uneven beams that seem to stretch the darkness rather than dispel it. Shadows dance along the smooth steel walls, their movements eerie and unpredictable. The rhythm of the train, once comforting, begins to feel unsettling, each stop marked by an echo that lingers a second too long.
A chill permeates the air, wrapping itself around you like an invisible cloak. The silence is no longer a void; it has weight, pressing against your chest and heightening every sound. The metro seems to hold its breath, as if anticipating something unseen. It's in these moments, when the boundaries between the ordinary and the surreal blur, that the metro reveals its darker face.
Not always, but sometimes, the metro's rhythm falters. The train slows unexpectedly, the engine releasing a low groan as if reluctant to proceed. Outside the window, a station comes into viewâone you have never seen before. It isn't on any map, nor is it mentioned in announcements. Its existence feels like a mistake, an aberration in the system. Yet there it stands, eerily pristine, cloaked in an unsettling stillness.
The platform stretches out, devoid of life. Every tile is polished to perfection, reflecting the cold glow of the neon lights above. These lights buzz faintly, their artificial brightness somehow accentuating the emptiness. The signs above are uniform, bearing a single ominous proclamation: "ALL TRAINS TERMINATE HERE." The words seem to pulse with a gravity of their own, drawing your gaze despite the unease they inspire.
The station's features are almost mockingly familiar. Stores line the edges of the platform, their interiors untouched but empty. Chairs in the food court remain perfectly arranged, as if expecting customers who never arrive. The lights inside these establishments are functional, casting a sterile glow over abandoned counters. It's a place frozen in time, meticulously maintained yet utterly forsaken, as though it exists in a reality parallel to your own.
And then, at the far end of the station, movement catches your eye. A figure emerges from the shadows, stepping into the faint glow of the platform. He is impossibly tall, his presence immediately dominating the empty space. Dressed in a black tuxedo, his attire clings to his unnaturally angular frame. The fabric gleams faintly, the lines of the suit too sharp, too precise. His face is hidden, obscured by a shadow that seems to cling to him like a second skin. Yet, within that darkness, a crooked smile flickersâsubtle, sinister, and entirely unnatural.
His arms are grotesquely elongated, hanging well past his knees, his fingers twitching with an almost mechanical precision. Each step he takes is deliberate, his gait uneven and unsettling. His back is hunched, the arch of his spine exaggerated, yet his movements are not without purpose. He moves slowly, almost languidly, as if savoring the silence of his domain. The way he glides across the platform is reminiscent of a predator surveying its hunting ground, his lethargy masking a deeper, malevolent intent.
Though the air remains still, his presence is suffocating. It presses against you, heavy and oppressive, making each breath feel laborious. There's a surreal quality to his existence, as if he belongs to the station in a way no human ever could. He does not belong to your world; he is a part of this place, its keeper, its sentinel.
You can't shake the feeling that he is aware of you, even though his hidden face remains turned away. The station itself seems to amplify this sensation, its silence no longer passive but watchful. The walls seem closer, the lights dimmer. Each second stretches into eternity as the figure continues his slow, deliberate patrol.
It is said that those who encounter this station are not chosen at random. Be careful not to doze off during your ride, or you might find yourself standing before him. Just the thought of it is enough to send a chill down your spine, isn't it? Imagine the screech of brakes pulling you from an uneasy slumber, your surroundings unfamiliar and wrong. The train halted, its doors open to a platform that should not exist. The boards, glowing faintly, still declare their haunting message: "ALL TRAINS TERMINATE HERE."
The air would feel colder, heavier, as if the station itself were aware of your presence. Your breath would fog in the unnatural chill, your heart pounding as you step onto the platform. And then you would see himâthe figure, waiting, his crooked smile promising something far worse than death.
But don't worry too muchâyou'll probably be fine. After all, you aren't one of them, are you? The ones he waits for. The ones who have slipped too far into the shadows of regret, guilt, and despair. The damned. Surely, that's not you. Surely, you have nothing to fear. Or do you?