Arjun's pulse quickened as his eyes remained locked on the faint handprint. His first instinct was denial. Maybe it was just dirt, or he had brushed against something earlier. But the print was distinct, the fingers long and slightly crooked, as if the hand that left it didn't belong to anyone normal.
The air felt heavier now, pressing against his chest. Arjun wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and glanced at the road ahead. There was no turning back—the path behind him had seemed endless, and the thought of retracing his steps in this darkness felt worse than pressing forward.
He restarted the bike, the engine's roar cutting through the oppressive silence. But as soon as he revved the throttle, the headlamp flickered again, casting irregular shadows that danced wildly on the cracked asphalt and trees. He cursed under his breath.
The bike jerked forward, its vibrations rattling his already frayed nerves. Every few meters, the shadows seemed to shift unnaturally, as if something—or someone—was following him, staying just out of sight. He forced himself to keep his eyes on the road, but his peripheral vision caught fleeting movements, shapes darting between the trees.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, startling him. He quickly pulled over and fished it out, grateful for the distraction. But when he looked at the screen, there was no notification, no call—just the faint glow of the home screen.
"Must be a glitch," he muttered, though his voice sounded uncertain. He was about to put the phone back when it vibrated again, more violently this time. The screen turned black, and then a single message appeared in white text:
"TURN BACK."
Arjun's breath hitched. His fingers trembled as he tried to unlock the phone, but it froze, the text lingering ominously on the screen. He shoved it back into his pocket, refusing to believe what he'd just seen.
"I'm just tired," he whispered to himself, kicking the bike into motion again. "It's all in my head."
But the unease was growing, clawing at the edges of his sanity. The trees on either side of the road now felt closer, their branches twisting like skeletal arms. The headlamp's flickering grew worse, plunging him into moments of complete darkness before sputtering back to life.
He slowed down as the road seemed to narrow, the cracks widening into gaping holes. Suddenly, his bike sputtered and came to a halt. He tried restarting it, but the engine refused to turn over. Panic surged through him as he checked the fuel gauge—empty.
"Great," he muttered, kicking the ground in frustration. He got off the bike and looked around, his flashlight barely penetrating the oppressive darkness.
"Hello?" he called out again, louder this time. His voice echoed eerily, as though the void itself was mocking him.
As he stood there, straining to hear anything, a faint sound reached his ears—a soft, rhythmic tapping, like someone gently knocking on wood. It seemed to come from the trees, but the direction was impossible to pinpoint.
"Who's there?" Arjun shouted, his voice cracking. The tapping stopped abruptly, replaced by an even more unnerving sound—a low, guttural whisper.
It was faint at first, like the rustle of leaves, but it grew louder, the words unintelligible yet deeply unsettling. Arjun swung his flashlight wildly, the beam slicing through the darkness but revealing nothing.
"Stop it!" he yelled, his voice trembling.
The whispers stopped, and for a moment, the silence returned. But then, just as he was about to breathe a sigh of relief, he heard it—a soft, chilling laugh, coming from right behind him.
He spun around, his flashlight beam shaking as it illuminated the empty road. His bike stood there, silent and lifeless, but something was different. The handprint on the fuel tank was gone.
Instead, there were now several prints, smeared all over the seat, handlebars, and even the tires. The prints glistened wetly, as if freshly made.
Arjun backed away, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. He turned to run, but his feet froze as the laugh echoed again, louder this time, and unmistakably human—or almost human.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow shift on the road. Slowly, deliberately, it began to take shape—a figure emerging from the darkness, its movements unnaturally jerky, as though it hadn't walked in years.
The flashlight slipped from his hand, hitting the ground and casting wild, spinning beams of light. Arjun's mind screamed at him to move, but his body refused to obey.
The figure stopped a few meters away, just at the edge of the light. It was tall and thin, its face obscured by the shadows, but its eyes—two pale, glowing orbs—pierced through the darkness, locking onto him.
"Why did you stop?" it asked, its voice a raspy whisper that seemed to echo inside his skull.