A journey home takes a chilling turn when a dream becomes reality.
It was Thursday, 14th of August 2025.
Chennai’s roads were overflowing, as they always do before a long weekend. People from all over the state—those who had made the city their workplace—were now rushing home to see their families. Traffic was crawling, honking filled the air, and just to make things worse, the sky turned dark and it began to rain.
For most, this was just another frustrating evening. For me—a corporate refugee heading back to my parents—it was a nightmare. Riding through those roads was exhausting on a normal day. Today, with the added chaos, I knew reaching the station itself would be a journey. And then it struck me: I hadn’t booked a reserved ticket. I was traveling in the general compartment. My mood soured further.
By the time I reached my apartment from work, it was 6:45 pm. Thankfully, I had packed in the morning. I changed into comfortable travel clothes and began what felt like a Himalayan task—just getting to the railway station.
Four hours later, drenched and drained, I finally arrived at the famous MGR Central Railway Station. The scene there was its own little world—people who came early, people who had just missed their trains, families sprawled across the floor, and the homeless who called the station home. Old, young, restless, resigned—humanity in every form, colliding under the yellow lights of the station.
After stuffing my wet raincoat under my bike’s seat, I rushed in. Of course, my train was delayed by an hour. I found a broken chain and sat on the floor, stretching my legs. Dinner was a few idlis from the canteen, washed down with boredom.
Finally, the announcement came. Platform 9. I hurried there, praying I was on the right end of the train. If I was wrong, I’d have to sprint down the length of the platform—and by then, every seat would be taken.
Luck favored me. I pushed through the crowd and secured a single window seat. Opposite me, a man was already asleep, slumped in his place. I didn’t pay much attention, checked my pockets (phone, wallet—still there), shoved my bag under the seat, and leaned back. Exhaustion won quickly, and I drifted off.
I don’t usually dream while sitting. But this time, I did.
In the dream, the man across from me was dragging me by the arm, pulling me towards the exit. The floor was smeared with blood. My blood.
I jolted awake, heart hammering. The man was no longer asleep. He was staring straight at me.
Panicked, I reached for my water bottle. It wasn’t there. I bent to check under the seat—when suddenly, his arm extended into my vision, holding the bottle.
I snatched it, gulped greedily. He hadn’t moved otherwise. He was still watching me, calm and unnerving.
“Sorry,” he said.
“For the bottle?” I asked.
His reply froze my veins.
“For the bad dream.”
I stared. “How… how did you know it was a bad dream? And why are you sorry about it?”
He smiled faintly. “It’s not my fault you sat facing me.”
A chill gripped my spine. “What are you talking about?”
“You still don’t understand, do you?” he said softly. He extended his right hand.
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t a dream. I’m here to take you with me.”
Only then did I notice the compartment around us—dark, silent, empty. The man in front of me was no longer the same person I’d seen when I boarded.
And that’s when it hit me.
It wasn’t a dream.
Knowing exactly who he was, I took his hand… and stepped into the dark.
