The encounter
It was late at night—1 or 2 a.m., I think. I wasn’t sure anymore. My phone was dead, and I didn’t own a watch. The streets were deserted, as though the world had folded in on itself, leaving me stranded in a hollow, forgotten corner. My legs ached with every step as I made my way home after a grueling day at work.
The silence was suffocating. No honking cars. No barking dogs. Not even the distant hum of traffic. Just the sound of my own footsteps echoing down the cracked pavement.
That’s when I saw it.
A rickshaw.
It stood under the flickering glow of a streetlight, its shadow stretching unnaturally long across the road. At first, I felt relief. But as I moved closer, that relief gave way to unease.
Something was off.
The rickshaw seemed… wrong. Its paint was chipped and peeling, and its canopy sagged like stretched skin. The wheels didn’t move, yet it seemed to drift ever so slightly, inching away from me.
Still, I stepped closer. I don’t know why.
The puller appeared out of the darkness, standing next to the rickshaw as if he’d materialized from thin air. He wore a long, black raincoat, the hood pulled low to obscure his face. He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, unmoving.
Then, he raised one hand—a pale, lifeless hand—and gestured for me to get in.
I should have turned around. I should have run.
But I didn’t.
Instead, my feet moved on their own, and before I knew it, I was climbing into the rickshaw.
The world outside grew darker as the rickshaw began to roll forward, though I couldn’t hear the wheels turning. It felt as though we were floating, gliding over the road. My stomach churned with unease, and my fingers dug into the edges of the seat.
I tried to speak, but my voice felt trapped in my throat. My pulse quickened as I forced the words out.
“Where are we going?”
No answer.
I leaned forward. “Hey! Where—”
I froze.
His hands.
They weren’t moving. They were fused to the handlebars—pale and waxy, like the hands of a corpse. I leaned closer, and that’s when I saw his face. Or rather, what was left of it.
His skin hung loose, gray and leathery, as if it had been stitched together. His lips were pulled back in a grotesque grin, exposing rows of broken, jagged teeth. And his eyes—dark, empty hollows—locked onto mine through the reflection in the mirror.
I couldn’t breathe.
Without thinking, I jumped out of the rickshaw, landing hard on the rough ground. My knees buckled, but I forced myself to stand. I looked back—and froze.
He was still there. Still gripping the handlebars. But he wasn’t looking at me. Not anymore.
He was smiling.
I ran.
I ran until my lungs burned and my legs felt like lead. When I finally stopped, gasping for breath, I found myself in front of a house. The lights were off, but I didn’t care. I pushed open the gate and stepped inside.
And that’s when the world shifted.
The house wasn’t a house anymore.
I was in a graveyard.
The air turned cold. Tombstones jutted out of the earth like jagged teeth, and the ground beneath my feet felt damp and soft. My head spun.
Then, I heard it—the faint creak of wheels.
I turned.
The rickshaw was there, at the gate, waiting. The puller stood still, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. The shadows twisted around him, and I felt my knees go weak.
I backed away, but my heel sank into the earth. I looked down—and screamed.
A hand.
A decayed, skeletal hand reached out of the dirt, its fingers clawing at my ankle. I kicked it away and stumbled back, running blindly through the graves.
The ground seemed to shift beneath me, pulling me down with every step. I tripped and fell, my hands sinking into the cold, damp soil. My breath came in ragged gasps as I looked up—and saw him.
The rickshaw puller.
He was standing over me now, his face hidden in shadows. Slowly, he reached out one hand.
“No,” I whispered.
I scrambled to my feet and ran. I didn’t stop until I reached the office.
Or what I thought was the office.
The guard was there, staring at me like I’d lost my mind.
“It’s 8:15 p.m.,” he said, checking his watch. “And… you weren’t here today.”
I didn’t answer. I just ran.
But the world had changed.
The tea stall I always visited was gone—replaced by a black, stagnant swamp. Dead trees loomed overhead, their twisted branches clawing at the sky.
I turned back toward the office.
And it wasn’t there.
Just an empty field.
And the rickshaw.
It stood at the edge of the field, its puller staring straight at me.
I fell to my knees. My chest heaved as panic overtook me. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out.
Then, I heard it.
A phone ringing.
I turned and saw it—a black rotary phone sitting in the grass, completely disconnected.
It rang again.
Desperate, I ran toward it, but no matter how fast I moved, it stayed just out of reach. My legs burned, and tears streamed down my face as I pushed myself forward.
Finally, I reached it.
I grabbed the receiver, my hands shaking.
“H-Hello?”
Static.
Then, a voice—a low, guttural groan.
I dropped the phone.
And that’s when I felt it.
A cold hand on my shoulder.
I turned slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs.
And there he was.
The rickshaw puller.
He leaned in close, his breath reeking of decay.
“This ride,” he whispered, “isn’t over.”
Darkness closed in.
And I screamed.
A wave of dizziness washed over me. My vision darkened, and the world spun.
And then—nothing.
Just darkness.
When I opened my eyes again, I wasn’t sure if I had ever woken up at all.
