The Damp Road

In 2016, I was seventeen and living in the outskirts of Nagpur, a city known for its sweltering heat and sudden monsoon downpours. That year, I was cramming for my final exams at a coaching center that ran late into the night. One evening, after a particularly grueling session, I left at 10:45 PM, my stomach growling and my mind foggy with formulas. I had two ways to get home: the main road, which would take forty-five minutes, or a narrow, unlit shortcut that cut through an abandoned tuberculosis hospital. The shortcut saved me twenty minutes, and I was too tired to care about the eerie reputation it had. I shoved my earphones in, turned on my favorite playlist, and started down the path.

The shortcut was a dirt lane bordered by overgrown shrubs and crumbling walls. After about ten minutes, the lane passed by the hospital—a decaying, two-story building with shattered windows and a rusted gate that always hung ajar. Locals swore it was haunted, but I had taken this route dozens of times and never seen anything. That night, the air was thick and humid, typical for Nagpur, but as I approached the hospital, the temperature plummeted. A cold draft slithered past me, raising goosebumps on my arms. I paused, pulling my earphone out. The silence was unnatural—even the crickets had gone quiet. I told myself it was just the wind from the nearby railway track, which I had to cross soon.

I resumed walking, but after a few steps, I heard it: the soft crunch of gravel behind me. I spun around, heart hammering, but the lane was empty. I waited, but nothing moved. I laughed nervously, blaming my imagination, and continued, this time keeping my earphone out. The crunching resumed, this time closer, matching my pace. I stopped. It stopped. I turned more slowly, and this time I saw a faint shape dart into the hospital’s shadow. My breath hitched. I decided to run, but as I broke into a jog, the sound of footsteps became a rapid patter, echoing my own. I didn’t look back. I sprinted until I reached the railway track, the rusted line reflecting the dim moonlight.

I crossed the track and paused to catch my breath, glancing back. The hospital loomed in the distance, a dark silhouette against the night sky. I saw a figure standing at the hospital’s entrance—tall, thin, and motionless. My blood ran cold. I fumbled for my phone, but the battery was dead. I had no choice but to keep walking. The shortcut continued for another two kilometers, passing through a stretch of abandoned warehouses. I walked briskly, every nerve on edge, when a distinct smell hit me: the metallic stench of damp concrete and decay, like the air after a flood. It was nauseating.

Then, I heard a low hum, barely audible, like a distorted lullaby. It seemed to come from all directions. I stopped, and the humming stopped. I took a step, and it resumed. I tried to ignore it, focusing on the road ahead, but the hum grew louder, more insistent, until it morphed into a whispery voice that spoke my name: ‘Arjun.’ I froze. The voice had come from beside me, as if someone was walking right at my shoulder. I turned, and there was nothing—only the emptiness of the lane.

I started running, my lungs burning, my legs pumping. The warehouse walls seemed to close in, and the road seemed endless. I stumbled over a loose stone and fell, scraping my knee. As I looked up, I saw a woman standing under a streetlamp about twenty meters ahead. She wore a white sari, and her hair covered her face. She was motionless. I scrambled to my feet, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst. I wanted to turn back, but the hospital was worse. So I walked toward her, praying she was a late-night worker or a lost soul. When I was ten meters away, she tilted her head, and I saw her eyes—black, devoid of any white. She smiled, and her mouth opened too wide, and then she spoke in a voice that was not human, a guttural rasp: ‘You’re late.’

I screamed and bolted past her, not daring to look back. I ran until I reached the main road, where the streetlights were bright and the occasional car passed. I collapsed against a lamppost, gasping, my clothes soaked with sweat. When I finally dared to glance back, the shortcut was empty, and the hospital was out of sight. I stumbled home, and my mother was furious, but I couldn’t tell her what had happened. I went to bed without eating, and that night, I dreamed of the woman standing at the foot of my bed, repeating those words: ‘You’re late.’ I woke up shivering, and for weeks afterward, I refused to take the shortcut again. But the worst part is, even now, when I close my eyes, I see that smiling face, and I hear that voice. And sometimes, on humid nights, I feel a cold draft pass through my room, and I know she’s still waiting for me to be late again.