The Khadki Crossing

I remember the summer I turned twenty-two, when the world felt both enormous and impossibly small. I was visiting my friend Arjun, who had just finished his first year of engineering at a college on the outskirts of Pune. He’d rented a crumbling old bungalow in a settlement called Khadki, a place that seemed to exist in a forgotten pocket of time, far from the neon blur of the city.

Arjun had always loved isolation, and this place was perfect for him—surrounded by overgrown gardens, a rusted gate that moaned in the wind, and a single narrow road that wound through fields of dry grass. Most of his roommates had gone home for the summer, leaving him alone in the cavernous house. He’d begged me to visit, and our friend Nikhil was supposed to arrive from Bengaluru a day later.

I arrived by bus, the last one that stopped at the crossing. The sun was already low, painting the sky in shades of bruised orange and purple. I walked the half-kilometer from the bus stop, my duffel bag heavy on my shoulder. The road was empty, save for a stray dog that watched me from a distance, its eyes reflecting the dying light.

The bungalow was worse than I expected. It had high ceilings and long corridors, with peeling paint and a musty smell that clung to everything. Arjun greeted me with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He seemed nervous, but I chalked it up to him being alone for weeks.

‘Glad you made it,’ he said, taking my bag. ‘Just in time. The nights here are quiet. Too quiet.’

I laughed, but something in his tone made me pause. He led me to a room at the end of the corridor, with a window overlooking a barren yard. ‘Your room,’ he said, and for a moment I thought he was going to say something else.

That night, we sat on the veranda, drinking chai and watching the stars. Arjun was an amateur astronomer, and he pointed out constellations with a precision that could only come from many lonely nights. But every so often, his gaze would drift towards the gate, as if expecting someone.

‘Who else lives around here?’ I asked.

‘No one for a mile,’ he said. ‘The nearest neighbor is an old couple, but they keep to themselves. They say the crossing is haunted.’

I snorted. ‘That’s just local lore.’

He didn’t smile. ‘Maybe. But last week, I was out here late, and I saw something that made me question that.’ He paused, his hands cupping the warm glass. ‘A figure. Standing at the gate. It had no face.’

The chai in my mug suddenly felt colder. ‘What do you mean, no face?’

‘Like the features were just gone. Smooth. It stood there for a few minutes, then walked away into the fields. I tried to follow, but by the time I reached the gate, there was nothing.’

I told him it was a trick of the light, a scarecrow, anything. But the way his voice dropped when he said ‘no face’ made me uneasy. That night, I lay in my room, listening to the wind whistle through the cracks. I must have slept, but I kept jolting awake, convinced someone was standing in the doorway.

In the morning, Arjun seemed fine. We had breakfast, and he suggested we go exploring. The town was a few kilometers away, and the walk was pleasant. We bought groceries, and as we walked back, I asked an old woman at the shop about Khadki. She crossed herself and refused to speak. Arjun laughed, but I noticed he quickened his pace.

That afternoon, Nikhil called. He’d missed his train and would arrive the next morning. Arjun’s face flickered with something I couldn’t read. ‘One more night alone,’ he muttered, but he was smiling.

The second night, I couldn’t sleep. The house was too quiet, the silence oppressive. I got up for a glass of water and found Arjun sitting in the dark living room, staring at the wall. ‘Can’t sleep either?’ I asked. He didn’t answer. I approached, and saw his eyes were wide, unblinking. Then he blinked and turned to me.

‘Sorry, just a bit on edge. The old woman’s warning got to me.’ He stood and went to his room. I didn’t believe him.

I was about to head back to my room when I heard it: a faint scratching at the front door. I froze. The sound was rhythmic, like fingernails dragging across wood. I moved to the window, peered through the curtain, and saw the gate swinging open slightly. Nothing. The scratching stopped.

My heart hammered as I realized the scratching wasn’t at the door—it was at my window. I spun around, but the window was dark, revealing only my own terrified reflection. I forced myself to look closer, and behind my face, I saw another silhouette, taller, with a smooth, blank head.

I stumbled back, knocked over the lamp. Arjun rushed out, and the moment he entered the room, the presence vanished. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘There was something at the window,’ I said, my voice shaking.

He looked outside. ‘There’s nothing there.’ But he didn’t call me a liar. He just stood there, staring into the dark.

We didn’t sleep that night. We sat in the living room, doors locked, windows bolted. Arjun confessed that he’d been hearing whispers at night, and he’d seen the same faceless figure twice. He’d even found footprints in the yard that led nowhere.

At dawn, we decided to leave early, even if Nikhil was coming. We packed our bags, but as we walked towards the gate, we saw him—Nikhil—standing there, waving. He looked tired. ‘I got an earlier train,’ he said cheerfully.

We both yelled at him to come inside, but he insisted on seeing the house first. As we walked back, I noticed the gate was still open. I closed it, and just as I turned, I saw him: the faceless figure, standing at our doorstep, waiting. It didn’t move, just stood there, a void in the morning light.

Arjun grabbed my arm. ‘Don’t look at it.’ He dragged me away, but Nikhil was already at the door, about to step inside. He paused, looked behind him, and smiled. ‘I knew you guys would be happy to see me,’ he said, oblivious.

He entered the house, and the figure vanished like morning mist. We spent a tense day together, but nothing happened. Nikhil kept asking what was wrong, but we couldn’t explain.

That night, we three sat on the veranda, the silence heavy. Nikhil told us stories from his trip, but his words didn’t reach us. When it was late, Nikhil yawned and went to the bathroom, leaving Arjun and me alone.

That’s when I saw the scratches on Arjun’s arm—four long lines, as if someone had clawed him. ‘When did this happen?’ I asked.

He looked at his arm, confused. ‘It wasn’t there before.’

Suddenly, the bathroom door burst open. Nikhil stood there, his face pale. ‘Who’s in there with you?’ he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

We all looked at the bathroom. The light flickered, and then went out. A moment later, the door swung shut with a loud bang. We didn’t move. We just stood there, the three of us, as the silence returned, deeper than before.

And then we heard a voice, from the direction of the bathroom, soft and low: ‘I’ve been waiting.’

We ran. We didn’t stop until we were at the main road, even as the first car passed. We hitched a ride to Pune, and we never spoke of that night again. But even now, sometimes, when I look at a mirror, I see a shadow behind me, with a face as smooth as a river stone, and I can’t tell if it’s real or just a memory.

The Khadki crossing remains, a place where the world slips, where the boundary between here and elsewhere thins. And somewhere deep in that quiet, I know, the faceless one still waits.