The Last Ferry

Arjun, a final-year architecture student, and his childhood friend Vikram, who ran a small organic farm, often met late at night to escape their busy days. They preferred the quiet of the Tungabhadra Riverfront, a desolate stretch near the old, unused ferry ghat in Hampi. Ancient boulders and crumbling temple ruins surrounded the area, lending it a ghostly aura after dark.

One humid July night, Vikram picked Arjun up in his battered white Mahindra jeep. They bought samosas and two cups of sugary chai from a roadside stall, then drove to the riverfront. The gravel lot was empty, moonlight glinting off the slow-moving water. They parked close to the ghat’s stone steps, the jeep’s headlights briefly illuminating a rusted sign that read ‘Ferry Point – Discontinued.’ They left the engine running for the air conditioner, but after about half an hour, the chill was too much, so Vikram switched it off.

They tilted their seats back and lay talking, windows cracked open to let in the river breeze. The road beside them was perfectly clear, a pale ribbon leading into darkness. As they spoke about Arjun’s thesis and Vikram’s irrigation troubles, a sound cut through their conversation: a low, rhythmic splash, like oars dipping into water. They both fell silent, listening. But then it stopped, and they laughed it off as a fish jumping.

A few minutes later, Arjun glanced toward the ghat and froze. A small, weathered wooden ferry boat was there, tied to the mooring post that had been dry for years. In it sat a hunched figure, face hidden under a wide-brimmed hat. Vikram saw it too, his hand trembling as he reached for the ignition. ‘Who’s out at this hour?’ he whispered. The figure raised a hand, not waving, but motioning them closer.

The engine turned but wouldn’t catch. The battery clicked weakly. Then the figure in the boat began to drift toward them without any visible effort, the boat gliding silently over the water. The air grew cold, and the moon disappeared behind a thick bank of fog that rolled in from nowhere. Inside the jeep, the samosas turned rancid, and the chai curdled in their cups.

Vikram finally got the engine going, but the headlights flickered and died. In the sudden darkness, they heard the boat bump against the stone steps below. The figure stood, and Arjun saw it had no face – just a blank, pale void under the hat. It spoke, its voice like dry leaves, singing an old ferryman’s song about one last passenger. ‘The river knows your names,’ it sang. ‘I’ve come to take you across.’

They scrambled into the back seat, but the doors wouldn’t open. The fog enveloped the jeep, and the world outside vanished. The figure now stood at the driver’s window, its faceless head tilting. ‘You have been waiting here every night for a month,’ it said. ‘Don’t you remember? You are already mine.’ The ground beneath them gave way, and the jeep plunged into the dark water.

They never surfaced.

Months later, a group of travelers camping near the ruins claimed they saw a white jeep parked beside the ghat, two shadowy figures sitting inside, staring at the river. The vehicle looked old, covered in silt, but the engine was running, and music from an old radio played. When they approached, they saw the faces – not of Arjun and Vikram, but of the ferryman, hollow and waiting. And every night, the ferryboat appears on the river, its oars moving without a rower, bound for the other side.