The Last Order at the Crossroads

The final exams ended on a Tuesday. By Wednesday, the hostel blocks at the engineering college had thinned to a scattering of stragglers, and by Friday, the narrow lanes of the market town were nearly empty. I had stayed behind, not out of choice but necessity, my train ticket booked for the following Monday. The town was a skeleton of its former self. Shutters rolled down over the small eateries, the mobile recharge shops, the photocopy centers. Only a few essentials remained open: the general store, the pharmacy, and the tea stall at the crossroads.

The tea stall was run by an old man named Govindan, who claimed he had been serving students for over thirty years. His stall was a rickety wooden counter on wheels, covered with a faded tarpaulin. He brewed his tea in a large aluminum kettle, adding ginger and cardamom, and served it in small, chipped glasses. On normal days, a crowd would gather around his stall, chattering about lectures, cricket, and movies. But now, only a handful of us remained. I would go there each morning, order a glass of tea, and sit on the low wall opposite, watching the empty street.

One such morning, I noticed a stranger. He was a tall, gaunt man in a soiled white shirt and black trousers, with a weathered face and eyes that seemed to have no life in them. He stood at the tea stall, not speaking, just staring at the kettle. Govindan, who was normally chatty, went silent. He poured the man a glass of tea without being asked. The man took it and walked away, disappearing down a lane leading to the abandoned railway station. I asked Govindan who he was. Govindan shrugged, saying he had seen him around during the vacation months, but he never said much. ‘He only comes when the town is empty,’ Govindan said, and then refused to elaborate.

Curiosity got the better of me. The next day, I saw the man again. This time, I followed him. He walked slowly, his footsteps echoing in the silence, toward the station. The station was a small, single-platform affair, its ticket booth locked and dusty. The man did not enter the station. Instead, he stopped at a small, rusted gate that led to a narrow, overgrown path beyond the platform. I watched from behind a pillar as he pushed the gate open and disappeared into the undergrowth.

I should have turned back, but I didn’t. I went through the gate and found myself on a path that wound through tall grass and shrubs, leading to an old, abandoned water tower. The tower was a massive, cylindrical structure of brick and concrete, with a spiral staircase winding up its side. The man was nowhere in sight. I climbed the stairs, my heart pounding, and at the top, I found a room with a large circular window overlooking the town. On the floor, there was a small, leather-bound diary, half rotted, and a few scattered pages.

I picked up the diary. The pages were damp and the ink blurred, but I could make out some entries. They were dated from several years ago, during a vacation month. The writer, a student who had stayed behind, described strange occurrences: hearing footsteps outside his room at night, seeing a face at the window, feeling a cold presence. The last entry read: ‘I followed the man in white to the water tower. He is not a man. He is something else. I am writing this to warn others. Do not come here during the vacation. The town is not empty.’ The entry was cut off mid-sentence.

I closed the diary and looked out the window. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the empty streets. Below, I saw Govindan packing up his tea stall. He looked up at the tower, and for a moment, our eyes met. He shook his head slowly and then hurried away. As I descended, a chill crept over me. I realized I was not alone. I heard the sound of breathing behind me, a low, ragged breath. I turned, and there he was—the man, standing at the base of the stairs, staring at me with those dead eyes. He did not move, but his lips parted, and a voice, dry like rustling leaves, said, ‘You have come to join them.’

The next thing I remember, I was running. I burst through the gate and did not stop until I reached my room. I locked the door and sat on the bed, trembling. I decided I would leave the next morning, no matter what. That night, I could not sleep. I heard footsteps outside my room, slow and deliberate. They stopped at my door, and then I heard a faint scratching, like fingernails on wood. I pulled the blanket over my head and whispered a prayer.

The scratching stopped. Silence. Then, from the street, I heard a sound that made my blood run cold: the sound of the tea stall’s metal shutters, rolling up. But Govindan had gone home hours ago. I crept to the window and peered out. The tea stall was open, and a dim lantern glowed. A figure stood behind the counter, but it was not Govindan. It was the man. He was pouring tea from the old kettle, and as he poured, he looked up at my window and smiled—a thin, cruel smile.

I knew then that I was not leaving the next morning. The town had a way of keeping its visitors. I sat on the floor, hugging my knees, and waited for dawn. But dawn never came. The days blurred, and I lost track of time. I no longer saw the sun. I only saw the tea stall and the man, who would wave at me every time I looked out. I tried to leave, but the streets always led back to the crossroads. The town had become a maze, and I was trapped in it.

Now, I write this diary in the water tower, just like the other one. I have been here for what feels like years. The pages are damp, and my ink is fading. But I must leave a record. If you are reading this, and you find yourself in that town during a vacation, do not follow the man. Do not approach the tea stall. Do not think you can leave. The town is not empty. It is full of whispers, hidden in the silence, waiting for the next one to stay.