The Last Pendant

In 2009, my father’s cousin, Ravi, worked in Pune and lived in the suburb of Kothrud. His office was in Shivajinagar, and every evening he would commute back on the local trains. One night, he missed his usual train and had to catch the last one, which left at 11:45 PM. The route was long, winding through the outskirts, with several stations that were barely more than dimly lit platforms.

As the train rattled along, Ravi found himself alone in the bogey. The rhythmic clacking of the wheels against the tracks was the only sound, punctuated by the occasional crackle of the intercom. He had a habit of reading to pass the time, but tonight he felt an odd unease, a prickling at the back of his neck. He tried to shake it off, blaming it on the lateness and the isolation.

When the train pulled into the station at Wakad, a middle-aged woman in a faded blue saree boarded. She was carrying a small, tarnished locket. Ravi noticed her because she seemed out of place, even for this late hour. She sat across from him, not looking up, her face obscured by her hair. The train lurched forward, and the silence returned, but now it was heavier, charged with something unseen.

The woman began to sway gently, humming a tune that Ravi couldn’t quite place. It was a melody that felt familiar, yet wrong. He tried to ignore it, focusing on his book, but the humming grew louder, more insistent. He glanced at her, and for a split second, he saw her eyes, dark and empty, staring directly at him. Then she looked down at the locket in her hands.

At the next station, the train halted longer than usual. Ravi checked his watch; it was past 1 AM. The platform was empty, a single flickering light casting long shadows. The woman rose abruptly and moved to the door, but she didn’t get off. Instead, she turned to face him and spoke, ‘You have something of mine.’ Her voice was a whisper, yet it cut through the air like a blade.

Ravi’s blood ran cold. He stammered, ‘I… I don’t think so.’ She took a step closer, holding out the locket. ‘This pendant. It was stolen from me many years ago. You’re wearing it.’ Ravi looked down at his chest, where his own pendant rested, a gift from his late mother. He had worn it for years without incident. ‘This is mine,’ he said firmly, but his voice wavered.

The woman smiled, a grotesque distortion of a human expression, and said, ‘Then let me show you what happens to thieves.’ She reached out, and her fingers brushed his pendant. Immediately, Ravi felt a cold sensation spread through his body, as if his very warmth was being drawn away. The train began to slow, and he saw that they were approaching a station that didn’t appear on his map, the name painted over with faded letters.

The doors slid open, and the woman gestured for him to step out. Ravi, frozen in fear, could only shake his head. She leaned in, her breath like morning frost, and whispered, ‘You’ll stay on this train forever, like the others.’ The train doors closed, and she vanished, leaving behind only the faint scent of wet earth.

Ravi woke up the next morning in his bed, drenched in sweat, the pendant cold against his chest. He thought it was a nightmare, a vivid one, but when he tried to remove the pendant, it wouldn’t come off. He pulled at it, but the clasp was stuck, and the chain seemed to tighten around his neck. He was forced to keep it on.

From that night on, Ravi began to notice small things. He would see the woman in reflections, standing behind him in mirrors. He would hear her humming in the hum of fans. People started to avoid him, saying he looked different, paler, his eyes darker. The pendant, once silver, began to tarnish, turning black in places, and he could feel a weight growing within it.

A month later, Ravi boarded the last train again, this time deliberately, his movements jerky, his eyes glazed. He sat in the same spot, and when the train stopped at Wakad, the woman was already there, waiting. She smiled, and he felt a pull, an urge to follow her off the train at the unknown station.

His family, worried by his behavior, tried to stop him, but he insisted, saying he had to return ‘home.’ The last time anyone saw him, he was walking into the mist that covered the platform at that unnamed stop, the tarnished pendant swinging at his neck.

They never found his body, but sometimes, at night, if you listen closely on that empty stretch of track, you can hear a woman humming and a man’s voice whispering, ‘I found it, I found it.’ And the last train sometimes arrives with an extra passenger, one who never leaves.