The Last Toll

The service camp in Chandrapur had been a grind of oily engines and haggling farmers, but the promise of a hot meal and a roadside bar in the town of Nilwandi was enough to keep Sanjay and his three colleagues laughing as they packed their tools into the white Innova. It was past seven, the sun a bleeding wound on the horizon, when they finally left the dusty workshop. They were in high spirits, trading bollywood songs and inside jokes, the kind of camaraderie that comes from shared boredom and the faint thrill of being on the road at night.

As the highway narrowed into a quieter state road, the talk, as it always did on such trips, turned to the supernatural. Ravi, the senior salesman with a flair for drama, began recounting a tale about a village temple where the priest had gone mad, hearing bells that never rang. Deepak, ever the skeptic, scoffed but listened. Nitin, the quiet one, just stared out the window, watching the scattered lights of distant hamlets disappear behind thickets of teak trees. Sanjay, driving, felt a prickle on his neck as Ravi’s story reached its predictable climax, and he adjusted the rearview mirror, half expecting to see a pale face in the back seat. There was none.

The story died into an uneasy silence just as a railway crossing appeared, its red lights blinking in the dark. The barrier was up, and Sanjay drove across the tracks with a slight jolt. On the other side, the road was rougher, flanked by dense, untamed forest. The GPS had been silent for an hour, its screen showing a blank expanse. They had meant to take a shortcut to Nilwandi, but now the landmarks were all wrong. Ravi, who had claimed to know the way, now muttered, ‘It’s just ahead, maybe fifteen minutes.’ They drove on, the headlights carving a tunnel through the oppressive darkness.

Then, the village materialized out of nowhere. It was a cluster of low, tiled roofs and crumbling stone walls, seemingly abandoned. A few dim oil lamps flickered in windows, casting sickly orange glows. There was no sign, no name, just a narrow main street that wound between the houses. Sanjay slowed down, and they all saw the same thing: a lone figure, silhouetted against a faint light from a door, standing at the end of the lane. The figure didn’t move, just stood there, as if waiting.

Nitin leaned forward, squinting. ‘Is someone there?’ he asked. The figure raised a hand, slowly, a gesture that could have been a greeting or a summons. Sanjay inched the car forward, his heart thudding against his ribs. As they got closer, they saw it was an old man, gaunt and gray, wearing a tattered dhoti and a shawl. His eyes were sunken, and he stared at them with an unsettling intensity. He didn’t speak, just pointed down a wider path that branched off to the left. Ravi whispered, ‘He’s showing us the way.’ Sanjay hesitated but turned the wheel, following the direction.

They drove for what felt like ten minutes, the old man’s pointing hand burned into their minds. The road led to a clearing where a dilapidated temple stood, its shikhara cracked and overgrown with vines. A broken bell hung from a wooden frame outside, its clapper rusted and still. The village they had passed through seemed even more desolate here, the silence so complete it was a pressure on their ears. ‘This isn’t the way to Nilwandi,’ Deepak said, his voice tight. ‘Let’s go back.’

But when they turned the car around, the road behind them was gone. In its place was a wall of thick, gnarled trees, their branches like grasping claws. The headlights revealed no gap, no turn. They were trapped in the clearing, the temple looming before them like a maw. The engine sputtered, coughed, and died. The lights flickered and went out, plunging them into absolute darkness. A faint, metallic sound drifted through the night: the slow, deliberate tolling of a bell. It was the heavy, mournful clang of the temple bell, now swinging with a life of its own, though no one was near it.

Panic surged. They tried the engine again, but it wouldn’t turn over. The doors were unlocked, but when they pushed them open, they were met with an overwhelming stench of rot. The village they had driven through seemed to have dissolved into the forest, leaving only this clearing and the temple. The bell continued to toll, each clang seeming to shake the very ground. ‘It’s a ritual,’ Ravi said, his voice trembling. ‘The bell calls for the dead.’

They gathered close, huddling by the car, their flashlights cutting weak beams into the dark. Then, they saw them: figures emerging from the trees, not walking, but gliding, their feet not touching the ground. They were the villagers, or what remained of them—some had gaping wounds, others had elongated necks or too many limbs. They formed a ring around the car, and the bell tolled louder with each step they took. The old man, the one who had pointed, appeared at the center of the ring, now wearing a priest’s robe stained with dark patches. He raised his arms, and the figures stopped.

He spoke, his voice creaking like old wood, but clear: ‘You crossed the tracks after the third toll. You have entered the land of the waiting. To leave, one must take the bell’s place.’ He pointed to the bell, which had stopped swinging but now seemed to glow faintly. ‘One of you must stay. The bell must have a keeper.’

The four men looked at each other, their faces pale in the faint glow. Sanjay felt a cold hand on his shoulder. He was not sure if it was Nitin or something else. The priest continued, ‘Choose.’

Deepak, the skeptic, lunged forward, trying to break through the ring, but the figures closed in, and he was lifted, his feet dangling. He screamed, a shrill sound that was cut off as the figures carried him toward the bell. They wrapped a chain around his neck, and the bell began to toll again, but this time, it was Deepak’s scream that echoed, long and agonizing, as the bell turned slowly, pulling him into the darkness beneath it. The other figures began to retreat, melting back into the trees.

The priest’s eyes met Sanjay’s. ‘The toll has been paid. You may leave now.’ The trees behind them parted, revealing the road, dark but visible. The car’s engine turned over as if it had never died. They climbed in, shaking, and drove away without looking back. The bell sounded one final toll, softer now, almost gentle, and then silence.

They reached Nilwandi hours later, but none of them spoke of what happened. They never returned to that region. Yet even now, on quiet nights, Sanjay sometimes hears a faint bell, and he knows that somewhere, Deepak is still ringing, waiting for the next toll to be paid.