The Muddy Footholds

Ravi knew the Aravalli road like the back of his hand. Every pothole, every leaning tree, every eerily silent patch where even the crickets seemed to hold their breath. It was a shortcut his father had used for twenty years, a narrow ribbon of tar that cut through a scrub forest and skirted an old, disused quarry. In 1972, the streetlights were a few faint bulbs that mostly flickered or died, and the only sound at night was the whir of his Enfield’s engine and the crunch of gravel.

That evening, Ravi was returning from a late repair at the Singh farmhouse. The sky was a bruised purple, and a damp smell of rain clung to the air. As he rounded the blind curve near the abandoned railway crossing—a crossing that no longer had a keeper—he saw a figure standing at the edge of the road. A woman in a faded green sari, the kind worn by village widows, her head covered, her face in shadow. She wasn’t moving, just standing there, her feet planted in the muddy shoulder.

Ravi slowed down, his heart beginning a steady thud. The road was empty except for her, and his headlamp barely reached her. She made no gesture, no sign of distress. Just a statue. He thought of the stories his father told—of a woman who had thrown herself into the quarry decades ago, her body never found. But his father had never actually seen her, only heard the tale from others. Ravi shook his head, told himself it was a farmer’s wife waiting for transport, and he sped up, passing her with a wide berth.

But then, a few hundred meters later, he saw another figure. This time a man, tall and gaunt, dressed in a white shirt and khaki trousers, his face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat. He was standing on the other side of the road, his posture rigid. Ravi’s hands grew clammy. He pressed the throttle harder, but the engine sputtered, as if the fuel had turned to water. He looked at the fuel gauge—full. The bike jerked forward, and he narrowly missed the man, who did not flinch.

Now panic took hold. He pushed the bike to its limit, the trees blurring past. He wanted to be out of the forest, onto the main road where there were shops, houses, and people. He checked his rearview mirror—nothing. He sighed, but his relief was short-lived. Ahead, in his headlamp, he saw a group of figures blocking the road. Four or five of them, all in old-fashioned clothes—a woman, a child, an old man, and a man with a beard. They stood in a line, silent, their faces turned toward him. He could not see their eyes.

He slammed on the brakes, the bike skidding to a stop. The figures did not move. He made a split-second decision and steered onto the shoulder, intending to pass them, but the shoulder was soft mud. The wheels sunk, and the bike toppled, throwing him onto the ground. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and the bike’s headlamp flickered and died. Darkness enveloped him, thick and absolute. He could hear his own ragged breathing, the pounding of his heart.

He scrambled to his feet, his hands slipping in the mud. He could smell wet earth, and oddly, a faint aroma of incense. He stared into the blackness, trying to find the road. His eyes adjusted, and he saw the figures had surrounded him, now standing in a loose circle, close enough that he could see their faces. They were gaunt, their skin gray, their lips twisted into odd smiles. The woman in the green sari stood directly in front of him, her head tilted. She had no eyes—just empty sockets, like cracks in clay.

Ravi let out a scream, but no sound came. He turned to run, but his legs felt weighted, as if the mud were rising to his knees. The circle began to close in. He realized, with a cold clarity, that these were not living beings, but remnants—souls who had died on this road during the construction of the railway line, buried in unmarked graves. They had waited for years, feeding on the fear of the few travelers who dared pass. His father’s old superstitions came flooding back, and he remembered the story of a boy who had gone missing on this road, his body found days later with mud in his lungs.

He struggled against his leaden limbs, and as they closed in, he saw that their feet were not touching the ground—they hovered an inch above the mud, leaving no footprints. That was when he knew he would never leave. He closed his eyes, and the last thing he felt was a cold touch on his neck, and the whispered words in a language he didn’t understand, but which seemed to say, ‘Stay with us.’