The Ride That Should Have Ended

The Ride That Should Have Ended

I was returning home from my native place.

It was past midnight when my train arrived. The railway station was almost empty, just a few flickering tube lights, a stray tea cup rolling on the platform, and the smell of old rain on concrete.

I had just attended the funeral of my cousin’s son.

He was only twenty-two.

A car accident. Instant death, they said. No pain. No time to know what was happening.

As I stepped out of the station, his face came back to me, smiling in a photo taken just weeks ago. I remembered what elders used to whisper back home:

People who die suddenly… people who don’t get time to understand their death… their souls wander.

I shook my head. Grief does strange things to the mind.

I hired a cab to go home.

The driver was already seated when I got in. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t ask where I was going. I told him my address anyway.

He nodded once and started the car.

We drove in silence.

At first, the road was familiar. Shops. Streetlights. A late-night bus passes now and then. But after ten minutes, the cab turned off the main road, away from the lights, into a narrow alley I didn’t recognise.

The darkness there was different.

Thick. Heavy. As if the night had weight.

Tall buildings leaned inward, cutting off the sky. The headlights carved out a narrow path, barely enough for the car to move through. The radio was off. The driver didn’t hum. He didn’t cough. He didn’t move.

Only the engine breathed.

I felt cold.

Somewhere far away, a dog howled.

Then another.

The sound carried strangely, stretching too long, echoing like a cry with no owner. The driver didn’t react.

I looked at his face in the rear-view mirror.

It looked pale. Still. Almost carved.

Not tired.

Not angry.

Empty.

A black cat suddenly jumped across the road, its eyes flashing white for a split second before vanishing into the darkness.

My heart skipped.

The cab slowed further, as if the road itself was pulling it inward.

The howling came again, closer now.

My thoughts slipped back to the funeral. To the closed coffin. To the priest saying words about peace, while my mind kept asking the same question:

Does the soul know it is dead?

I cleared my throat.

“Sir?” I said.

No response.

The driver didn’t even blink.

A strange fear crept into me, the kind that doesn’t shout, only whispers. The kind that tells you something is wrong, but not what.

Maybe he hadn’t heard me.

I leaned forward and gently tapped his shoulder.

” Sir,”

The driver’s scream exploded inside the cab.

Not surprise.

Not anger.

Pure terror.

The steering wheel jerked violently. The car swerved, missing a bus by inches. Tyres screamed as we mounted the footpath and stopped just centimetres from a closed shop window.

Glass rattled.

Then everything went still.

The driver’s hands clutched the wheel like he was holding himself to this world. His breathing came in broken gasps.

Without turning around, he said,

“Don’t ever… do that again.”

“You scared the hell out of me.”

My voice came out weak. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know touching your shoulder would frighten you so much.”

There was a long pause.

Then he said softly,

“It’s not your fault.”

The engine idled.

Outside, the alley seemed quieter now. Too quiet.

He continued, almost to himself.

“Today is my first day driving a taxi cab like this.”

I frowned. “First day?”

“Yes,” he said.

“For the last twenty-eight years…”

He stopped.

“…I drove an  Ambulance  mostly carrying the dead ”

The word settled into the silence like dust.

He finally turned and looked at me.

His eyes were not empty anymore.

They were tired.

Relieved.

My mouth went dry.

Behind me, the seat creaked.

I didn’t turn around.

I didn’t need to.

Because something, someone, rested a hand on my shoulder.

And this time…

I screamed.