Chapter 2: The Red Car Returns

2

Suddenly, an engine roared in the distance, quickly drawing closer.

The sound was unmistakable—one of those high-pitched, foreign-made engines, not the usual rickety Ambassador or Maruti on these roads. The night air seemed to tighten.

Old Mehra instantly tensed up. He looked out the window, his voice trembling. "It’s that red sports car again! It’s following us!"

He leaned forward, almost pressing his face to the glass. Even Anjali gripped her daughter harder, and Kabir’s breath came out in little puffs.

Blinding headlights flared behind us, and a red blur shot straight toward us.

For a second, the entire cab was filled with crimson light. I could see the outline of my own hands, gripping the wheel, veins standing out like cables.

I gripped the steering wheel tightly. On the narrow ghat road, the roaring engine sounded like a wild beast closing in.

The air inside the cab smelled of sweat and old incense sticks, thick with the tension of five hearts beating too fast.

The vibrations ran up my arms. Sweat prickled under my shirt collar, mixing with the stickiness of long hours on the road.

Anjali reached out, pulling her frightened son and daughter close. Old Mehra in the front seat clutched his head in terror.

She muttered a silent prayer, lips moving quickly. Old Mehra clutched a handkerchief, dabbing his forehead, mumbling 'Ram naam satya hai' under his breath.

Looking in the rearview mirror, I saw the sports car right on our tail, its convertible top down.

The wind whipped through the other car, making the driver’s hair fly wild. The car seemed to glide unnaturally over the potholes and gravel.

The driver gripped the wheel, his head sticking more than halfway out the windshield, mouth gaping in a silent, dark howl.

His eyes were wide, white against the night, jaw slack. I felt something cold crawl down my spine.

Was this some kind of street racer?

I frowned and held my lane.

This was a single-lane road, both up and down the hill—not a place for racing.

I remembered all those accident tales truckers swapped at tea stalls: “In these ghats, some cars come back even after burning out.”

Shrill horn blasts echoed across the empty ghat, and in the cold night wind, we could faintly hear crazed shouting.

The voice was guttural, echoing off the hills, mixing with the whoop of the wind and the rustle of leaves. Even the crows in the banyan trees seemed to fall silent.

The sports car driver seemed truly deranged, repeatedly risking his life to squeeze between my truck and the hillside.

He swerved so close I could see his knuckles gleaming in the mirror, the headlights flashing like a warning bell.

I refused to give way, so he kept honking desperately.

Each horn was a knife in the darkness, the shrillness bouncing around the cabin like a trapped spirit.

Each engine roar was louder than the last, as if Yamraj himself was swinging his gada overhead.

It was the sort of sound that could rattle your bones and make you remember every sin you’d ever committed.

Old Mehra shrank into the passenger seat, clutching a handkerchief, dabbing his forehead, mumbling 'Ram naam satya hai' under his breath.

A curve was coming up. I reassured the family, "Don’t worry."

I tried to sound calm, forcing a smile, the way I’d seen my father do when thunderstorms frightened my little cousins.

Taking advantage of the bend, I turned the wheel sharply to the left, making the massive lorry swing across the road.

The steering groaned, tyres screeching against the tarmac. The truck blocked the entire lane—my heart pounding like dhol drums.

The red shadow was forced back, slamming on the brakes.

The squeal was unearthly, like metal shrieking in protest. Somewhere behind us, a dog barked at the noise.

It was as if sparks flew from the road, leaving long skid marks behind.

In my side mirror, I caught a flash—fiery arcs dancing like Holi powder on the tar.

After the turn, the red beast chasing us fell silent.

The headlights behind us flickered once, then vanished. Only the chirr of crickets and the hum of my engine remained.

For a few seconds, nobody spoke. Only the ticking of the cooling engine and the distant hoot of an owl filled the cab.