Chapter 2: Fear in the Carriage

"Don’t make any calls."

I had just fished out my battered Redmi when Chacha ji’s hand shot out and snatched it away. "Arey, pagal ho gaya hai kya? Phone mat chhed, beta!" His voice shook with panic, his eyes darting from my phone to the faces around us. My phone buzzed with a new WhatsApp forward, but Chacha ji snatched it away before I could even glance.

He leaned in, whispering low: all modern phones have background monitoring. If you use your phone, you’ll only die faster. His words, usually tinged with the exaggeration of WhatsApp forwards, now sounded deadly serious. The fear in his eyes made me pause.

I asked, "Chacha ji, what exactly is that thing? Why can’t we use our phones?"

He shushed me, glancing at the suspicious women across the aisle, then sighed as if searching for words that wouldn’t terrify me. "Bas chup raho," he muttered, before continuing quietly.

Instead of answering directly, Chacha ji explained that the thing could perfectly imitate a human—but it has no emotions. "Nakli insaan samajh le. Woh sab kuch copy kar sakta hai, lekin asli insaan ka dil nahin hota." He spat the last word, his Hindi thickening, and for a moment, touched his ear-lobe, murmuring, "Bhagwan bachaye."

He clarified: it’s not just a pseudo-person. A pseudo-person might not be a killer, but this thing is. His eyes flicked to the cracked window, as if expecting to see something unnatural staring back. "Woh toh bas nakli hai. Yeh—yeh toh khoon ka pyasa hai."

He warned me: if I saw someone with lifeless eyes or odd features, stay far away. "Agar kisi ki aankhon mein roshni na ho, ya chehra ajeeb lag raha ho, door hi rehna beta. Samjhe?" His voice quivered, his hand trembling as he clutched his shawl.

Still, I pressed on. "Why does it kill people? Even monsters have a reason, na?"

My question hung in the thick air, the heat pressing in from outside. Chacha ji’s jaw set. "That thing... it was just born."

For a heartbeat, the entire world seemed to hold its breath. Even the children in the next row fell silent, as if Chacha ji’s words carried a curse.

Images from YouTube Shorts flickered in my mind—urban legends, AI monsters. But this was different, more raw. Something new, with no place or rules, would test its limits without mercy.

I remembered those clips: if a creature never existed before, it’s the most dangerous. It will attack everything, testing its strength, seeking its place in the food chain. Newborn things are timid—they disguise themselves first. That’s what makes this so dangerous.

I thought of stray dogs in new places—always wary at first, then turning aggressive. But this wasn’t a street dog. My skin prickled, imagining that thing wearing someone’s face.

Logically, it should start by testing on animals. But animals aren’t allowed on trains. Here, there were only people.

The memory of station announcements echoed—"Pashu lekar jana mana hai." I shivered, missing even the idea of a stray pup aboard.

But what kind of thing could track mobile signals? Was it a chudail? An old bhoot? Rakshasa?

Dadi’s stories came back: chudails with backward feet, bhoots in peepul trees, rakshasas of legend. But none ever cared about technology. My confusion twisted into fear.

No, those monsters can disguise themselves, but they don’t have this power. And they’re always violent—their victims mangled, never this clean.

Chacha ji shook his head. "Woh sab purani baatein hain. Unke tareeke alag the. Yeh kuch aur hai."

The memory of the washroom came back—the cut was so smooth, like a mirror. Not even the printing press blades in Gaya could make such a neat slice.

I’d worked at the printing press, where new blades left jagged edges. What I saw today was unnatural—too clean, too cold. My stomach lurched. I’d seen accidents before, but nothing this clean—nothing this cold.

A lump formed in my throat, fear metallic on my tongue. Somewhere, a baby wailed, and someone hissed for quiet.

Just as I was lost in thought, someone nearby spoke: "Yaar, this is strange. Why is there no signal? I can’t even get through to the police."

People frowned, checking their phones, one man even banging his old Samsung against the seat.

Another laughed, "Arre, chill. There are railway police on the train." His Delhi accent rang out, and a few men in kurta-pajama nodded, reassured.

Yet nervous glances were exchanged. A woman muttered, "Bhagwan bharose hai sab."

Chacha ji’s face turned even paler. He grabbed my arm urgently and muttered, "Jaldi!" We stumbled past the pantry car, nearly tripping over a boy’s school bag, hearts thudding in our chests.

In a crowded compartment, Chacha ji pulled me down beside him, fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. I’d never seen him like this. His lips moved in silent prayer, his eyes darting from face to face.

I remembered all those nights he’d laughed at ghost stories, the time he carried me on his shoulders during the Kumbh Mela, weaving through crowds, always keeping me safe. Now, if he wasn’t scared enough to wet himself, it was close.

Chacha ji looked at me several times, opened his mouth, but said nothing. The silence between us was heavy as a monsoon cloud. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, eyes glassy, lost in some private terror.

I finally whispered, "Chacha ji, I need to use the bathroom."

He grabbed my wrist, voice cold: "No. You can’t go anywhere with few people. Do it here—use a water bottle. I’ll cover for you."

He thrust an empty Bisleri bottle at me, hands shaking. "Teri jaan pyaari hai ya sharam? Kar le yahin. Sab dekh rahe hain, lekin tu mat soch—main sambhal lunga."

He turned his back and spread his shawl wide, shielding me. "Bas, jaldi kar."

My cheeks burned with shame, but the terror in his voice left no room for pride. Around me, people pretended not to notice. An aunty nearby gently pressed a packet of tissues into my hand, murmuring, "Beta, koi baat nahi."

As soon as I finished, another commotion erupted. Louder this time—cries of shock, someone retching, heavy boots thudding. The guitar music stopped. Whispers flew like sparks.

We rushed to the washroom. There lay the very man who’d tried to make a phone call earlier—cut in half at the waist. Blood pooled under the door, soaking the patterned floor. A crowd gathered, faces pale, women shielding children’s eyes. Even the Hanuman Chalisa trailed off into horrified silence.