THE VENGEANCE OF HIS PHANTOM

Saturday nights are the best. A tiring week approaches an end and a happy holiday waits ahead. Every Saturday night, my family and I go to a restaurant to dine. This time, though, I had plans to go out with my friends (yep, boys). So I and my other uncool friends set out to dine by ourselves. It was planned that nine of us would be coming, but only three excluding me turned up. We chat and ate, and were coming back home from the restaurant. All of us were badly tired and just wanted to reach home to have a good sleep.

  One of my buddies was still excited about his mom’s birthday taking place tomorrow. He was unceasingly persisting to buy a gift, despite knowing that everybody was exhausted. We stopped the car at a petrol station and two of my friends set out to a gift shop nearby. I and another guy were the only people left in the car. An instant later, he said that he needed to go to the washroom and he, too, exited the car.

  “Sure,” I murmured to myself once I was alone. “Good yet useless privacy.”

  I tethered my headphones and began playing my adored Indian lo-fi. My mind wandered through past thoughts as the music continued. I was listening and waiting for my friends to return only, when, in a far distance, I saw a tall man standing under a street light. With his hoodie up, I couldn’t glimpse his face. But with enough light around, it was clear that he held something in his left hand.

  A hockey stick, I predicted in my mind.

  The lo-fi music lingered in my headset, so I didn’t pay much attention to him. A few moments went by. With the curiosity to know who the man is, I bobbed my head towards him again.

  The spooky-looking man was still there. He was probably looking towards our car till then. Then, slowly, he started walking towards me. With the hockey stick in his hand.

  I wasn’t sure if the man was coming for me or not. He was moving to where the fore of our car stood. Suddenly, the music in my headphones commenced to pause and play by itself. I sought to disconnect it, but to no avail. A loud beep abruptly cropped up. I took off my headset and began to fondle my sore ear. I was sure that I would have been exposed to acoustic trauma if the beep spared a few more seconds.

  Thoughts passed my head in a flash for the next few moments. I recalled the man and looked back at the petrol station. He wasn’t there. I looked from all angles to catch a look at him. And for a second, my heartbeat stopped.

  The man was there, standing right beside our driver’s side window! He had tendrils of light grey hair. With red eyes. Blood-red. His face was full of cicatrices as if he was at a war lately. And the deadliest of all? He was smiling.

  Fear gaped me. I was half-resolved to pick up my phone and call my friends. It was only a second more that I realized it was too late.

  The man raised his hockey stick and smashed it on the windshield. The glass was stubborn at the first hit…it, fortunately, didn’t break. He bought the wooden stick up again, and the mighty-looking glass borne some bland cracks. The sporadic pounding went on. There was no hint of stopping. The bat was almost about to break the glass when, unexpectedly, I discerned my friend’s voice in a distance. I turned to see my batch returning not far-off. In sudden agitation, I turned back, only to realize the man was not there. And the glass was completely untouched.

  “God, what the f–” I spat. I was gravely shocked and surprised. It all arose just as perfectly as a horror scene in a movie. I swallowed the fear that had struck me and didn’t tell anything to anyone when everyone else joined me in the car.

  “Hey, bro,” one of my buddies said, strapping in the seat belt. “Change of plans. We’ll all be going to your house tonight. It’s already past 11. It would take longer if we have to drop everyone at their houses. We talked to your mom too.”

  “Uh—okay,” I responded, my voice still unsteady. “If it’s okay with my mom, I’m good too.”

  “Done!” Two of my other friends cheered at sleeping together, which was unplanned.

  The drive back home was probably my most preoccupied one. I gazed out of the window, recalling what had just happened. Within no time, I found myself home. It was past midnight by the time we all freshened up. My friends were used to sleeping at this time—but since we all were exhausted, it only took a few minutes to slumber. I, though, sat on the sofa in my room. Thinking about the same thing. I couldn’t just sleep.

    My mind was perplexed with thoughts. Who was that man? Why did he try to break in? How did the glass reframe itself after breaking? I was hallucinating was the only reliable answer—but I was not at all anxious, which was the only thing that could have led to hallucination in any just cause.

  To relax, I put back my headphones and commenced my lo-fi playlist. Relaxing was only for some time, though. A few minutes into listening, my headphones met with the same problem that occurred while I was in the car. It began to pause and play.

  And suddenly, the loud beep began. It was like a déjà vu. Exactly a déjà vu. I took off my headset in alarm and studied around to see if the man was anywhere near—just in case. One look towards the bow window and I just stared there in paralysis, petrified and gobsmacked.

  He was there! Right there. Standing outside the long window of the living room. The same red eyes. The same war-torn scars. The same smile flitted across his sad features. In his hand, he held a hockey stick, continuously knocking at the window.

  The glass saw its first cracks. That’s all. I couldn’t wait this time. Nope. Without discerning or understanding the situation, I yelled out loud downright!

  My friends arrived forthwith, all in their sleepwear. Each of them looked chaotic. I pointed at the window, but wasn’t taken aback to see the man gone.

  Darn him, he couldn’t have got far, I told myself. I expounded everything from the top to the baffled friends assembled around me. There were a few shocks and a few nods. Without further delay, I grabbed my phone and dialed 100.

  Fortunately for us, a police station was nearby. Sirens were blaring outside within a minute. I talked to the chief as the other officers scrutinized every place near our house. The result was dissatisfying, though. They didn’t find the man anywhere. How could he have vanished in such a short time? I shall never know.

A week had passed by. None of us could file an FIR, since no damage was done—neither to a person nor property. Even upon checking the car’s windshield multiple times, I was not able to gain any proof that it was seriously hit by the maniac.

  All my friends had forgotten about the whole incident, blaming me for my overwhelming imagination and oneirism. But I didn’t forget anything. Couldn’t. Learning a little more on the topic, I figured out that there was a psycho who lived in my community not long ago. He looked EXACTLY like the man I caught sight of. It was said that he always carried a hockey stick with him, beating people with it.

Allegedly, people burnt his home and slayed his siblings before his own eyes. He was himself shot dead because they could not bear his horrendous demeanour. What if he has come back to take his vengeance on all the community people, even if they had no part in the torture he received…? Maybe the guy whom I saw—was it not the soul of his phantom, seeking revenge?

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Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of my imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. || Contents of this story should not be reproduced in any manner without permission.