The Third Passenger

The rain came down in sheets, muffling the hum of the city. Ankit leaned against his auto-rickshaw, his calloused fingers brushing over a small charm hanging from the rearview mirror. It was a simple trinket—a brass coin with strange etchings—but it carried weight.

Every night, Ankit drove his rickshaw through Mumbai’s winding streets, ferrying passengers from one corner of the city to another. By day, he was an unremarkable man with a crooked smile and a knack for small talk. But by night, when the city dissolved into shadows, Ankit transformed into something else entirely.

It began two years ago, with a chance encounter. A drunken man had stumbled into his rickshaw late one night, reeking of whiskey and arrogance. The man barked out directions and berated Ankit for taking a wrong turn. Something in Ankit snapped that night. When the man passed out in the backseat, Ankit drove to a secluded alley. He used the tire iron from under his seat. The act was swift, brutal, and oddly satisfying.

The next morning, he read about the discovery of the man’s body in the papers. No one suspected the unassuming rickshaw driver. That realization brought an intoxicating rush.

Now, two years later, Ankit was a phantom of the city—a predator who hunted among its crowded streets. His victims were carefully chosen: the arrogant, the cruel, the ones who treated him as invisible. He thought of himself as a judge, delivering justice in the only way he knew how.

Tonight felt different, though. There was a heaviness in the air, a sensation Ankit couldn’t shake.

It was nearing midnight when he picked up his first passenger of the night—a middle-aged man in a pressed suit. The man slid into the rickshaw and gave Ankit an address in a clipped tone, barely sparing him a glance.

Ankit nodded and started the engine, navigating through the rain-slicked streets. The man was absorbed in his phone, barking orders to someone on the other end of the line. His tone was sharp, condescending.

Ankit clenched the steering bar tighter, the itch starting in his fingers. He could take a detour, he thought. There was an abandoned construction site on the outskirts of the city, a perfect spot for what he had in mind.

As he turned down a narrow lane, the man finally looked up. “Hey! This isn’t the way to Bandra,” he snapped.

“Shortcut, sir,” Ankit replied smoothly, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him.

The man muttered something under his breath and returned to his phone.

But then, something strange happened. A voice crackled over the rickshaw’s radio, faint but clear. It wasn’t music or a news report—it was a woman’s voice, soft and haunting.

“Do you feel it, Ankit?”

Ankit froze, his blood turning to ice. He glanced at the radio, but it was off. The voice was gone.

“Hey, what’s wrong? Keep driving!” the passenger barked.

Ankit nodded, shaking off the unease, and resumed driving. But the voice lingered in his mind.

When they reached the construction site, Ankit killed the engine and turned to face the man.

“We’re here,” he said, his tone calm.

The man frowned. “This isn’t—”

Ankit didn’t let him finish. The tire iron was already in his hand, the motion practiced and precise. It was over in seconds.

As he dragged the man’s body into the shadows, the rain washed away the blood, erasing the evidence. But the voice returned, louder this time.

“You’re losing control, Ankit,” it whispered.

He spun around, but there was no one there. Only the rickshaw, its headlights cutting through the rain.

For the first time in two years, Ankit felt a sliver of fear.

The second passenger was a young woman, soaked from the rain. She flagged him down near a deserted bus stop and slid into the backseat, her umbrella dripping onto the floor.

“Powai Lake, please,” she said, her voice soft.

Ankit hesitated. Something about her felt off, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

As they drove, the woman spoke. “You must see a lot of people in your line of work,” she said, her tone conversational.

“Yes, madam. All kinds of people,” Ankit replied, keeping his eyes on the road.

“Do you remember them?”

Ankit frowned. “Some, maybe. Most, no.”

She laughed, a light, tinkling sound. “I suppose that’s for the best. Some faces are better forgotten.”

He felt a chill run down his spine.

They reached Powai Lake, its dark waters shimmering under the streetlights. The woman leaned forward, her face partially illuminated.

“Thank you,” she said, handing him a note.

Ankit took it, his fingers brushing against hers. Her hand was ice-cold. When he looked up, she was gone.

He stepped out of the rickshaw, scanning the empty street. There was no sign of her. He unfolded the note, his hands trembling.

The message was simple: Do you remember me?

His heart raced. The handwriting was familiar, too familiar. It was the same as the letters he had left with his first victim two years ago.

By the time he picked up the third passenger, Ankit was unraveling. He tried to shake off the feeling, convincing himself it was just his imagination.

The passenger was a man in his late thirties, wearing a hooded jacket. He climbed into the rickshaw without a word, giving Ankit only a nod.

“Where to, sir?” Ankit asked, his voice unsteady.

The man leaned forward, his face obscured by the hood. “Drive,” he said.

Ankit obeyed, his hands slick with sweat despite the cold.

They drove in silence, the rain hammering against the rickshaw. The man’s presence was oppressive, filling the small space with an unexplainable tension.

“Do you know what you are, Ankit?” the man finally asked, his voice low and menacing.

Ankit’s grip tightened on the steering bar. “Sir, I don’t—”

“You’re a coward,” the man interrupted. “Hiding behind the noise of the city, convincing yourself you’re delivering justice. But deep down, you know the truth.”

Ankit’s breath hitched. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice shaking.

The man lifted his head, and Ankit saw his face clearly for the first time. It was the face of his first victim, pale and bloodied, his eyes lifeless.

Ankit screamed, slamming on the brakes. When he turned around, the rickshaw was empty.

The brass coin hanging from the mirror swung violently, as if caught in an unseen wind. The voice from the radio returned, louder and clearer than ever.

“It’s time to pay, Ankit.”

The headlights flickered, and the rickshaw’s engine roared to life on its own. Ankit’s screams were swallowed by the storm as the vehicle sped into the darkness, leaving no trace behind.

The next morning, the rickshaw was found abandoned by the lake, its interior drenched but spotless. No one ever saw Ankit again.

But on rainy nights, some say they hear the faint hum of a rickshaw engine, and a voice whispering from its depths: Do you feel it, Ankit?

The rickshaw’s disappearance became an urban legend, whispered among the city’s drivers and passengers alike. Weeks turned into months, and Ankit was all but forgotten.

But one rainy night, on the very edge of the city, a man named Ravi hailed a rickshaw near a dimly lit bus stop. He was new to the city, his corporate job leaving him exhausted and irritated. He just wanted to get home.

A rickshaw emerged from the darkness, its headlights cutting through the mist. It looked old, its paint chipped, and its brass charm swinging faintly on the rearview mirror.

“Powai Lake,” Ravi muttered, climbing inside.

The driver didn’t respond. Ravi barely noticed; he was too busy scrolling on his phone. The rain lashed against the vehicle, the engine humming steadily as it navigated the deserted streets.

After a while, Ravi looked up. Something felt off.

“Hey, this isn’t the way to Powai,” he said, his voice tinged with annoyance.

The driver didn’t reply.

“Are you deaf?” Ravi barked, leaning forward to tap the man’s shoulder.

When he touched the driver, Ravi’s blood turned to ice. The man’s body was ice-cold, his skin waxy and rigid. Slowly, the driver turned his head.

It was Ankit. But his eyes were empty, his face unnaturally pale.

“Do you feel it?” Ankit whispered, his voice hollow and inhuman.

Ravi screamed, yanking open the rickshaw door and tumbling out onto the wet street. He scrambled to his feet, expecting to see the rickshaw speeding away.

Instead, it was gone.

Ravi returned home, shaken but alive. He told himself it was a bad dream, a trick of the rain and exhaustion. But over the next few weeks, strange things began happening.

His apartment door would creak open in the middle of the night. He’d hear the faint hum of a rickshaw engine outside his window, though the street below was empty.

One night, Ravi awoke to find a brass coin on his nightstand. It was etched with strange symbols.

The same coin Ankit had carried.

Months later, on another rainy night, a young woman hailed a rickshaw near the same bus stop. She climbed inside, clutching a small umbrella.

“Powai Lake, please,” she said softly.

The driver nodded, his brass charm swinging as the rickshaw sped into the rain-soaked night.

Ravi couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—was watching him. Days passed in a haze of paranoia. The brass coin on his nightstand was just the beginning. Now, faint skid marks appeared outside his building every morning, despite no traffic in the dead of night.

He stopped sleeping, convinced the rickshaw would return.

One night, after weeks of torment, Ravi decided he couldn’t live like this anymore. He drove to the edge of the city, to the place where he had first seen it. The rain poured down, just like that night.

He stood in the darkness, screaming into the void. “I don’t know what you want! Leave me alone!”

The street remained silent—until he heard it.

A faint hum, growing louder by the second.

The rickshaw appeared out of the mist, its headlights flickering like dying stars. Ravi’s legs trembled as the vehicle came to a stop in front of him.

The driver’s silhouette was unmistakable. Ankit.

The door swung open on its own.

“No!” Ravi screamed, backing away. But the rickshaw’s engine roared, and unseen forces dragged him forward.

As Ravi stumbled inside, the door slammed shut. The engine sputtered, and the rickshaw veered off into the night, its lights disappearing into the storm.

The next morning, locals found Ravi’s car parked at the side of the road, but there was no sign of him. Inside, they discovered a brass coin on the dashboard, the same strange etchings etched deep into the leather seats.

Months later, another man flagged down a rickshaw on a lonely street. It was raining, the city’s chaos muted by the storm.

The rickshaw stopped, its charm swaying gently on the rearview mirror.

The man stepped in and gave his destination.

“Powai Lake, please.”

The driver nodded and smiled.

It was Ravi.