The Passenger Who Never Was

The Passenger Who Never Was

BY:Khan

It was around eleven at night when the phone’s shrill ring pulled me out of the deepest of slumbers. I had been sleeping as if I had sold every care in the world, drifting far away on dreamlike voyages to nameless islands. Groggy and annoyed, I grabbed the phone and, as always, began with a greeting.

“Assalamu Alaikum…”

“Wa Alaikum Salam, Talha beta. How are you, son? What were you doing?” came my father’s familiar but unusually heavy voice.

“I was asleep, Abu Ji. Did you all reach safely?”

The next words froze my blood. Their car had met with an accident on the way. They were at the hospital. Although he insisted it was “nothing serious,” his tense tone and faltering words told me otherwise.

Within moments, I was wide awake. My father asked me not to travel so late at night, but staying back was impossible. My heart screamed to be with them. My parents, my younger sister Guriya, and my uncle and aunt had left for Hyderabad earlier that evening to attend a family wedding. I had stayed behind because of my final exams.

My aunt and uncle lived just a couple of streets away from us. They had no children of their own, but they poured every ounce of love into me and Guriya. To us, they were like a second set of parents. Their laughter, their generosity, their warmth—these were constants in our lives.

That day had been exhausting. I had studied through the night for my exam, returned home drained, and spent the day in the company of my family before they left. By the time they departed, my body was begging for rest. After dinner and prayer, I collapsed into sleep—only to be shaken awake by the call that changed everything.

I got ready in a rush, noted down the hospital address, and set out. A light drizzle had begun when I left Karachi. At first, the city’s neon signs and restless nightlife kept me company. But as I drove farther, the rain grew heavier, the roads darker, and traffic sparse.

Street lamps stood at intervals, their weak glow barely piercing the storm. The windshield wipers thrashed frantically, but visibility remained poor. Tall trees lined both sides of the deserted highway, their shadows twisting into monstrous forms each time lightning ripped across the sky.

Though I had always considered myself fearless, a strange unease crept over me. The silence, the storm, the eerie loneliness—all of it pressed down on my chest. I whispered silent prayers for the journey to end safely.

And then I saw it.

In a blinding flash of lightning, a human figure appeared in the middle of the road, frantically waving for me to stop. My heart skipped. Could it be a stranded traveler? Or a bandit lying in wait? Childhood tales of ghosts and ghouls surfaced, chilling my spine.

Muttering protective verses under my breath, I slowed. But when I reached the spot, the road was empty. Not a soul in sight. Not even a bird.

Fear tightened its grip on me. My foot slammed the accelerator, and the car shot forward.

I had barely gone a few hundred meters when I felt it—the unmistakable weight of a hand on my shoulder.

My breath caught in my throat. Slowly, with every ounce of courage, I turned.

On the back seat sat a monstrous figure covered entirely in matted hair, its only features a pair of glowing red eyes and grotesquely long claws. It stared at me with pure rage.

I froze. My limbs refused to move, my voice abandoned me. Summoning what strength I had, I whispered Quranic verses. The car roared ahead, and when I glanced again, the seat was empty.

Relief washed over me—until the vehicle began to drag, growing heavier as if burdened by an unseen weight. A hideous, guttural laugh echoed inside the car. I looked back. The same terrifying creature was there again, its long legs hanging out of the window, claws scraping against the wet road, slowing the car.

My body shook, but my lips didn’t stop moving. I recited the verses louder, with conviction. Slowly, the heaviness lifted, and the car regained speed.

This hide-and-seek with the demonic being continued for nearly an hour. Sometimes it sat behind me, sometimes beside me, sometimes only its laughter rattled the car. But the moment the faint lights of Hyderabad city appeared, it vanished.

I breathed in relief.

But the night wasn’t done with me yet.

Only fifteen minutes from the hospital, beneath a lonely streetlamp, I saw him—my uncle. Standing still, staring at the road, dry as bone despite the downpour.

Braking hard, I pulled up beside him. He opened the door and slipped into the passenger seat. His face looked pale, his eyes distant. Normally talkative and full of laughter, he now spoke in clipped, distracted sentences.

“Yes, beta, everyone is fine. Don’t worry. I just… I just couldn’t leave without seeing you.”

I wanted to ask what he meant, but something in his expression silenced me. I kept driving, eager to reach the hospital.

When we arrived, I parked and turned to tell him we had made it. The seat beside me was empty.

Confused and shaken, I rushed inside, where my father met me with red eyes and trembling lips. Without a word, he led me into a room.

And there, on the bed, lay my uncle’s lifeless body. He had died at the scene of the accident.

I stood paralyzed. My aunt sobbed into my arms, my mother cried uncontrollably, but I could not move, could not speak. My mind replayed the image of my uncle sitting quietly beside me in the car only moments ago.

If he had passed away hours earlier… then who had been with me?

Perhaps it was love so strong it defied death itself. Perhaps it was his soul, unwilling to depart without one last meeting. Or perhaps it was a mystery beyond human understanding.

To this day, I do not know.

All I know is that some passengers remain with you forever—even when they were never really there.