The first time I saw the red car, I was walking home from Maya’s house, cutting through the old cemetery like I always did. It was just a flash of crimson against the gray tombstones, gone as quickly as it appeared. I shook my head, blaming the late hour and the flickering streetlights. But a cold feeling, like a finger tracing a line down my spine, told me I wasn’t just seeing things.
The next night, it was there again. A vintage convertible, cherry red and gleaming under the moonlight as if it had just been polished. It was parked by the cemetery gates, empty. No driver, no sound, just… waiting. I picked up my pace, my heart hammering against my ribs. I didn’t look back, but I could feel its presence, a silent weight in the darkness behind me.
I told my best friend, Rohan, about it at school. He laughed it off. “Dude, it’s just a car,” he said, shoving a book into his locker. “Probably some old guy who likes to visit a loved one at night.” But his words didn’t soothe the knot of dread in my stomach. This felt different. This felt wrong.
That night, I decided to take a different route home, a longer path that wound through the brightly lit main streets. I felt safer under the fluorescent glow of the shop signs. But then, in the reflection of a darkened storefront, I saw it. The red car, cruising slowly down the street behind me. My blood ran cold. It was following me.
Panic seized me. I broke into a run, my sneakers slapping against the pavement. I didn’t dare look back. I just ran, weaving through alleys and side streets, my lungs burning. I could hear the faint, almost silent hum of its engine, always just a block away, a predator toying with its prey.
I finally burst through my front door, slamming and locking it behind me. I leaned against it, gasping for breath, my body trembling. I peeked through the peephole. The street was empty. The red car was gone. For a moment, I allowed myself to believe it was over. Maybe I had imagined it all.
The next day at school, Rohan was gone. His desk was empty. The teacher said his parents had called in, saying he was sick. But I knew. I knew it wasn’t a coincidence. The Red Car Man had him. I had to do something. I couldn’t just let him disappear.
That night, I didn’t run. I went back to the cemetery, my hands clammy, a heavy flashlight my only weapon. I waited. And just as the moon climbed to its peak, the red car glided to a stop by the gates. The driver’s door opened, but no one got out. Just an empty space where a person should be.
A voice, raspy and low, echoed from the car, seeming to come from the leather of the seats themselves. “You led me to him,” it whispered. “Your fear was a beacon. I feed on that. And your friend… he was so full of it.” A shape began to form in the driver’s seat, a man made of shadows and moonlight, with eyes that glowed like embers.
The shadow man smiled, a cruel slash in the darkness. “Don’t worry,” he hissed, his voice slithering into my mind. “I’m not here for you tonight. I’m here because of you.” He held up a hand, and in it, I saw a familiar object – Rohan’s keychain. “He told me all about you,” the voice continued, then it changed, morphing into Rohan’s terrified scream. “He told me how you’re the one who’s really afraid of the man in the green suit who comes out at night.”
My blood froze. I looked down at my hands. They weren’t hands anymore. They were green, stitched, and monstrous. And in my pocket, I felt the familiar smooth surface of a balloon.
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Srinidhi Ranganathan
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