I’m twenty-three, working as a content writer in Bangalore, and I usually take an Ola back to my apartment after late shifts. That night, I should have trusted my instincts the moment we pulled out of the parking lot.
It was around 10:30 PM when I got into the car. The driver, Rakesh according to the app, seemed normal enough—middle-aged guy, didn’t talk much, which I appreciated after a long day. My phone was at 12%, so I plugged it in and leaned back, watching the city lights blur past my window.
We’d been driving for maybe ten minutes when I noticed the headlights behind us. Bright. Really bright. The kind that makes you squint even when you’re not looking directly at them.
Then came the honking.
Not just a quick beep-beep to change lanes. This was continuous, aggressive, like someone laying on their horn with their full weight. Rakesh glanced in the rearview mirror, his jaw tightening.
“Some people have no patience,” he muttered.
I looked back. The car behind us was a white Maruti Swift, staying close—too close. The honking continued, sharp and angry, cutting through the usual traffic noise.
“Maybe they’re in an emergency?” I suggested, trying to be reasonable. “You could let them pass?”
Rakesh switched lanes. The Swift switched with us. The honking didn’t stop.
“That’s weird,” I said, more to myself than to him.
We were on the Old Madras Road now, the stretch that gets quieter after you pass the main commercial area. Fewer cars. Darker streets. The Swift stayed right behind us, headlights flooding our car with harsh white light. The horn just kept going—one long, continuous blast that made my teeth ache.
Rakesh’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “This isn’t normal.”
“Can you drive faster?” My heart was starting to pound.
He pressed the accelerator, weaving between the scattered vehicles. The Swift matched our speed perfectly, never falling back, never trying to overtake. Just following. Honking. Those headlights boring into us like eyes that wouldn’t blink.
“Maybe we should call the police?” I pulled out my phone, my hands shaking slightly. I felt stupid for being scared—I mean, it was just honking, right? But something wasn’t right.
“Let’s try turning off somewhere first,” Rakesh said. “See if they’re actually following us or just… I don’t know.”
He took a sudden right into a residential colony. Narrower roads. Fewer streetlights. I twisted in my seat to look back.
The Swift turned with us.
The honking grew louder, more insistent, echoing off the compound walls on either side. It sounded angry now, if that makes sense. Like the horn itself was screaming.
“Oh god,” I whispered. “They’re definitely following us.”
Rakesh’s breathing was getting faster. He turned left, then right, then left again, trying to lose them in the maze of residential streets. But the Swift stayed with us, never more than two car-lengths behind, that horn blaring nonstop in the darkness.
My phone rang. Unknown number. I stared at it, my stomach dropping.
“Answer it,” Rakesh said, his voice tight.
I did. I wish I hadn’t.
Heavy breathing. Just breathing, in and out, in and out, matching the rhythm of the honking. Then a voice, male, distorted like it was coming through a bad connection: “Stop running.”
I dropped the phone. “Drive faster. Please, just drive faster.”
Rakesh floored it, the car jerking forward. We burst out of the residential area back onto a main road—thankfully, there was more traffic here, more lights, more people. He was driving recklessly now, switching lanes, running a red light. I didn’t care. Behind us, the Swift was still there.
Still honking.
“There’s a police station near Indiranagar,” I said, my voice cracking. “Take us there. Please.”
He nodded, jaw clenched, and made a sharp turn. My seatbelt cut into my shoulder as I braced against the door. The Swift followed, but we were moving faster now, putting distance between us.
The police station came into view—a small building with lights on, a couple of officers standing outside. Rakesh pulled up right in front, tires squealing. I scrambled out of the car, nearly falling, and ran toward the officers.
“Someone’s following us!” I shouted, pointing back at the road.
The officers looked where I was pointing. The street was empty. No white Swift. No headlights. No honking.
Just silence.
“There was a car,” Rakesh said, getting out slowly, staring at the empty road. “A white Swift. They were following us for—for fifteen minutes at least. Honking non-stop.”
The officers exchanged glances. One of them, an older guy with a thick mustache, walked over to us. “You sure about this?”
“I’m sure!” I pulled out my phone to show him the call log. Unknown number. Call duration: one minute, forty-three seconds.
They filed a report, but I could tell they thought we were paranoid. Maybe we were. But I heard that honking. I heard that voice.
I took a different cab home that night. Rakesh canceled the ride, refunded me automatically. I never saw him again on the app.
Three days later, I was scrolling through local news and saw a headline: “Body Found in White Maruti Swift on Old Madras Road.” A man had been discovered dead in his car, apparently for several days before someone noticed. The article mentioned that his hand was still on the horn.
The estimated time of death was around 10 PM, three days prior.
I moved apartments two weeks later. To this day, I still flinch when I hear honking that lasts too long. And sometimes, late at night when I’m in a cab, I catch myself checking the rear-view mirror.
Just to make sure there’s nothing behind us.
