Aditya Krishnan couldn't find an auto-ricshore or rideshare outside the Techno Park gates to take him to Indira Nagar late at night, a familiar consequence of building massive offices on the outskirts with poor transport links. He waited in frustration for nearly an hour, cursing his boss who seemed to take pleasure in working him to the bowl long after everyone else had gone home. He was about to resign himself to sleeping on the office couch when headlights swept across the empty parking lot. A taxi, a vintage white ambassador pulled up beside him.
The driver, an elderly man in a white shirt, smiled through the window. In Indira Nagar, Aditya asked excitedly. The man nodded. Aditya climbed into the back seat, grateful to finally be heading home.
He felt relieved when he heard the man click on the taxi meter. The leather on the seat was cracked and the red interior smelled faintly of incense. Up front, the driver's face stayed hidden in shadow, broken only by the dull glow of the dashboard, his eyes catching the light for a moment before disappearing again. As they pulled onto Horsil Road, the city lights began to thin out, swallowed by the darkness of the highway.
Aditya noticed two children in private school uniforms standing by the roadside. They were briefly illuminated by the headlights, a boy and a girl no older than 12, their clothes looking oddly dated. Both children were soaked despite days without rain, the girls braided hair hanging limbs down her back while the boys stood perfectly still with one hand raised as if flagging a car. Stop, Aditya called out reflexively.
There are kids. I see them. The driver said his voice suddenly tight. He pressed harder on the accelerator.
Aditya turned to look through the rear window. The children hadn't moved or turned to look at them in displeasure. We can't just leave them there, Aditya protested. It's past midnight.
What are children doing out here alone? The driver's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Those are not children, sir. Not anymore.
A children ran down Aditya's spine, but he forced a laugh. What do you mean? They are just kids who probably missed their bus or his phone bus. Despite the low battery, a message had come through from an unknown number.
Why didn't you stop? Aditya stared at the screen, his mouth going dry. He looked up at the driver. How did they...
Don't answer it. The old man said firmly. Don't acknowledge them in any way. But another message appeared.
We are lost. We need help. Please come back. Then another.
You saw us. You must help us. It is your duty. Aditya's hands trembled.
This is insane. How did they get my number? The driver met his eyes in the rear view mirror. They don't need your number, sir.
They just need you to notice them. To think about them. You already let them in a little bit when you told me to stop. That's ridiculous.
I didn't... Aditya's words died as something small and wet pressed against the rear window. A child's handprint, fingers played, appeared on the glass from the outside. Then another.
And another. As if invisible hands were slapping against the speeding cars windows. Don't look at them. The driver shouted, swerving slightly.
Keep your eyes forward. But Aditya couldn't help it. He turned his head and immediately wished he hadn't. The children were in the back seat with him.
The girls had to his left. The boy to his right, both dripping water onto the cracked leather. Their school uniforms were pristine white. The boys shirt tucked in neatly.
The girls' pinna' four perfectly pressed despite being soaked through. They sat with their hands folded in their laps, faces pointed straight ahead. Neither of them blinked. Please.
Aditya whispered, pressing himself against the seat, trying to create distance that didn't exist. Please, I don't... We need to go home. The girl said her voice carrying no inflection whatsoever.
Will you take us home? Where... Where do you live? Slowly, in perfect synchronization, both children turned their heads toward him.
Aditya screamed, caught in his throat. Their eyes were completely black. Not just the pupils, not just the iris, everything. Solid black orbs that reflected nothing absorbed everything, like staring into two holes punched the reality itself.
We live where you are going, the boy said. We've been waiting for someone to invite us home. You almost did. You wanted to stop.
You felt sorry for us. The cars swerved violently as the driver chanted something under his breath, prayers to Hanuman. Aditya dimly recognized. The old man pulled a small pouch from his shirt pocket and thrust it backward without looking.
Hold it up. It's blessed Rudraksha beads from Rameshwaram. Aditya grabbed the pouch with shaking hands, holding it up like a talisman. The children's heads tilted in unison, studying the beads with those terrible eyes.
That won't work. The girl said simply, we're already inside. We've been inside since you saw us, since you thought about us, since you felt that tiny moment of pity. The boy leaned closer, and Aditya could see that his lips were blue.
His skin so pale, it was almost translucent. Up close, he could see something else too. The uniforms had a patch on them. Embroider text that read St Mary's Convin School, 1977.
1977. That was 35 years ago. There was an accident, the girl said, as if reading his thoughts. Our school bus during monsoon season.
The driver lost control on this very road. We went into the canal. She paused. Her expression never changing.
No one stopped to help. Eighteen of us drowned while cars drove past. I'm sorry, Aditya gust. I'm so sorry.
But I wasn't even born then. I couldn't have. But you would have stopped tonight. The boy interrupted.
You would have helped. That's what makes you perfect. That's what makes you hours. The temperature in the car plummeted.
Frost began to form on the inside of the windows, spreading in crystalline patterns that looked disturbingly like reaching hands. The driver was muttering prayers continuously now, driving faster. What do you want from me? Aditya shouted, tears streaming down his face.
The children smiled for the first time, identical expressions that didn't reach their black bottomless eyes. We want what was taken from us. They said in perfect unison, we want to go home. We want to be warm.
We want to stop waiting by the side of the road. They leaned closer. They were wet-haired, brushing against his shoulders. And we want you to invite the others.
There are so many of us, still waiting, still watching, still standing by the roadside. The girl reached out one small pruned finger, skin wrinkled from too long in water and touched his hand. The touch burned with cold. Instantly, Aditya saw them.
Dozens of children, maybe hundreds, standing along every dark highway in the city. Standing outside apartment buildings pressed against the windows of homes where lights burned late into the night. All of them, with those same black eyes, all of them dripping, all of them waiting to be acknowledged, to be pitied, to be invited in. The car screeched to a halt.
They arrived at Aditya's apartment building in Indiranagar. The driver turned around and Aditya saw tears streaming down the old man's weathered face. Ah, I'm sorry, sir. They chose you.
I can't stop them. I can only drive. That's all I've been able to do since 1987. I was the one driving the bus.
Aditya's blood turned to ice. He looked at the driver's eyes and saw they were beginning to darken at the edges, black creeping in like spilled ink. No, Aditya breathed. No, no, no.
Go inside. The children said together. Soon, you'll start to understand. Aditya burst from the car and ran to his building, not looking back.
He took the stairs two at a time, fumbled with his keys and slammed his apartment door behind him. He locked it, bolted it, chained it. We then did he allow himself to collapse against the door, sobbing. His phone buzzed one last time.
See you tomorrow night. Aditya looked down at his hands and felt his heart stop. There, on his palm where the child had touched him, was a small wet handprint. As he watched, his skin beneath it began to pale, the veins darkening, and when he raised his eyes to the mirror across the room, he saw it.
Just around the edges of his pupils, creeping inward like an eclipse. Black. His reflection smiled at him with someone else's expression, and from somewhere outside he heard children singing. A nursery rhyme from decades ago, voices high and sweet and completely devoid of life.