Welcome to BSME2E
It was 11:59 p.m. when my phone vibrated with a WhatsApp Message.
Pickup: Muradpur
Drop-off: Hill Top Park, near Boktiar Para, Anwara
Payment: Taka 1000 (cash) — urgent delivery
And then the note —
“Please deliver no matter what. I’ll wait outside. Important parcel, don’t delay.”
For a long moment, my fingers hovering over to type Accept/Decline.
Even through the screen’s pale glow, something about that message felt wrong. The way “no matter what” was written — desperate, almost pleading.
I remembered my cycling group’s riders warning from earlier that week:
“Bro, avoid Hill Top Park after midnight. Spirits roam there.”
But a thousand taka for one drop? I needed it. My Tetulia–Teknaf ride fund was bleeding dry.
And so — like a fool warmed by greed and caffeine — I typed order Accepted.
The city was unnervingly still.
Muradpur’s chaos had thinned to whispers — shutters half-closed, tea stalls empty, stray dogs watching with cautious eyes.
At the junction, beneath a flickering light that buzzed like an insect dying, an old man waited.
He wasn’t drinking tea.
He wasn’t even blinking.
Just waiting.
When he saw my delivery bag, he smiled — slow, cracked, and lifeless.
“You’re the rider?” His voice rasped, like sand dragged across glass.
“Yes, sir. Hill Top Park, right?”
He nodded and handed me a brown parcel — wrapped in paper too brittle for this age, tied with a jute string, and sealed with candle wax instead of tape.
The faint smell of incense clung to it — not the sweet temple kind, but something old, something burnt out too many times.
“Be careful,” he whispered. “Don’t open it. And don’t stop.”
I tried to joke — “Sure thing, sir. Just another night shift.”
His stare didn’t break. “No. This is the only one tonight.”
Before I could speak, he turned into the alley.
By the time I blinked, he was gone.
The fog thickened the further I rode, wrapping around my headlight like wet gauze. Every sound felt sharper — the chain’s metallic rhythm, the crunch of gravel, the slow drag of my breath inside the helmet.
By Bahaddarhat, the air had changed — colder, heavier. I could taste rust and salt.
Under Shah Amanat Bridge, my headlight swept across a figure sitting alone — a woman in a faded red saree, her back turned.
I slowed down, instinctively cautious.
Then she lifted her face toward me.
Her eyes —
not eyes.
Empty glass marbles reflecting my light back at me.
Her skin too smooth, too pale, as if wax had replaced flesh.
I swerved, tires screeching, heart slamming against my ribs.
The sound echoed for too long.
When I dared to glance back —
she was gone.
Only the faint echo of a child’s giggle lingered under the bridge, as though it had been waiting for me to pass.
At Daulatpur, the parcel on my back shifted.
Just slightly — like something inside had moved.
I stopped under a streetlight.
The paper was dry, the wax unbroken — yet the weight was… different.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: +8801*******666, I answered.
Static, then a whisper so thin it barely sounded human:
“Almost there… right? Don’t stop. He’s hungry.”
My breath caught. “Who is this?”
No reply.
Just the faint sound of… chewing. Wet. Slow. Then the line died.
I checked the call log.
No record.
By the time I reached Anwara, the world had turned grey. The road shimmered with fog; trees leaned over like silent spectators. My tires made no sound, though I was still moving.
That’s when I heard it —
the click-click-click of another cycle chain behind me.
Steady.
Rhythmic.
Matching my pace exactly.
I turned.
Empty road.
I pedaled faster.
So did it.
Click-click-click.
Closer.
I stopped abruptly.
Silence.
But on the wet asphalt behind my wheel —
bare footprints.
Small. Muddy. Fresh.
And the parcel on my back was warm.
When I finally reached Boktiar Para, the lone streetlight flickered like a dying pulse. Ahead loomed the gate — tall, rusted, its sign barely legible:
HILL TOP PARK
The air was thick with incense and something else — the sickly-sweet odor of rot covered by perfume.
My phone buzzed again.
A message.
“I’m waiting. At the top of the stairs.”
The mist parted, revealing a shadow of a mansion at the hill’s crest.
Its windows were dark except one — glowing faintly yellow.
I should’ve turned back.
But Taka 1000… and my stubborn dream of Tetulia to Teknaf…
So I climbed.
Each pedal stroke up that cracked driveway felt wrong. The earth seemed to pull my wheels down. The grass whispered as I passed, as if murmuring finally.
She was waiting.
The woman. The same red saree. The same glassy eyes.
“You brought it,” she said softly. Her voice was the same whisper from the call. “Thank you.”
My throat dried. “What… what is this parcel?”
She didn’t answer. Her trembling hand reached for the brown wrapping — and the paper peeled itself open, soundless.
Inside was a bowl of rice and steak, untouched, perfectly preserved, with an incense stick upright in the middle.
It lit itself.
The smoke coiled upward — and in it, a man’s face began to form.
Eyes sunken. Jaw slack.
Then the mouth opened, wider, wider, stretching past what bone should allow — until it became a void that breathed.
The woman turned to it and whispered, “He’s home now.”
The void lunged.
The air collapsed.
The smell — incense and rot — filled my lungs, choking me.
I fell backward, tumbling down the stairs. My bike crashed beside me.
Then —
blackness.
When I opened my eyes, the sun was rising over the hills.
Birds sang.
The mansion was gone. Only cracked stone and vines remained.
My delivery bag was empty.
The order? Vanished from my phone.
No number, no chat history.
But when I opened my wallet —
Taka 1000.
Old, yellowed notes.
Crisp but fragile.
Smelling faintly of burnt incense.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
Because from the corridor outside my door came a sound —
click… click… click…
A cycle chain. Slowly turning.
I checked the clock: 3:12 a.m.
No one was there.
But on the floor — faint muddy footprints, small and bare.
A week later, I passed Hill Top Park again during a daylight delivery.
Curiosity gnawed at me.
The gate was sealed with rusted chains.
I asked a fruit seller nearby, “There used to be a house here, right?”
He frowned. “House? Nah, burned down years ago.”
I felt my skin tighten. “What about the woman in red?”
His knife slipped from his hand.
“You… saw her?”
He lowered his voice.
“Every Hungry Ghost Month, she waits for someone to bring food for her husband. The last rider never returns whole.”
As I turned to leave, I felt warmth in my pocket.
The old notes.
Hot — almost burning.
Up the hill, behind the shattered windows, something flickered — a hint of red fabric fluttering in a wind that didn’t exist.
And faintly, from behind me — click… click… click…
The sound of a chain matching my heartbeat.
I never look back now.
Because once, when I did…
I saw her reflection in my rear light.
Smiling.
Holding the bowl of rice.
And whispering — “You’re next, rider.”
