The Mysterious Day

After an extra class last Friday, I was on my way home.

I glanced at my watch—it was 6:40 PM. Darkness had already blanketed the city, and heavy clouds loomed ominously overhead. There was no electricity, and the flicker of lightning lit up the sky as thunder growled in the distance. It was about to rain. I decided to run as fast as I could to the bus stop.

But my luck was as dark as the night. As I sprinted, panting heavily, I saw the last bus pulling away from the stop. At that moment, my phone buzzed with a government alert: an island-wide emergency curfew had been imposed. The streets were eerily silent, devoid of vehicles or pedestrians.

Fear began creeping in as the first raindrops splattered onto the ground, quickly turning into a torrential downpour. Thunderclaps roared like cannon fire, and flashes of lightning illuminated the empty city. I tried calling home, but to my horror, I discovered that my phone was out of credit.

With no other choice, I huddled under a bus stop for what felt like an eternity. The rain soaked me to the bone, and my imagination ran wild with every shadow and sound. Two hours later, a lone taxi finally appeared, its headlights cutting through the storm. Desperation won over caution, and I flagged it down.

The driver, an older man with a scruffy beard and piercing eyes, rolled down the window and asked where I wanted to go. "Home," I said quickly, giving him the route. He nodded, and I climbed in, relieved to be out of the rain.

But my relief was short-lived. As we drove, I noticed he wasn't taking the usual route. "Sir, this isn’t the right way," I said, my voice shaky. He didn’t respond.

"Excuse me!" I said louder, panic creeping in. Still, no answer.

When I tried to open the door, I realized the locks were engaged. My heart pounded as I shouted for help, but the streets were deserted. The taxi sped into a remote area, finally stopping in front of an abandoned, eerie bungalow. The windows of the house were shattered, and ivy snaked up its crumbling walls.

The driver stepped out and yanked me from the car. I struggled, but he was strong. Before I could react, he tied my hands and legs with coarse rope and gagged me with a piece of cloth. My screams were muffled, my movements futile.

"Give me your mom's or dad’s phone number," he demanded, his voice cold and menacing.

I shook my head defiantly, but then he pulled out a pistol from his pocket. The cold barrel of the gun glinted under the weak moonlight, and fear overwhelmed me. Trembling, I gave him my mom’s number.

He called her and, in a gravelly voice, said, "If you want your son back, transfer 10 million rupees to this account right now!"

I could faintly hear my mom’s voice on the other end of the call. She sounded calm—too calm.

"10 million rupees? Sure. But first, can you wake him up for school?"

Wait… what? My mind froze. The driver repeated her words, confused, "Wake him up for school?"

Suddenly, I felt someone tapping my shoulder. "Wake up! Wake up, son! It’s 7 o’clock already!"

I opened my eyes, drenched in sweat, only to find myself lying on my bed. My mom stood over me, looking amused.

The entire terrifying ordeal had been a nightmare. I laughed nervously and told her the whole story. She chuckled and said, "Well, that’s what you get for staying up late watching crime thrillers!"

With a sigh of relief, I got ready for school—this time, happy to face the real world!