The Return of the Nightmare

Weeks passed, and the memory of the prank faded into the background. Life went back to its mundane rhythm—school, home, extra classes—but every so often, I’d glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to see that weathered taxi or the eerie driver lurking nearby.

Then one Friday evening, something happened that made my blood run cold.

I was studying in my room when my phone buzzed with a message. It was from an unknown number:

“Miss me?”

My stomach dropped. The words were simple, but the context sent chills down my spine. I tried to brush it off. “It’s probably one of my friends messing with me,” I muttered, putting the phone down.

But then the messages kept coming.

“Nice house you have here.”

I froze. My hands trembled as I checked the window. The curtains were drawn, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching. My heart pounded as I quickly typed back:

“Who is this?”

The reply was instant.

“I think you know.”

I stared at the screen, my breath hitching. The memory of the prank came flooding back—the abandoned bungalow, the storm, the eerie laughter. I told myself it was just another joke, but deep down, I wasn’t so sure.

Deciding to ignore the texts, I went to bed early. Sleep didn’t come easily, though. I tossed and turned, plagued by the same vivid nightmare: the taxi, the bungalow, the driver.

At exactly 3:00 AM, I woke up to a faint noise outside my window. It was a low rumble, unmistakable yet impossible. My heart raced as I peeked through the curtains.

The old taxi.

It was parked across the street, its headlights piercing through the darkness.

“No. This can’t be happening,” I whispered, stepping back from the window.

I grabbed my phone and called my mom, who was asleep in the next room. No response. My hands trembled as I dialed again, but the call wouldn’t go through.

The lights in my room flickered, and then the power went out entirely. My room was plunged into darkness, save for the faint glow of the taxi’s headlights outside.

Suddenly, a knock echoed through the house. Not on the front door, but directly on my bedroom window.

I froze. The knock came again, louder this time. Gathering every ounce of courage, I whispered, “Who’s there?”

No answer.

The knocking stopped, replaced by the faint sound of footsteps. They circled around the house, slow and deliberate.

I didn’t know what to do. Should I scream? Run? Call the police? My phone had no signal. I was trapped.

Then, the front door creaked open.

Someone was inside.

I tiptoed toward my closet, slipping inside and shutting the door as quietly as I could. My heartbeat was deafening in the silence. I heard the floorboards creak as someone moved through the house.

“Chamuditha…” a voice called softly.

It was the driver’s voice.

“I know you’re here.”

The footsteps grew louder, heading straight for my room.

“Come out, kid. Let’s go for another ride.”

I bit my lip to keep from screaming. The closet door handle jiggled, and my world seemed to stop.

Suddenly, the sound of a siren cut through the air, piercing and loud. Red and blue lights flashed through the slats of the closet door. I heard hurried footsteps retreating, the front door slamming shut, and then… silence.

Minutes later, there was a knock on my bedroom door.

“Chamuditha, it’s the police. You’re safe now.”

Trembling, I opened the closet door and stumbled out. Two officers stood there, their faces serious but reassuring.

“We received an anonymous call about suspicious activity near your house,” one of them said. “You’re lucky we got here in time.”

I nodded, still in shock. As they escorted me outside, I glanced toward the street. The taxi was gone, and there was no sign of the mysterious driver.

“Do you know who it was?” the officer asked.

I hesitated. “I… I think it’s someone playing a sick joke,” I mumbled, though deep down, I wasn’t so sure.

As the officers drove away, I noticed something on the pavement where the taxi had been parked. A small object glinted under the streetlight. Curious, I picked it up.

It was a keychain shaped like a taxi. Attached to it was a note, scribbled in messy handwriting:

“Round two coming soon.”

I shivered, clutching the keychain tightly. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.