CHARVI JAIN - THE PHANTOM COACH

Charvi Jain wants to live in a world where sentimentality is cherished. As a teen author, her flash fiction ‘The Phantom Coach’ will reprint in the Calliope’s Summer 2020 issue. 
When she isn’t penning, you can find her cuddling and amusing herself with the dogs of her neighbourhood. She writes all genres of fiction and doesn’t limit herself to any one and resides in New Delhi with her family. Her forthcoming work is a prose titled, ‘When Life Gives Her Lemons, She Squirts Me In The Eye’. 

​ THE PHANTOM COACH

​Sitting in the first class train coach, eating ratatouille and the nostalgic view outside was also a snug moment. Suddenly, the train stopped. Every passenger was frit and the train coach spoke, “Not again!”. That was my last night in Norwich and I was travelling back to my home, Salisbury but never had I seen trains in England halting at midnight and creating a daunting commotion. As I was travelling this route for the first time so I wasn’t aware of its whereabouts
A mystic whiff of lavender could be smelt in a few moments. The blood-curdling scenario was a hilarious movie scene for me. But I was unaware that the next moment will be as much appalling as much chuckle some it was the earlier moment. From that bewitching aroma appeared a vintage-faced, translucent and cadaverous soul. Everyone’s spine was chilling by that spirit. To me it seemed creepy. I heard once that this is a psychopath spirit who kills everyone in leisure but I couldn’t myself believe it as the reason for such brutal sin.
Abruptly, all windows got bedaubed with black blood, floor was spattered by black and blue veins of people who had died earlier by the hands of this soul. Witnessing the soul was a tough task but his quiddity could be felt all around. Those who tried to decamp were slaughtered viciously. One by one everyone got murdered by a spooky blood-stained knife. Fortunately, I was the last prey. As I was the last one, the soul gave me an opportunity to ask my last wish. Although I didn’t have any desire yet in my mind but I was inquisitive to know the cause for this. That psyche was deeply flabbergasted.
The soul shrieked in a daze, “You are the first person who asked me about my anguish else every person since five years just had their acquisitive wills.” The soul was no less voguish than a celeb in whole town by the name of Phantom Coach. Then it whimpered and I felt as if its agony was inexpressible, “Six years back, I was travelling by the same route. At that hour it was urgent for me to be in Salisbury city hospital beside my cardiovascular diseased wife. I left my new infrastructure enterprise in mid-way to be beside her. I was unaware that racism was rampant here. I was rebuffed boarding train because of being Negro and a remorselessly thrashed for my pleas to board.
No medication was rendered so I died on the spot. My wife couldn’t also endure the attack and died a week later. Bodies die hard but souls, they never die. My spirit went to see her grave in churchyard but the hatred which ignited in my heart against English was endless. Henceforth, I decided to murder every human who board this train at this time to seek my vengeance.” The story was sentimental and also sheer unjust. But unexpectedly, that soul didn’t kill me because of my question which wasn’t my business. An unanticipated jerk in the bus occurred and everything was back to normal. I was sole passenger in the bus and after five stations I reached my hometown.
The soul evanesced in the thin air leaving the same savor again. The phantom coach didn’t kill the driver so that I could reach home safe and sound. Now I do feel pity on his nemesis but there was no way by which I could assist him. But one thing which I wanted to do was to clear away the rumor so I went to the main headquarter which censored newspaper. The chief editor asserted, “Sir, we want a proof from your side to prove that earlier news published were false rumors. What we published earlier was on the basis of the fact that the soul bore a resemblance to a coach with wraith aura.”
 I worked hard to create a counterfeit proof. The only proof which stroke my mind was a handwritten note. I wrote a short note on papyrus paper with quill in awkward hand. The paper was yellowish so that it seems old with an askew look as if it was kept under a load for long so it developed asymmetrical creases.
My dear wife
You died because I couldn’t stay beside you when you were going through hardships all alone. I couldn’t reach you because people on the train that night forbid me from boarding the train because they were racist. But I always loved you the most so, I think there is no reason for me to live in this world without you. Hence, I am committing suicide but I believe that even if my body dies, my soul is immortal and I will take revenge from every single patron of that train.
Your dear husband 
Those half-witted editors believed my note in one go without any cross-questioning but they didn’t print the note as no curiosity was still left in people’s mind. The rumor was removed by printing a cessation in daily news with the head line, ‘The Rumor of Psychopath Sinner, The Phantom Coach’.
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