Every town has a story people avoid telling after dark. In this one, it was about a woman in a white saree who appeared on the old highway at night. Drivers claimed she asked for a ride, then vanished without a sound.
One rainy evening, Ankit, returning late from work, saw her standing by the roadside. Her saree was spotless despite the mud. Feeling uneasy but kind, he stopped. She sat silently in the back seat, her face hidden by wet hair.
As the car moved, the temperature dropped. The radio filled with static, and the rearview mirror fogged up. When Ankit glanced back, the seat was empty. Suddenly, her voice whispered from beside him, “You missed the turn.”
The car swerved on its own toward an abandoned bridge. In a flash, Ankit saw her reflection—eyes hollow, skin pale, neck twisted unnaturally. She pointed ahead. “This is where I died.”
Ankit slammed the brakes and closed his eyes. When he opened them, it was morning. The bridge was quiet, and the woman was gone. Later, he learned a bride had died there years ago. Now, on rainy nights, headlights still slow down—when a white saree appears.
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