Indian Creepypastas [Animated/Narrated Video & Text]

The Highway (part 4 of 4) - Indian Creepypasta / Indian Horror Story

The stench hit me as soon as I opened the door. My wife, son, and elderly mother lay together on the floor. Their bodies were unrecognisable - an indistinguishable memorial to the human flesh's capacity to degrade into terrifying shapes.

I quickly buried them in the backyard, in a space bordered by hibiscus shrubs.

The village was mostly empty. Throughout the day, it was absolutely silent. Every night, the wind howled louder to compete with the wailing bereaved.

The dead rested beneath the earth in mass graves. The living resembled revenants as they shambled around in grief. Some tore out their hair as they wept, while others joined the departed by hanging themselves from fruiting trees.

Some days I lay inert for hours, staring at the roof of our hut, unable to feel anything. Other days, I sat in front of their graves, crying for hours.

I thought of ending it all, but I couldn't conjure the courage to follow through. Unlike my wife, I have always been cowardice.

She would have fought to protect my mother and my son. Until she couldn't. Until the disease colonised her respiratory tract and denied her life.

And I wasn't even there for them.

For 30 days, I survived on rice and pickles, battling soul crushing guilt and shame. On the 31st day, a government van fitted with speakers drove through the village, announcing that the pandemic had ended and it was time to resume regular life.

I didn't hesitate to act. I packed up. There was nothing left for me here.

Surprisingly, a construction company bus waited for us. A sweaty man in an outfit too tight for him encouraged the villagers to pile into the vehicle.

"You will be sharing your room with 20 of your coworkers, as opposed to 40 or 60," he said. He also promised us higher wages.

I knew he was lying. I had seen monsters like these before. But I didn't care what happened to me anymore.

I was the first one to climb into the maw of that exploitation machine. Others followed suit. I felt like a pied piper luring people to a certain doom. But again, I didn't care.

During the journey, I noticed that the country had returned to normal. Gone were the brutal apparatuses of government power that purged soiled meat and the psychic echoes of innumerable tragedies. Gone were the soul harvesters that once towered over the landscape.

The cities had changed too. They had felt the neglect of the exploited masses that once kept their vast arteries clean. Every brutalist structure that jutted out from the earth bore signs of dereliction.

The city's soul had been touched by loss. There were lingering signs that the carparks had been used for mass cremations. The ashes of the dead nourished the new gardens, teeming with necrotic plant life.

The psychosphere tasted like trauma.

Those who inhabited the towering skyscrapers and gazed down on the world below with disdain had also transformed. What they once concealed in the dark recesses of their hearts was now etched on their faces, and they could never mask it again.