The Dead Man on My Bike: A Dhaka Sylhet Highway Ghost Story

This Dhaka–Sylhet highway ghost story happened to me one rainy night, and I have never been able to forget it.

A Deserted Filling Station at Midnight

Near Rupganj, on the Dhaka–Sylhet highway, there is a lonely filling station. During the day it is busy and full of people. At midnight, it is almost impossible to find anyone there. Silence settles over everything, so heavy and still that the whole place begins to feel haunted. Those of us who ride bikes know this feeling well. The humid air gets so thick that it seems you have to push it aside with your hands to move forward.

All around me, the crickets kept calling. Even their sound felt strange that night, as if they were crying out in distorted human voices. Somewhere far away, a night bird suddenly cried out, and its call carried a sorrowful, pleading note.

I had stopped to refuel. My bike was old, running on its last drops of petrol, and on that night it was my only companion. I stood in front of the pump and checked my watch. It was 1:45 a.m., but there was no attendant anywhere. The whole station was empty, which was not normal at all. There is usually someone there, even at night. Now the place was deserted like a graveyard, as if everyone had suddenly left. My phone had no network either. That was strange too, because the signal is normally fine on this highway, yet my phone kept showing a dead signal. I did not know it then, but something terrifying was about to find me.

The Man Who Begged for Help

While I was wondering what to do if I could not get fuel, a black Prado pulled up in front of me. Its headlights were so bright that I had to close my eyes. The car looked new and well kept, with glossy paint. A gentleman stepped out wearing an expensive black woollen coat and black-framed glasses. His face was pale, as if all the blood had been drained from it. His cheeks were hollow and there were dark circles under his eyes, as if he had not slept for days. His hands were trembling. His coat collar was half turned up and the buttons were open, as if someone had torn at them. His shoelaces were untied.

He jumped out of the car like a madman and said, “Brother, please help me.” There was such desperation in his voice, as if he were begging for help for the last time. His voice was rough and shaky, like someone who had been crying or screaming for a long while. The hair on my body stood up.

“What happened, sir, at this hour?” I asked.

He looked around fearfully and said in a trembling voice, “I was driving alone to Sylhet. After crossing Kanchpur Bridge, I noticed something. Someone is sitting in the back seat of my car. I started this trip alone, and the car was locked. But for half an hour I have been seeing a man in a black sheet in my rear-view mirror. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at the mirror and breathes. I was too afraid to stop, so I drove straight here. Brother, please shine a light inside and look. I don’t have the courage to go near it.”

I looked into his eyes and saw real terror there. They looked like dark pits with no light in them. I wondered whether this man was even alive, or whether I was having a nightmare. I felt sorry for him, but there was something stronger than pity, a strange sense of obligation, as if I had to follow his words whether I wanted to or not. Some unseen pull seemed to be drawing me toward his car. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s see who is sitting there.”

We walked slowly toward the car. The night was silent after the rain, and I could hear only my own footsteps splashing in the water. The man walked so softly that he made no sound at all, as if he were walking on top of the water. My heart pounded like a drum. The air turned bitterly cold, so cold that my veins seemed to stiffen and my blood ran icy.

As we reached the car, I noticed a strange smell. It was not the smell of wet earth. It was a rotten, foul smell, like meat left in a closed room for days. I looked around and found nothing that could be rotting. The smell was coming from inside the car.

The man went to one rear door, and I went to the other side so that nothing could escape when it opened. His hand shook as he took the key from his pocket and pressed the unlock button. There was a click, which sounded like a whip cracking in that silent night. The echo came back, and then I heard a second click from inside the car, as if someone were locking the door again from within.

I told him to stay where he was, switched on my phone’s flashlight, and shone it on the back seat. It was completely empty. I let out a long breath and turned to smile at him. But when I looked at the seat again, my smile disappeared. The seat was empty, yes, but it carried a mark, a wet impression, as if someone had been sitting there with water dripping from their body. It was exactly the spot where he said the man in the black sheet had been sitting.

I pulled myself together and said, “Sir, you must be very tired. Your eyes have tricked you. There is nothing in the back seat.” He stared at the empty seat in disbelief, then got into the driver’s seat. “I’m sorry to have troubled you for nothing,” he said, and thanked me many times. As he started the car, I noticed something odd. For a moment, the hand on the steering wheel looked strangely white.

The car roared off and disappeared into the darkness. Its two rear lights glowed like red dots, like two blood-red eyes staring at me, and then they went out. Right then, the rain began to pour. In a minute I was soaked. I went back to my bike. It was exactly 2:30 a.m., and there was still no one at the pump. I decided to go on with the little fuel I had, hoping to find another station along the way.

The Passenger on My Bike

I started the bike and got back onto the highway. It was raining, and the road was completely empty. After three or four kilometres, the rain suddenly became ferocious. It was so heavy that I could not see the road five arm-lengths ahead. Water filled my helmet, and the drops fell so thick and hard that it felt as if someone were throwing stones from the sky. I slowed down to 40.

But even at 40, the bike would not slow down. It felt as if someone were pushing it from behind. I pressed the brakes, and they were working fine, yet the bike would not stop. An invisible hand was shoving me forward.

Then my eyes fell on the side mirror, a small round mirror covered in raindrops. In it I saw someone sitting right behind me on the bike seat. My whole body went numb. A figure was wrapped in a black sheet from head to toe. From what I could see of the head, he was unnaturally tall, with shoulders far too broad for any human. No light reflected from the sheet, only a deep, pitch-black darkness. He sat calmly. He did not move. He only breathed, and with each breath the air grew colder.

A cold wind slid down my back, as if some ancient corpse were stroking my shoulders. The handlebar shook in my hands, and the rear wheel slipped on the wet road. I got it under control, but by then a hand had already landed on my left shoulder. It was a trembling hand with unnaturally long fingers, like long sticks of ice reaching down to my chest. The cold went straight through my thick jacket, into my skin, my bones, my marrow.

In terror, I slammed the brakes and the bike slid and tipped to the left. I put my foot down, and it sank into the mud at the roadside. I tried to jump off and run, but I could not pull my foot out. The hand on my shoulder gripped so hard that I could not move an inch from the bike. My body felt ten times heavier. Somehow, shaking all over, I got the bike upright and started it again. With one hand on the accelerator, I rushed forward.

The rain grew heavier. The streetlights seemed to go out one by one. The road ahead no longer looked like the Dhaka–Sylhet highway, as if it had been carried off to some other place. The man behind me did not move or speak. His hand simply stayed on my shoulder, growing heavier with every moment, as if someone had placed a huge stone there. I was close to fainting. Then, far ahead, I saw a faint light from a shop, and it gave me a little courage.

I rode toward the light for I don’t know how long, until I saw a small tea stall beside the road. It was a tin shed with a tube light hanging in front. But the light was strange, a bluish white, as if it would swallow me whole. The shopkeeper sat there drinking tea. A couple of bikes stood in front of the shop, but there was no sign of their owners. “Those bikes have been standing here for a long time,” the shopkeeper said. “I don’t know where the owners went.”

I stopped my bike in front of the shop and tried to switch off the engine, but it would not stop. Even in that cold, I was sweating. The shopkeeper looked at me in surprise, and in a trembling voice I said, “Brother, please look. Someone is sitting behind me on my bike. He is gripping my shoulder.”

Frightened, the shopkeeper took a torch in his shaking hand and came toward me. But the moment he got close to my bike, the torch went out. It was not dead, because the battery was fine. He checked it and switched it on, and it lit up again. But every time he brought it near my bike, it went dark. He stared at me with wide, frightened eyes.

Then I felt it. The man behind me took his hand off my shoulder. It was a wet, cold, slippery hand. This time I was able to get off the bike. It felt as if a mountain of weight had been lifted from my shoulder. When the light finally fell on the seat, our eyes were drawn to it. There was a wet mark on it, exactly the same shape I had seen on the car seat at the filling station.

The shopkeeper shone the light on the back seat, and this time it did not go out, because the man was gone. He looked around, shook his head and said, “What are you saying, brother? There is no one on your bike. Are you seeing things on a night like this?” I rubbed my eyes and looked again. The seat was empty. But what about the wet mark? I pointed at it with a shaking finger. “That mark.” The shopkeeper bent down and looked closely. “What mark? The seat is just wet from the rain. I don’t see anything.” I looked again, and the mark was gone. Could it be only my eyes? Was he showing himself only to me? It was a horrifying moment, and goosebumps ran over my skin.

The shopkeeper smiled a little, but there was pity in that smile, as if he were looking at a madman. “Brother, eyes play tricks on rainy nights. Sit down and have a cup of hot tea. It will warm you up and clear your eyes.” I did not agree. As I stepped toward the shop, I smelled that same rotten odour coming from inside, the very smell I had noticed in the car. Was it in the tea cups too? Could the shopkeeper smell it as well?

“No, brother, I won’t have tea. I should go,” I said and turned toward my bike. Then the shopkeeper gave a mysterious, low laugh and whispered, “All right, dear. But be careful. If you see anything on the road, don’t stop. Especially if someone calls out to you. Some may even say there has been an accident and ask you to stop the vehicle. Ignore them. Understand?” And he laughed again in that strange way. The way he said those last words was so odd, as if he knew what I had seen. Who had been sitting behind me? I looked back once more. The shopkeeper was laughing, but his eyes were glittering. Did he know me? Did he know what would happen to me on this road, at this hour?

I pulled myself together, thanked him, and started the bike again. And once more I felt that touch on my shoulder, colder than before and heavier than before. I kept repeating the name of Allah in my heart.

The Bridge Where It Ended

As I rode on, my eyes suddenly caught something in an empty stretch beside the highway. It was the Prado. A black car, the same model, the same number plate. I went closer and saw it parked right at the edge of the road. The windows were closed, yet the lights inside were on, a strange bluish glow. The engine was running without a sound, and I could only feel a vibration from outside.

I slowed down, stopped beside the car, and got off the bike. I walked to the driver’s side window, which was open. The rotten smell coming from inside was even stronger now. I leaned in and called, “Sir? Sir, is anyone inside?” There was no answer, only the faint vibration of the engine and a whisper, as if someone were talking quietly, though I could not make out the words.

I switched on my phone’s flashlight and shone it on the driver’s seat. It was empty. But on the seat lay a mobile phone with its screen lit and a message open. I read it. It said, “I am in the back seat.”

All the blood in my body seemed to turn to ice. I picked up the phone, and, believe it or not, it was colder than ice. The message was timed 1:30 a.m., before he had even reached the filling station. I turned around fearfully. Nobody was behind me, and nobody was in front. Where had the man gone?

Just then my eyes fell on my bike parked beside the car. On the back seat of my bike sat the gentleman from the car. It was the same man, the same expensive coat and glasses. But this time the lens of his glasses was cracked, like glass broken in a car accident. One sleeve of his coat was torn, and there were dark stains of dried blood. His face was calm. His gaze was fixed and unblinking on something I could not see. Slowly he turned his head toward me and said, “Thank you, brother. The car was too cramped. I couldn’t breathe. The seat on the bike is much more open. Now, let’s go.”

I stared at his face for several seconds. It was still and empty of any emotion. Every nerve in my head was ready to snap with terror, and one scream filled my mind: run. But my body would not obey. My throat was dry and no sound came out. My feet felt rooted to the ground. In a dry voice, like a man under a spell, I asked, “Where to?” He did not answer. He only slowly raised his right hand and pointed down the road. It was a hand I had never seen before.

I did not ask anything more. In truth, I could not. Some strange compulsion had taken my body away from me. I obeyed the man sitting behind me. I climbed onto the bike, and he sat behind me. His body was so cold that mine began to freeze. The bike started to move. I did not dare look back. I could hear his breathing. He did not move. He only breathed, and his breath was so cold that it felt as if someone were pouring ice down my back. I just looked straight ahead and rode.

I checked my watch, but its hands had stopped. Time itself had stopped, or was I moving outside of time? Sometimes I felt I was still on the Dhaka–Sylhet highway, and the next moment I felt I had never seen this road in my life. With all my strength I screamed, “Who are you really? What are you?” There was no answer. Only silence all around. After a while came a faint, muffled voice: “Keep going, brother.” It carried a strange hint of menace. I did not dare say anything more.

Then I saw a light in the distance. It was Kanchpur Bridge. Its lights were flickering, one on, one off, like blinking eyes. As we got close to the bridge, the hand on my shoulder lifted. Instead, someone put their mouth near my ear and whispered, very softly, “Stop here.”

I hit the brakes and the bike stopped. The man got off from behind and walked away. I watched without blinking. In the direction he was walking, I could see a car. I looked carefully. It was the same car. But I had just seen it parked at the roadside. How had it come to be here? I could not make the pieces fit. My mind had stopped working.

The car lay tilted against the bridge railing, its front completely crushed. The engine had been thrown out of place. The side door was caved in. One tyre had come off and was caught in the railing, and the other had burst. Both headlights were dead. Broken glass lay scattered around it, and there were bloodstains, and the stains looked old, as if the accident had happened long ago. The rainwater was spreading the blood in thin streams in every direction.

The man walked up to the car and stood there. From behind, I heard him start to weep, sobbing with a grief, pain and anguish so deep that the sound echoed across the bridge and the silent city. “Sir, what happened?” I called from a distance. He lifted his head and looked at me. Tears ran down his face, and there was a drop of blood near his glasses. In a trembling voice he said, “Brother, please help me.”

Without meaning to, I ran toward the car. The rain was falling and everything in front of my eyes was blurred. Inside, a man was trapped in the driver’s seat. His body was slumped forward, his head against the steering wheel so hard that it had pushed into it. One side of his face was hidden by blood. There was a deep wound on his forehead, and I could see bone. His glasses lay broken. I reached through the broken window and pressed my fingers to the side of his neck. There was no pulse. The body was cold, so cold that my fingers began to freeze. The man was dead. It was a horrifying sight, and my heart almost stopped.

The man who had come with me stopped crying and said, “We have to get him out.” “But he is dead,” I said. “I know,” he said. He said it in a strange way, with helplessness in his voice and a kind of strange acceptance.

Together we began to pull the dead man out. He held one side and I held the other. As I touched his hand, I flinched as if I had been given an electric shock. His hand was as cold as a corpse’s, so cold that my own hand went numb. With great difficulty we pulled the body out of the car. A broken piece of wood cut my hand, and it bled. At last, with great effort, I laid the body down on the bridge.

The rain kept falling on the body and washing the blood away. The face became a little clearer. I stood up straight, panting. The yellow light of the streetlamp on the bridge fell on the dead man’s face and glimmered in the raindrops, sometimes brighter, sometimes dimmer. By now the blood had been washed clean from his face.

At that moment I looked at the dead man’s face. What can I say? When I saw it, all the strength drained out of me in a single moment. My legs gave way and I sat down, holding the bridge railing. My hands began to shake and my whole body trembled as if with a high fever. I knew this dead man. I knew him very well. This was the man I had carried on my bike all this time. The same coat, soaked with blood and rain. The same glasses, now broken. The same face, even though the bone of his forehead was exposed from the crash. The same hairstyle, all matted with blood. I was certain. This was the man who had come to me at the filling station, who had sat behind me on my bike, who had brought me here.

For several seconds I could not make a sound. Slowly I raised my eyes from the body and looked at the man standing in front of me. It was the same face. I stepped back, my feet stumbling, until my back was against the railing. I screamed, “Who are you? You are dead! I just pulled your body out. Then who are you?”

He was looking at the body and murmuring something. Then he turned to me. I turned my eyes from the corpse to him. In a very calm voice he said, “Brother, please deliver my body.” Having said that, he turned and began to walk away. His feet touched the ground, but there was no sound of footsteps. The raindrops did not seem to fall on his body.

I shouted, “Sir, wait! What should I do? Where should I take the body?” He stopped and looked back. There was a faint smile on his face, and that smile pierced my soul. “They will do what they have to do with their dead,” he said. “You just take the body to the police station. And one last thing. On rainy nights, don’t call after me again.” Then he kept walking. I stood frozen in the rain. After a few steps, he vanished into thin air.

After that, nothing. I was alone on the bridge with a dead body and a twisted, wrecked car beside me. And my bike. On this very bike I had been carrying a dead man, a man who had come out to find his own body. My legs trembled. The rain fell on me, but I could not feel it. All my senses felt as if they were shutting down. I looked at the body. It lay with its legs straight and its hands on its chest. The face was peaceful, as if he were asleep. The blood had been washed away by the rain. I looked at the corpse and knew that this was exactly the same man.

My hands shook. I dropped my phone twice while trying to take it out. The screen was wet and the touch would not work properly. At last I called 999. My throat was so dry I could only say, “Accident. Kanchpur Bridge. Dead body.”

The police arrived after about 40 minutes. For those 40 minutes I stood on the bridge in the rain, staring at the body, wondering whether I was going mad or dreaming. When the police came, the headlights of their vehicle fell on the dead man’s face, and in that light I saw a smile on the corpse’s lips. It was the same smile I had seen on the man’s face as he said goodbye.

The police asked me everything. Who was I? How had I found the place? Where had I come from? Did I recognise the car? I answered mostly with yes or no. They looked at the body, the car, my bike, and then at me, soaked and shaking, with madness in my eyes. They glanced at each other, and one of them said, “Give him a cup of tea and take him to a doctor.” I said, “I’m fine. It’s just the body, his words…” Then I stopped. How could I say it? How could I tell them that I had carried a dead man on my bike? How could I say that he himself had called me here?

“Nothing,” I said. “I didn’t see the accident happen. I was passing this way and found this scene. When I came close to the car, I found him inside. I pulled him out, laid him down, and called 999. Then you came.” The police lifted the body into their vehicle and seized the car. Since I had been at the scene, they took me along to the police station. Under the lights there, I saw myself in a mirror. My face was pale, with dark circles under my eyes.

It took about two hours to finish all the formalities at the station. There were questions, my statement, paperwork. I told them everything I had seen and done. But I did not tell them about the man on my bike. I could not, because there is no place on a police form to write about ghosts.

I got home around 10 a.m. The rain had stopped and the sun was out, but the cold of that night still clung to my body, deep in my bones. I could not forget that touch. When I changed my clothes and stood in front of the mirror, my eyes froze on a black mark on my shoulder, the spot where the man had placed his hand. It was the imprint of five fingers, as if someone had burned them into my skin.

I could not think any more. I made tea, but my throat was so dry that I could not swallow anything. I turned on the TV. The news said that a businessman had been killed in a horrific road accident the previous day near the Dhaka–Sylhet highway. A passport-size photo appeared on the screen. I sat staring at it without moving. It was the same face I had seen at the filling station, the man I had carried on my bike, the man whose body I had pulled from the car and laid on the bridge.

I keep asking myself whether I will ever be able to forget this. No, never. Because every time it rains at night, I hear a long sigh from the seat behind me. And then a hoarse voice:

Brother, please deliver my body.