The beam cut through the shadows as Vikram stepped onto the gravel beside the tracks. The air was cooler here, the noise of the station muffled. He swept the light across the ground, catching glints of broken glass and discarded wrappers. Then, something else—a single gold bangle, half-buried in the dirt. He crouched, careful not to touch it. It matched Ramesh’s description. His pulse quickened

The air at Ratlam Junction was thick with the scent of coal smoke and chai, the platform buzzing with the chaos of a late-night train delay. It was 11:47 PM, and the Ujjain-Bhopal Express was nowhere in sight. Inspector Vikram Solanki leaned against a rusted pillar, his khaki uniform slightly crumpled, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Ratlam, a dusty railway hub in Madhya Pradesh, was no stranger to oddities, but tonight felt different. A chill hung in the air, not from the weather but from a report that had landed on his desk an hour ago: a missing person, last seen at this very station.

The complainant, a wiry man named Ramesh Gupta, stood nearby, wringing his hands. “She was right here, Inspector,” he stammered, pointing to a bench near Platform 3. “My sister, Meena. She said she’d wait for me while I got tickets. I was gone ten minutes, and when I came back, she was gone. Her bag, her phone—everything’s still here.” He gestured to a worn blue satchel on the bench, untouched.

Vikram flicked his cigarette away and crouched to inspect the bag. Inside were a shawl, a water bottle, and a Nokia phone, its screen cracked but still functional. No signs of a struggle, no blood, no torn fabric. Just absence. He glanced at the platform clock: 11:52 PM. The crowd was thinning, but vendors still hawked their wares, and a few passengers dozed on benches. Ratlam Junction was a labyrinth of tracks, tea stalls, and shadowed corners—perfect for someone to vanish.

“Any enemies? Anyone who’d want to hurt her?” Vikram asked, his voice low but sharp.

Ramesh shook his head. “Meena’s a schoolteacher. Quiet, keeps to herself. We were just passing through to visit our aunt in Bhopal.”

Vikram’s gut told him this wasn’t a random snatch. Ratlam Junction had a reputation—whispers of a “phantom” who preyed on lone travelers, though no one had ever been caught. The stories were vague: a figure in a hooded jacket, seen one moment, gone the next. Superstition, maybe, but Vikram didn’t dismiss anything. He’d seen too much in his ten years on the force.

He called over Constable Shinde, a lanky officer with a habit of chewing paan. “Seal the platform exits. Check the CCTV footage from the last hour. And get me a list of everyone on duty tonight—ticket clerks, coolies, vendors, everyone.”

Shinde nodded and scurried off. Vikram turned back to Ramesh. “Describe her. Exactly.”

“Medium height, long braid, green saree, gold bangles. She was reading a book—some Hindi novel,” Ramesh said, his voice cracking.

Vikram scanned the platform. No green saree, no braid. His eyes caught a flicker of movement near the tracks, where the platform dipped into darkness. He grabbed his flashlight and motioned for Ramesh to stay put. “Don’t move.”

The beam cut through the shadows as Vikram stepped onto the gravel beside the tracks. The air was cooler here, the noise of the station muffled. He swept the light across the ground, catching glints of broken glass and discarded wrappers. Then, something else—a single gold bangle, half-buried in the dirt. He crouched, careful not to touch it. It matched Ramesh’s description. His pulse quickened.

“Inspector!” Shinde’s voice broke the silence. Vikram straightened and jogged back to the platform, where Shinde stood with a nervous-looking ticket clerk. “This is Anil. He says he saw something.”

Anil, a scrawny man with sweat-streaked glasses, fidgeted. “I saw a woman in a green saree, sir. Near the water tank, maybe twenty minutes ago. She was talking to someone—a man, I think. Couldn’t see his face. He was wearing a jacket, hood up.”

Vikram’s jaw tightened. The phantom. “Which way did they go?”

Anil pointed toward the far end of the platform, where the tracks curved into a tunnel used for maintenance. “Toward the old yard.”

The yard was a graveyard of rusted bogies and overgrown weeds, rarely patrolled. Vikram grabbed his radio. “Shinde, get backup. We’re checking the yard.” To Ramesh, he said, “Stay here. If you see anything, shout.”

The old yard was a maze of shadows, the air heavy with the smell of oil and decay. Vikram’s flashlight danced across abandoned carriages, their windows dark and hollow. He moved silently, his service revolver drawn. The tunnel loomed ahead, a black maw swallowing the light. He paused, listening. A faint sound—metal on metal, like a chain clinking—came from inside.

He stepped into the tunnel, the air damp and cold. His flashlight caught a glimpse of fabric—green, shimmering faintly. “Meena!” he called, his voice echoing. No answer. He moved deeper, the clinking louder now. At the tunnel’s end, he saw her: Meena, bound and gagged, slumped against the wall. A figure in a hooded jacket stood over her, a crowbar in hand.

“Police! Drop it!” Vikram shouted, aiming his revolver. The figure froze, then bolted, vanishing into a side passage. Vikram cursed but didn’t pursue. He knelt beside Meena, checking her pulse. Alive, but unconscious. He cut her bonds with his pocketknife and radioed for medical help.

By the time backup arrived, the hooded figure was gone. Meena was rushed to the hospital, groggy but unharmed. She described her attacker as a man with a scar across his cheek, his voice rough, like he smoked too much. The bangle in the dirt, the CCTV footage, and Anil’s testimony pointed to a local thug, Sanjay “Scorpion” Yadav, known for extorting travelers. The phantom, it seemed, was no ghost.

Vikram sat at his desk later, the station quiet now, the Ujjain-Bhopal Express finally chugging away. Sanjay was still out there, but the net was closing. Ratlam Junction would sleep tonight, but Vikram wouldn’t. Not until the phantom was in cuffs.