Horror:Highway Restaurant

Horror:Highway Restaurant
By: Manjur Chowdhury
Today’s story is about a friend from Sylhet.
It happened in the life of a very close friend who prefers to remain anonymous, so let’s call him Asif.
Asif was in college then, born and raised in Sylhet. After passing his SSC exams, his parents enrolled him in a college in Dhaka. We were left behind at Sylhet MC College—hanging out more than attending classes, roaming the city with the air of “having grown up.”
Meanwhile, poor Asif was busy making new friends in the distant city of Dhaka. New city, new people, a new environment, and the pressure of the huge HSC syllabus! We missed him, but he missed us even more.
He was the son of a wealthy family. His father had various businesses; they lived in a massive two-story house in Sylhet with beautiful gardens in the front and back, where white rabbits played. At one point, they supposedly even had deer. The internal staircase was so grand it looked like a location for a movie shoot. Whenever I visited, I’d imagine Asif’s rich father, dressed in a suit and tie, descending the stairs, pipe in hand, to tell some poor hero, “Tell me, how much money do you want to leave my daughter’s life?”
The hero would then counter-threaten, “Mr. Chowdhury! You can buy everything with money, but you cannot buy love!”
He would then roar, “Silence!” (A thunderous, heart-stopping Khamosh!)
Asif didn’t have a sister, so the stairs served no purpose other than for going up and down. What a pity!
The Journey to Sylhet
During his college first-year winter break, Asif was returning to Sylhet. His uncle never trusted Bangladeshi buses, trains, or any public transport. He always felt they took to the roads only to cause accidents. Incredibly, Asif had never taken a Bangladeshi train in his life. He always traveled by private car or plane. Yet, some of my fondest childhood memories were of train journeys—the scramble among my three siblings for the window seat. We would watch, fascinated, as farmers plowed fields with oxen, buffalo herds submerged in ponds with just their noses visible, the busy days of village housewives, solitary birds perched solemnly on telegraph wires beside the tracks, and village kids rushing to jump into the water bodies. We’d think they were enjoying all the happiness in life! When the Intercity Express train whistled and rushed through the jungles and tea gardens of Sreemangal, it felt like we were diving into a green ocean. The words “Uन्नt MoMo Shir” (My head is held high) carved into the Bhatiari hills near Chittagong still stir my blood, and the lonely, melancholic ship floating on the distant sea visible through the train window! How else could one see all this if not by train?
Of course, Uncle couldn’t be solely blamed. Back then, news of numerous fatalities from road and water accidents was reported daily. Moreover, his own beloved college friend had died in a road accident. So, he arranged a private car for Asif in Dhaka: a Toyota Prado. It was a gigantic SUV, a monstrous gas guzzler. A college student didn’t need such a luxurious vehicle, but Uncle believed that even in a head-on collision, this vehicle would survive. He used a similarly heavy car himself. If he could have afforded it, the whole family would have traveled in a military tank.
Asif set off for Sylhet in the Toyota Prado. Despite leaving after lunch, they were stuck in massive traffic jams in areas like Jatrabari and Sayedabad, and it was already evening by the time they left Dhaka city. After exiting Dhaka, however, traffic eased. The car maintained a steady speed. It was dark outside, with only the dim lights of shops, buildings, or distant houses visible along the highway. It was a winter night, a half-moon obscured by clouds and fog. There was no way to see the beauty of the countryside.
As the car proceeded towards Sylhet, the traffic thinned out. Occasionally, some long-distance passenger buses sped past like meteors. Their aggressive driving clearly explained the high rate of road accidents in Bangladesh.
The Fog
Asif was sitting in the passenger seat beside the driver, Milton (also a pseudonym), who had been with the family for years. Milton had driven Asif’s mother to the hospital when she went into labor. He was a very cautious driver, highly trusted by Uncle. He drove with his eyes, ears, and nose wide open.
A cassette was playing loudly on the car’s cassette player—an English band. I can’t remember the band or the album now. But I remember Asif felt drowsy as the car drove on. It was hard to keep his eyes open. Usually, he was a young man who stayed up late, so feeling sleepy so early was unusual.
Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t keep his eyelids up. He cranked up the volume—the foreign metal singer kept screaming along the melody, but to no avail. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep. Milton Bhai was driving; that’s all that mattered.
He didn’t know how long he had slept. When he woke up, he was still in the car, and Milton Bhai was sitting beside him, but the car was parked by the side of the road. A thick curtain of white smoke surrounded the car. Nothing was visible ahead or behind.
Asif was startled.
“What happened, Milton Bhai?”
Milton Bhai, speaking in Sylheti dialect, replied in standard Bengali: “Fog has set in. So I stopped the car and we are waiting.”
Indeed, the fog was incredibly dense—the thickest Asif had ever seen. He couldn’t see a hand’s length ahead.
Time passed, but the fog’s density didn’t lessen. Strange! Does this ever happen? How much longer would they have to wait? But there was nothing to be done. Driving forward carried a high risk of an accident.
Asif checked his wristwatch. Oddly, the battery was dead! The hands were frozen. The car clock was also frozen. In those days, mobile phones were a luxury, carried only by wealthy parents. It was out of the question for college students.
Every now and then, the sounds of cars, buses, and trucks could be heard. None of them were stopping. They were cutting through the blanket of fog, moving forward.
Milton Bhai commented about them, “They don’t die easily; they die for nothing.”
The Restaurant
He couldn’t recall exactly how long after, but the fog slightly thinned. Milton Bhai said, “Bismillahi Majreha wa Murshaaha Inna Rabbi Laghafurur Rahim” (In the name of God it shall sail and anchor; my Lord is indeed Forgiving and Merciful), and started the engine again. Noah (A.S.) had said this prayer upon boarding his famous Ark; Muslims often recite it when boarding any vehicle.
The car started moving slowly. But judging by Milton Bhai’s expression, he wasn’t driving comfortably.
It was then that Asif felt a terrible hunger. An unbelievable hunger. As if he hadn’t eaten for days, whatever went into his stomach would be instantly digested. His stomach felt capable of digesting even iron.
Clutching his belly, he said, “Milton Bhai, stop if you find a restaurant anywhere. I need to eat.”
Milton Bhai knew Asif didn’t eat just anywhere. As the son of a wealthy family, he wasn’t used to roadside food, which could give him an upset stomach. Uncle would scold him for it.
But Asif insisted, “Any restaurant will do. Rice, biryani, or even bread—it doesn’t matter. Pull over even if it’s a shanty shop.”
Milton Bhai drove on, keeping a careful eye on the roadside. It was strange! They had driven so far, yet the fog wasn’t lifting. This never happens. No matter how dense the fog, it usually covers only a small area. Yet this one seemed to envelop the whole country.
Suddenly, he had the strange feeling that the fog might be traveling with them. It sounded so bizarre that he quickly dismissed the idea.
To Asif, the scene felt like flying through clouds in an airplane. When traveling abroad, planes pass through cloud layers, and looking out the window gives a similar sensation.
After driving quite a distance, Milton Bhai pulled the car over. A house by the roadside showed a bright light. It looked like a shop. Maybe they could find some food!
They got out of the car and cautiously walked toward the light. Luckily, it was a restaurant! Chairs and tables were set up. A person was seated at the register, reading something with his head down. He looked up, surprised, at them.
Asif was also quite surprised by the man. He was a handsome young man in snow-white attire, with a robust physique and face. Though sitting, he looked tall. Clean-shaven, hair neatly combed. His eyes were beautiful, the pupils gray. Back then, Hrithik Roshan was a superstar in Indian cinema. The man’s eyes looked just like Hrithik’s—shimmering.
“Do you have food, brother?” Asif asked. The man nodded affirmatively.
“Bring whatever you have, quickly.”
The man asked, “What would you like to eat?”
“Rice, fish, meat—whatever you can prepare fast, bring that.” Asif’s stomach was twisting with cramps. He felt like he would faint if he didn’t eat right away. He now understood why the poet Sukanta had wanted to chew the moon like bread.
“Have a seat. I’m bringing it.”
The boy’s accent had no Sylheti or familiar regional flavor. Nor was it perfectly standard Bengali. Asif couldn’t quite place the accent.
They walked inside the restaurant. The interior was quite clean. However, it wasn’t like a typical rural hotel or restaurant. In fact, it wasn’t like any familiar city restaurant either. The room was flooded with intense white light from what looked like tube lights. How many lights had they turned on? It hurt the eyes to keep them open. And the walls were dazzling white. So white that it seemed the light was radiating from the walls themselves. Not a single calendar, picture frame, wall clock, or Quranic verse was hanging there. How could a rural restaurant keep its walls so dazzling white? Had it been painted today? With plastic paint?
While the walls and ceiling were white, the floor was pitch black. So much so that it seemed light wasn’t reflected but absorbed—like a black hole from science books. It was sparklingly clean. Not a speck of dirt. Perhaps it had just been washed. Walking on such a floor with shoes felt like a crime.
They moved toward an empty table. Pulling out a chair, Asif realized it wasn’t plastic, iron, or wood. Neither he nor Milton Bhai could identify the material. The chairs and tables were light yet sturdy and durable.
The people at the surrounding tables were also strange. They were staring intently at them, not talking among themselves. Asif didn’t notice this much; he couldn’t stand the hunger. You know how extreme hunger makes you see spots? That’s how he felt. His mind was focused only on a plate of hot rice, chicken curry, and a bowl of beef.
Milton Bhai looked around nervously, mumbling. What was he reciting? A Surah? A prayer? Asif didn’t care to know.
A waiter brought a jug of water and glasses, saying, “Wait a moment. Food is coming.”
He looked like the younger brother of the man at the register. His eyes were also gray, and they looked very similar.
Asif said, “Brother, please hurry. I’m starving!”
As the waiter left, Milton Bhai whispered, “Brother, let’s go. Let’s eat somewhere else.”
Asif was bewildered. What did that mean? What was the problem here?
Milton Bhai seemed to read his mind. He lowered his voice even further and said, “Let’s go somewhere else. Right now.”
This was not a request, but an order, delivered with urgency. Asif had known Milton Bhai since birth. He wasn’t the kind of person to say such a thing for no reason. Something must have happened. He could be trusted.
Though his hunger pangs were excruciating, he stood up.
The Escape
Just then, the man from the register appeared right in front of him. The event was so sudden that Asif was genuinely startled. He hadn’t seen him walk over; the man seemed to have materialized out of thin air.
“What’s the matter, young man? Where are you going? You’re not eating here?” The man’s voice was hoarse, as if he had a cold.
Before Asif could speak, Milton Bhai interjected, “We have an urgent task; we must leave immediately.”
The man turned to Milton Bhai and said, “What could be more urgent than food? Sit down and eat. Your task will wait for you.”
There was an arrogance in his tone. Since they wanted them to eat, they had no other option.
But Milton Bhai was firm.
“No, we must leave right now.”
At this, the other customers in the restaurant spoke up in unison: “No, sit down. Eat and then leave. Go a little later.”
This time, Asif was terrified. How could everyone speak the exact same sentence in chorus? As if they had rehearsed it. Not a word was out of place. This was not normal.
When Milton Bhai moved forward, a man blocked his path. The man was quite tall. Asif noticed the other customers also rising. They were all the same height. They all wore the same milky-white attire, like a uniform that had just been taken out of a new package to be worn while eating here. And, astonishingly, all of them had gray eyes!
Milton Bhai grabbed Asif’s hand and pulled hard, saying, “Run! Run towards the car! Run for your life!”
Asif immediately started running as instructed. Milton Bhai ran too. None of the restaurant people chased them. Once outside, they quickly opened the car door and got inside. Milton Bhai started the engine and switched on the headlights, only to find that the restaurant, houses, buildings—everything that had been there just moments ago, where they had been sitting, and from where they had fled—was gone! In its place was complete darkness. However, in the car’s headlights, many pairs of eyes glowed—just like a dog’s eyes reflect car lights on a dark night.
Milton Bhai started reciting the Ayatul Kursi loudly. He was panting from the run, taking deep breaths, and slammed down on the accelerator. The V6 engine monster roared like a wild beast and sped off. Asif wanted to see if anyone was following them. Milton Bhai shouted, “Don’t look back! Look forward! Take the name of Allah! Recite the Surah loudly!”
Asif also began reciting the Ayatul Kursi, very loudly.
The Toyota Prado roared, cutting through the winter fog with the combined noise of the engine and tires, speeding toward the highway. Within moments, they were on the main road. After a sharp turn, Milton Bhai sped onto the highway. The curtain of fog had completely lifted. The surroundings were the usual highway scene: shops, people, houses, paddy fields, and trees. Yet, Milton Bhai was still breathing heavily and driving like a meteor, continuously reciting the Ayatul Kursi.
“Allahu La Ilaha Illahu Wal Hayyul Qayyum…”
Strangely, the overwhelming hunger was gone from Asif’s stomach. Had the fear killed it?
“Who were they?” Asif asked.
Milton Bhai replied, “Don’t talk now. Take the name of Allah. I will tell you later.”
The Explanation
Milton Bhai calmed down only after they reached the house in Sylhet. It was as if his fever had broken after a sweat.
He had instructed Asif not to tell anyone in the family. Asif kept silent. His aunt believed strongly in such things and would be terrified. She might stop his studies in Dhaka and hang eight or ten tabij (amulets) around his neck.
That night, Asif tried to sleep after dinner, but nightmares prevented him from getting proper rest. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw a tall person in white staring at him with glittering eyes. He had never seen such an intense gaze in his young life.
The next day, he met with us, his friends. In the evening, we ate shik kabab with parota at our usual restaurant in Chowhatta and then gathered on the roof of my house, as always. We shared long-held stories, from what happened in our classes, which friend misbehaved, to trivial things like a kite’s nest on a tall cotton tree in front of my house and the ‘golden-winged kite’ of Jibanananda circling overhead. Yet, he didn’t tell us about the crucial event from the night before.
The morning after that, Asif asked Milton Bhai, who told him, “We fell into a huge trap.”
“Meaning?”
“Didn’t you notice that the fog was only for us? All the other cars around us were driving fine, right? Would it have been possible to drive in that fog?”
Asif was stunned. It was true. Even though they had stopped, other vehicles were moving. Yet, even with powerful fog lights, they couldn’t see anything in that dense fog. The duration and density of the fog were indeed unusual.
“When we sat at the table, I saw them all staring at us.”
“Yes, I noticed that too.”
“I then looked at the plates in front of them, and I saw raw meat.”
“What?”
“I mean, everyone had uncooked, raw meat on their plates. As if it had just been slaughtered, sliced, and put in front of them.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“And they were chewing it, munching it! Just like a tiger, lion, or dog eats. They weren’t using their hands; they were just lifting it with their mouths and chewing.”
Asif’s mouth fell open.
“Did you see that with your own eyes?”
Milton Bhai’s face was pale. He was still frozen in terror. This man was not someone to make up lies. He said, “Why else would I tell you to get up for no reason?”
“Right.”
“And did you notice that all their eyes were like a cat’s eyes?”
“I saw that.”
“Yes, they glittered when the light hit them. Human eyes don’t glow like that. And did you notice how they were standing? None of them were standing on the ground. They were floating in the air. I’m telling you, they were not human.”
Then, his voice completely changed, “They were the ‘Unara’ (The Respected Ones).”
“Who are the ‘Unara’?” Asif didn’t understand.
“One must not take their name,” Milton Bhai replied.
“Jinn?” Asif asked.
Milton Bhai immediately pressed his finger to his lips. “Shh! I told you not to take their name! Why do you? Jinn, but there are different kinds among them. There are many species and beasts in their world too.”
Asif scratched his head. He had little knowledge of jinn and ghosts.
“When we were speeding away, they were all standing right behind our car. I saw them in the rearview mirror. That’s why I told you not to look back. Maybe if you had looked, we wouldn’t have been able to escape in the car.”
“You’re telling me!” Asif was completely dumbfounded.
Milton Bhai concluded, “Allah saved us from a huge danger. We survived, and for that, we should offer millions of thanks to Him!”
When I heard the story from Asif, I also said to him, “You’re kidding me! How is that possible?”
Then I asked, “Can you tell me where that restaurant was?”
He replied, “On the Sylhet-Dhaka Highway. Past Habiganj, toward Sylhet. I couldn’t get the exact location. But I have never traveled that route at night again.”
“Are you serious? You never tried to find it again?”
Asif exclaimed, “Are you crazy like me? I miraculously escaped from the crocodile’s mouth once. Why would I dance and jump right back into its jaws?”
“But if you don’t face the mystery, how will you solve it? There must be a logical explanation for the incident.”
“Your logical explanation can go to…..” Asif swore. He had picked up the swear word from his new friends in Dhaka. Bad influence!
That was Asif’s story. Now, let me tell you why I suddenly brought up this old tale.
I heard the incident from Asif about 17-18 years ago. It’s tucked away safely in a file within the countless folders of my brain. I don’t need it, so I don’t pull it out and dust it off. Let the dust settle. I’m busy collecting new memories.
Last year, I went to Austin, Texas, for an urgent task. It’s about a three to three-and-a-half-hour drive from Dallas. I went during the day, finished the work in the evening, and decided to drive back home instead of staying the night.
I set off. At some point, there was terrible traffic congestion—irritating gridlock caused by the rush hour (office closing time), an accident, and construction, all at once. The car barely moved. After an hour, my patience snapped, and I left the Interstate Highway for an alternate route toward Dallas.
It was a cold, dark winter night. I was speeding through the countryside. My gaze was fixed on the road. The problem in this country is that wild deer or livestock escaping from farms can suddenly dart onto the road, leading to a major accident.
The GPS showed I still had two hours to reach home. I needed to charge the car battery near Dallas. Exhausted from the long day, I wanted to collapse into bed immediately. Just as I was wondering if driving at night had been a mistake, my world was suddenly shrouded in dense fog. The fog was so thick that I was forced to park the car by the side of the road. There was no cell service. God knows which deep village the GPS was leading me through! My mood soured with irritation. It was right then that a fierce hunger scrambled my head. Extreme hunger. I fast the entire month of Ramadan without eating the Sehri meal, so I’m well accustomed to going 24 hours without food. But even then, I don’t feel this kind of hunger. I felt like getting out of the car right now and eating whatever I could find.
I thought, whatever happens, happens—I’ll drive forward slowly. I’m sure to find a gas station somewhere on the roadside where I can stop and grab a bite.
I searched the GPS for nearby places to eat. It showed one just 1.5 miles away. I started driving toward it.
The advantage of a Tesla is that its monitor shows the lane, the car ahead, people, etc. Autodrive mode safely guides the car forward. I realized that while I couldn’t see anything ahead with my naked eyes in this dense fog, my car was navigating fine with its special cameras and sensors. I put the car on Autopilot and started driving very slowly, watching the monitor. I even found it amusing—like a video game.
Suddenly, the fog seemed to thin, and there was a store on my right. Whether it was a restaurant or a gas station wasn’t clear, but it was obvious they served food. The door was open, and the interior was brightly lit.
I was slightly startled because neither my GPS nor the car monitor showed any existence of this store. The monitor indicated the adjacent field was empty. I was just about to pull the car over when the old file containing Asif’s story popped up from a forgotten folder in my brain. Immediate, intense fear gripped me. The fog, the hunger, the roadside restaurant—everything matched! My hair stood on end. Had I stumbled upon a trap set by jinn or ghosts?
Forget the hunger, forget the food—I pressed the accelerator. The car sped back onto the road. After driving a short distance, the fog vanished! The road was clear. The vast Texan rural moon hung overhead. I increased the car’s speed. Let the police catch me. I had to escape.
I don’t know if I, too, was about to fall into the trap of an otherworldly restaurant, just like Asif. Or perhaps it was just my mind playing tricks. Maybe if I had stopped, I would have found a local restaurant that served the world’s best burger.
Who knows what it was! I never wanted to solve the mystery. Despite not believing in ghosts, I am utterly terrified of meeting one.