The rain came down hard, not just as weather—but as a mood. It pelted the windshield of the old black cab like it had unfinished business with the earth. Fog curled like smoke across the empty road as the car crept along Mirror Lane, where broken streetlamps blinked like dying eyes.
Aarav tugged at the collar of his jacket, watching the shadows shift outside the window. Then he saw it.
The house.
Three stories of forgotten elegance. Arched windows, ivy-stained balconies, and shutters barely hanging on. Even in the gloom, it stood proud—and unsettling. The locals had dozens of names for it: The Widow's Lair, The House of Screams, Shadow's Nest. But officially, it was known as the Darshan House.
He'd inherited it from a relative he'd never met—his grandmother's sister. The paperwork was neat, the legal trail short. No disputes. No warnings. Just one sentence: "The house is yours now."
"You sure about this, sahib?" the cabbie asked, eyes glued to the road. "Bad things… they say this house eats people."
Aarav's voice was firm. "I don't believe in that crap."
The cabbie mumbled something under his breath, maybe a prayer, maybe a curse, and drove off the moment Aarav stepped out.
Rain drenched his boots as he dragged his suitcase down the weed-choked path. The iron gate shrieked when he opened it, like it hadn't moved in years. The house loomed above him, watching.
Inside, the silence hit like a slap.
The door closed behind him with a deep thud. Not a creak. A thud.
The air was thick—dust, damp wood, and an odd sweetness like rotting roses. A chandelier hung above the grand foyer, swaying ever so slightly, though there was no breeze. No power, either. The place had been abandoned for years.
Aarav wandered forward, taking it all in. Portraits of unsmiling ancestors lined the walls, their eyes following him like he was a secret they already knew. A marble staircase wound up into darkness. An old piano sat under a dusty cloth in the corner.
He pulled the cover off.
One key chimed. Just one. A single, lonely note rang out into the silence.
He froze.
"Must be the wind," he muttered.
But it wasn't.
He turned toward the staircase—and saw her.
A woman. Standing barefoot halfway up the stairs, wrapped in a pink sari. Her hair long, wet. Her face unreadable. Her eyes… familiar?
And then she was gone.
He rushed up the steps, calling out. "Hello? Anyone here?"
Room after room—empty. Just old furniture, cobwebs, silence. The master bedroom door creaked open to a colder air than outside.
On the nightstand sat a letter. His name on it.
"To Aarav,
If you're reading this, then the house has already awakened.
Be careful who you trust—especially those who seem too familiar.
Blood remembers.
So does vengeance.
—Mira."
Mira? The name meant nothing to him. But as he turned the envelope over, a photo slipped out.
Black and white. A man who looked exactly like him, standing next to a woman in a pink sari.
Behind them stood the house.
The photo was dated 1932.
To Be Continued…