Sohini Das
The car stopped in front of the rusted gates of Windmere Lodge with a hiss, steam rising faintly from the bonnet like breath on a cold mirror. Devika Rao stepped out, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Mussoorie in late October was crueler than she’d expected. The sun had vanished behind a sheet of dull grey clouds, and even the pine trees looked like shadows painted against a darkening canvas. She looked up at the lodge — a two-storied colonial building half-swallowed by ivy and memory. The windows were arched, curtained in velvet too heavy for the season, and the front door was painted a tired shade of green that once might have been grand.
The caretaker appeared without a sound. “Miss Rao?” he asked, voice brittle as dried leaves. He was tall, lean, with hair the colour of slate and eyes that didn’t blink enough. She nodded. “Welcome to Windmere,” he said, as though welcoming her into a tomb. He led her inside. The wooden floors groaned beneath their steps. Faintly, she smelled old wood polish, something herbal, and beneath it, the unmistakable scent of damp earth. “We have four rooms. You’re in Room Five.”
She paused. “Room Five?”
“Yes,” he said, handing her an iron key on a ribbon of red lace. “It’s on the second floor, end of the hallway.”
“But you said there are only four rooms?”
He didn’t smile. “Room Five is… hardly ever used. You’re the only guest. It’s peaceful.”
Devika didn’t argue. She was here to document British-era lodges for a forgotten archive project no one really cared about. A week of solitude in the hills, away from Delhi’s noise, sounded perfect. The room, when she entered it, was beautiful. High ceilings, a fireplace with a faded portrait above it, a canopy bed with drapes like theatre curtains, and a view of the forest so close she could almost touch the deodar branches. The room looked lived in, but untouched. Not dusty. Not messy. Just… paused. Like someone had left in a hurry and would return any minute.
She noticed the rocking chair near the window. It was slowly moving. As if recently used. She froze. The caretaker had already left. She stepped forward, ran her fingers along the armrest. Cold. Still. She exhaled. “Old houses creak,” she muttered, trying to ground herself.
That night, she couldn’t sleep.
The lodge was too quiet. No generator hum, no wind chimes, not even the rustle of trees. Just a soft tick-tick of a clock somewhere, and the occasional creak from the wooden corridor. At 3:15 AM, something shifted. She sat up in bed. Her throat was dry, her ears strangely tuned. The sound came again.
Footsteps.
Above her.
She stared at the ceiling. But she was on the top floor. There was no room above. Just attic beams and dust. The footsteps continued for another few seconds and then stopped. She waited. Silence. Just when she thought it was over, she heard it — the faint chime of a music box. Like the kind little girls wound up in another century.
Morning came slow and silver.
At breakfast — a lone piece of toast and tea brought to her room — she mentioned it to the caretaker. “Do you keep anything in the attic?”
He looked up sharply. “You heard something?”
“Just… footsteps. Maybe rats?”
“There is no attic above your room, Miss Rao. Only roof.” He paused. “Old wood plays tricks.”
She didn’t reply. Instead, she wandered into the library downstairs — a large room filled with damp books, a dusty globe, and records no one played anymore. Near the window, she found a stack of newspapers tied with string. Curiosity overtook reason. She opened one. It was dated April 7th, 1897. The headline read: Mysterious Disappearance at Windmere House: Young Bride-to-Be Vanishes Without a Trace.
She blinked.
Windmere House. This house. She read on. The article spoke of a British girl named Eleanor Grace Ashford, age 19, set to be married to a tea planter. She vanished from her room the night before her engagement party. No signs of struggle. No trace ever found. Her room had been sealed.
The article ended with a chilling line: “Room Five is henceforth closed. The mirror in the room remains unbroken, yet no reflection stays within it.”
Devika slammed the paper shut.
When she returned to her room, her hands shaking only slightly, she noticed the music box on her nightstand. It hadn’t been there before. A silver box with floral engravings, slightly tarnished, and a ballerina frozen mid-spin. She opened it.
It played the same melody she had heard at 3:15 AM.
There was a small note inside, folded thrice. Faded ink, cursive letters.
“I miss the scent of roses. Please leave some by the window.”
Devika swallowed.
It could have been a joke. A prop. A clever touch by the lodge to charm guests. But nothing about the tone felt performative. The note was written by someone with aching hands. Someone who had waited too long.
That night, she placed a single white rose she’d picked near the garden by the window.
At 3:15 AM, the music began again.
And this time, the rocking chair wasn’t just moving.
It was occupied.
Devika didn’t scream. Something deep within her, something older than logic, told her not to. The figure in the rocking chair was barely visible — just a pale silhouette against the window, its back to her, hair long and wavy like a curtain of ink. The music box continued to chime, a delicate, lulling tune that didn’t match the sheer cold crawling across Devika’s skin. She clutched the edge of her blanket and blinked hard, once, twice. When her eyes opened again, the chair was still. Empty. The music had stopped. The white rose she had placed by the window was gone.
She didn’t sleep after that.
Morning arrived like a reluctant apology. The sun, weak and pale, barely penetrated the mist. Devika avoided the caretaker and chose instead to walk into town, her notebook pressed to her chest like armor. The streets were quiet, the shops still closed. She found an old bookstore with warped shelves and a bell that didn’t ring when she entered. The owner, a man who looked like he hadn’t smiled in years, nodded without looking up. She walked to the section marked Colonial Era and began scanning. Most books were boring — estate records, maps, tea industry histories. Then she found one titled The Vanishing Girls of the Himalayas by Dr. Sameer Malhotra.
She flipped to the index.
“Windmere Lodge – Page 147.”
She read. The book spoke of several unexplained disappearances of young women in hill stations during the 1800s. The case of Eleanor Grace Ashford was the most mysterious. According to the author, Eleanor was reportedly obsessed with mirrors, often seen staring into them for hours. Some villagers believed she had been “taken by her reflection,” an idea rooted in local lore — that some mirrors in the mountains weren’t meant for seeing yourself, but for being seen by something else. The chapter ended with a strange detail: “Three weeks before she disappeared, Eleanor repeatedly spoke of a girl in the mirror who looked like her but cried roses.”
Devika shut the book, bought it, and left without a word.
Back at Windmere, she climbed the stairs slowly. Room Five felt colder than before. The windows were closed, but she could still smell roses. A heavy, wet scent, too much like the ones used at funerals. On her nightstand was another note.
“I liked your hair down. May I braid it tonight?”
She dropped the note. Her legs trembled. She tried to tell herself this was some elaborate joke. Maybe a haunted house theme for Halloween. Maybe the caretaker was in on it. But no — there was no marketing, no website even. She had found Windmere Lodge through an old listing in a forgotten archive.
At night, she braided her own hair tightly and locked the door.
It didn’t help.
At 3:15 AM, the music began again. Soft, floating, coaxing her eyes open. This time, she pretended to sleep. She kept her breaths slow, eyes barely open. The room was dark, but the chair creaked steadily, back and forth. A whisper floated across the room — not words, but the sound of breath close to her ear. Her braid began to loosen, strand by strand. She could feel fingers — cold, weightless — brushing against her scalp.
She wanted to scream, but her body refused.
And then, just as suddenly, it stopped.
Silence.
The next morning, she found a braid of her hair placed carefully on her pillow, tied with a red ribbon. There was no note. No sign anyone had entered the room.
Devika ran downstairs. The caretaker was lighting incense in the hallway.
“What happened in this room?” she demanded.
He didn’t look surprised. He simply sighed, as if he’d been waiting. “Room Five was never meant to be used again.”
“Then why give it to me?”
“Because,” he said, “you asked for solitude. And Room Five… it chooses.”
“Who is she?” Devika whispered.
The caretaker stared out the window. “They say Eleanor never left. But not in the way you think. Her soul fractured. She’s not angry. She’s… lonely. The house listens to her more than it does to us. She remembers things. That’s why people who stay too long begin to forget who they are.”
Devika clenched her fists. “And the notes?”
“She doesn’t write them. The house does.”
He returned to his incense, as if the conversation had never happened.
That night, Devika didn’t stay in her room.
She took the music box and walked to the end of the hallway. The door to Room Five had no knob on the outside. But as she approached, it opened a crack — just wide enough to let her in. She entered.
The room was identical to hers.
Same fireplace. Same bed. Same chair by the window.
But everything was frozen in time. The bed looked freshly made, with embroidered pillows and an old lace gown draped across it. A hairbrush lay on the vanity, its bristles full of golden strands. A single framed photograph showed a young woman — Eleanor, presumably — with wide eyes and a forced smile.
Devika stepped toward the mirror.
It was full-length, oval, and gilt-framed. Her reflection stood perfectly still. But something was wrong. She lifted her right hand. Her reflection lifted the left. She frowned. Her reflection smiled. She took a step back. Her reflection took one forward.
Behind her.
She turned — the room was empty. She looked again.
Now there were two figures in the mirror.
Eleanor.
And her.
Standing side by side.
And the music box in her hand was open, playing, spinning. Faster.
The last thing she remembered before blacking out was the faint scent of roses — and her reflection walking away without her.
Devika woke up on the floor, her head resting on the hem of the lace gown draped across the bed. The air was still and cold, the kind of cold that seeped through skin and curled into bones. The music box was lying beside her, silent now, its lid closed as though it had never been opened. She sat up slowly, her head pounding. The mirror loomed in front of her, still and unbroken, reflecting only the room — but not her. She wasn’t there. Her form, her face, her presence had vanished from the glass. For a few seconds, all she could do was stare. Then panic took over. She touched her arms, her face, her legs. She was real. She was here. But the mirror disagreed.
She stumbled out of the room, down the stairs, calling for the caretaker. But the house answered only with echoes. The hallway was darker than it had ever been, though it was mid-morning. Dust hung thick in the air like a memory refusing to settle. She found the kitchen empty, the front door bolted from the inside, and every window shuttered tight. Windmere had closed itself. The house was no longer waiting for her departure. It was preparing her stay.
In the library, she searched frantically for the old guestbook she had seen on her first day. It was a thick leather-bound ledger with brittle pages. She turned through years of entries — names in neat cursive, countries, dates, a few thank-you notes. Then, toward the back, she found a series of entries with no dates. Only names.
Eleanor Grace Ashford.
Margaret Anne Wolfe.
Ruth Miranda D’Souza.
Anika Kapoor.
Devika Rao.
Her pen had never signed this page. But her name was written, in ink darker than the rest, still slightly wet.
She dropped the book.
Windmere knew.
She ran to the caretaker’s quarters behind the main kitchen, slamming the door open. It was empty. Only a wooden bed, a candle half-burnt, and a small silver-framed picture of the caretaker when he was younger — standing beside a girl with a pale face and long hair. Eleanor? No — someone else. Someone Devika almost recognized.
Then she saw the journal. Thin pages, hand-written. A ledger of stay dates, room notes, guest observations. And under Room Five, a chilling entry:
“She has begun to hear the music. Tonight, she will see the chair move. Tomorrow, she will vanish from the mirror. The pattern holds. Eleanor is lonely, but precise.”
There were dozens of such entries. Each describing a different woman who stayed in Room Five. All had experienced the same stages — footsteps, the music box, the braided hair, the loss of reflection. All ended the same.
“No departure noted.”
Devika couldn’t breathe. She needed to get out. She rushed up the stairs two at a time, heart racing, planning to pack her things and force her way out through a window if she had to. But when she opened the door to Room Five, it was no longer her room.
It was a child’s room.
The bed was smaller, the walls painted a faded pink. Toys were arranged with military precision — a porcelain doll missing an eye, a wooden horse with peeling paint, and a tea set, as though a guest was expected at any moment. On the small bed, neatly folded, was her scarf. The one she had lost two days ago while walking by the forest edge.
The wardrobe door creaked open behind her.
She turned.
Inside were clothes not her own — gowns, petticoats, gloves, and hanging in the centre, a mirror. Cracked, but not shattered. Her reflection stared back now. But it was younger. Smiling. And behind it stood a figure in white, eyes hollow, lips trembling.
“You remember me now, don’t you?” said the voice, barely a whisper. Not from the mirror. From the room itself.
Devika stepped back, her foot catching the edge of the rug. She fell hard, the back of her head hitting the floor with a dull thud. Her eyes watered, her breath ragged. When the pain passed, the room had changed again. Now it was a ballroom — dusty chandeliers above, music faint but rhythmic. Figures danced in slow circles around her. All women. All in white. All barefoot. Their eyes were glassy, and none of them blinked.
She stumbled to her feet, backing away from the center. “What do you want?” she shouted.
One figure stopped dancing.
It was Eleanor.
Her face was clear now — pale, beautiful, sorrowful. She walked slowly to Devika, her voice calm.
“I wanted someone to stay.”
Devika shook her head. “You can’t keep me here. I’m not yours.”
“But you are,” Eleanor said. “You’ve been here before. You just forgot.”
Then she lifted her hand.
In her palm was a locket.
Devika’s locket.
The one her grandmother gave her, the one that had been lost in a house fire when she was ten.
“I found it in your drawer,” Eleanor said softly. “You used to hide things from the fire. You came here once, long ago. With your mother.”
Devika’s knees buckled.
It couldn’t be. But memories, fragments, half-remembered dreams rushed back — the smell of roses, a woman in white, the music box tune that had followed her all her life but never had a source. And a mirror she wasn’t allowed to touch.
Eleanor stepped closer. “We were friends once. But you forgot me. You left. I stayed. So now, the room must remember you.”
Behind Eleanor, the other women had stopped dancing. They all turned toward Devika.
One by one, they began to hum the melody of the music box.
And the room began to fade into darkness, as if a curtain was being drawn between this world and another.
Devika tried to scream, but her voice dissolved into the melody that now pulsed from the walls. It wasn’t coming from the music box anymore. It was coming from the very wood, the floor, the mirror, the ceiling beams. Like the house itself was singing. Her hands clutched at her ears, but it did nothing. The women in white circled closer, their feet soundless on the old wooden floor, their humming growing louder, layered, like a lullaby sung backward. Eleanor remained still, her pale face calm, her hand still extended with the locket. Devika stared at it — it was definitely hers. On the back was the engraving her grandmother had done: D.R. and the year: 1997.
“I don’t remember,” Devika whispered. “You’re lying. I never came here before. I would know.”
Eleanor tilted her head. “You forget what the house chooses to forget. That’s how it protects itself. That’s how it keeps us safe from breaking.” Her eyes flicked to the mirror behind Devika. “But your reflection knows.”
Devika spun to look.
The mirror now showed a different scene — a young girl, maybe ten, standing beside a woman with long black hair. The girl was Devika. No doubt. And the woman — her mother. But younger. She remembered that sari, that hairstyle. And they were here. In this room. The very same bed. The same window.
Then the image changed.
The woman — her mother — was arguing with the caretaker. The words weren’t audible, but the panic was clear. The little girl was clutching the music box, refusing to let go. Then the caretaker pushed something into the mother’s hand — the same locket. The woman nodded once, turned, and hurried out, pulling the girl with her.
The mirror went dark.
Devika’s breath caught. “She brought me here,” she whispered. “When I was a child.”
Eleanor nodded. “You saw me. You called me Ellie. You said you’d come back.”
“I was a child,” Devika said, shaking her head. “I didn’t know what I was saying.”
“But you made a promise.” Eleanor’s eyes glistened. “I’ve been waiting. I kept your secrets. I remembered your dreams.”
Devika backed away. “This isn’t real.”
Eleanor’s voice dropped. “Then why does your reflection still refuse to follow you?”
Devika turned. The mirror once again showed her room — but empty. No bed, no chair, no table. Only the mirror. Only her. But in this version, she was sitting on the floor, hair unbraided, eyes blank, as though waiting. The real Devika reached toward the mirror, trembling, and the image inside reached back.
Their fingers met.
A chill like death ran through her arm.
The room vanished.
She was standing in the forest now.
The deodars stood tall and ancient, their tops swallowed by fog. Windmere Lodge was behind her, smaller than she remembered. Silent. Watching. Her hands were empty. No music box, no locket. Nothing. But something felt wrong. Her feet weren’t touching the ground.
She looked down.
She was hovering.
Just an inch above the earth, but enough.
Enough to know.
A rustling sound came from behind her. She turned.
Eleanor stood there, barefoot, holding the music box. “You’re not dead, Devika,” she said gently. “Not yet. The house hasn’t decided.”
“Decided what?” she rasped.
“If you stay or go.”
Devika took a step back — or thought she did. Her body didn’t move. Her feet — or whatever they were now — remained in place. The trees rustled, their leaves whispering in an unfamiliar language.
“You promised,” Eleanor repeated. “And when someone makes a promise in Room Five, it doesn’t end with time. It ends with truth.”
Devika looked at her. “But I don’t remember the promise.”
“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t made.”
From the trees, the other women began to appear. The women in white. Their faces pale, their hands clasped in front of them. Some smiled softly. Others looked hollow. One by one, they bowed their heads toward Devika.
“I don’t want to stay,” she said. “I want to go home.”
Eleanor looked almost sorry. “Then you’ll have to find a way to remember who you were. Before the mirror. Before the room.”
A sudden, sharp wind cut through the forest. Devika stumbled, and this time, she did move. Her body responded. She ran — blindly, through the trees, branches tearing at her arms, her face. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to get away. The fog thickened around her. She turned once — no one followed. But the music box melody still played, as if threaded into the air itself.
She found a narrow path. Stones carved into the hillside. Old, half-buried. She ran down them, slipping twice, until she emerged into a clearing.
There stood a single grave.
A small, moss-covered headstone.
She knelt to wipe the dirt away.
The name engraved was:
“Anika Kapoor — 1984–2005”
Her breath froze.
She knew that name.
It was in the guestbook.
One of the names with no departure noted.
She looked beside the grave — a small offering. A silver ribbon. A music box, rusted shut. And a child’s drawing — of two girls holding hands. One had dark hair. One was blonde. Below it, a scrawl:
“To Ellie. From D.”
She couldn’t move.
Her knees gave out, and she sat in the mud, the memories flooding back. The games. The laughter. The day her mother told her never to speak of the girl in the mirror again. That it had all been imagination. That she had to forget, for her own good.
She looked up at the forest.
Eleanor was watching.
Silent. Waiting.
And for the first time, Devika saw her not as a ghost — but as a girl.
A lonely girl who had been promised a friend.
And had waited more than a hundred years.
The clearing seemed to hold its breath. Mist hung like gauze between the trees, and the air pulsed with an ancient stillness that Devika could almost hear. The grave, the drawing, the rusted music box — all of it conspired to remind her of a version of herself she had buried, willingly or otherwise. She stood up slowly, mud clinging to her jeans, and turned to Eleanor. “I was only a child,” she said, her voice low, uncertain. “I didn’t know what I was promising.” Eleanor didn’t speak. She stepped forward, her feet not disturbing a single leaf, and gently picked up the drawing from the grave. She held it like a relic, her fingers trembling. “You said you’d come back,” she murmured. “When the trees turned silver. When the roses bloomed under frost.” Devika stared. That line — she had dreamt it a hundred times over the years. It made no sense then. It made too much now. “You’ve been watching me all this time?” Eleanor nodded. “Waiting. You were the only one who ever saw me as real. Not a ghost. Not a warning. Just… a girl. I remembered you even when I forgot myself.” Something inside Devika cracked. Not in fear, but in guilt. It wasn’t just about Eleanor. It was about memory. About the promises children make with all their heart — and how adults abandon them like old toys. She stepped closer. “If I remember now… can I leave?” Eleanor looked up, and her eyes no longer seemed hollow. They shimmered with something softer — grief, maybe, or hope. “If you remember, then the room will let go. The house binds what’s forgotten. It releases what’s accepted.” Devika took a deep breath. “Then take me back.” Eleanor turned. The path behind her widened, leading not to the lodge, but to the forest’s heart — a narrow glade where silver light seeped through the trees. They walked in silence. The other women had vanished, or perhaps they watched from behind the trunks, invisible but listening. The glade opened like a wound, and there, at its centre, stood a mirror. Tall, ancient, its frame carved with vines and roses. Unlike the one in Room Five, this one reflected nothing. Not even light. It was a void. “Step through,” Eleanor said. “If you’re ready.” Devika hesitated. “What if I’m not?” Eleanor’s voice was kind. “Then you’ll stay. Until you are. The house doesn’t punish. It only remembers.” Devika reached out. Her fingers brushed the surface — and it rippled. Like water. She stepped through.
She was in Room Five again.
Not the child’s room. Not the ballroom. Her room. The canopy bed, the window, the faint scent of roses — all back. But now, the mirror showed her reflection. Her real one. Tired. Pale. But alive. A knock came at the door. She turned sharply. The caretaker stood there, holding a letter. “For you,” he said, offering it without expression. She took it. It was sealed with wax — an old habit no one used anymore. Inside was a note in delicate cursive:
“Thank you for remembering me. You don’t have to stay. But visit me, sometimes — in memory, if nowhere else. — Ellie”
Tears welled in Devika’s eyes. She looked up. “Is it over?” The caretaker nodded once. “You broke the pattern. No one’s ever walked back out.” Devika exhaled shakily. “I need to leave. Today.” “The car is ready,” he said. “And Miss Rao—” She paused. “Yes?” “Not all ghosts want to scare us. Some only want to be known.” She nodded. That night, she left Windmere Lodge. The fog parted just enough for her car to wind down the narrow road. The hills seemed gentler now, as if exhaling a secret. She didn’t look back.
But weeks later, back in Delhi, she woke one night at 3:15 AM.
The music box was playing.
Only this time, there was no fear.
Just a white rose blooming in a glass of water by her window.
The music box chimed softly, and Devika sat upright in her Delhi apartment, heart still but alert. The sound didn’t come from her phone. It wasn’t a recording. It was real — as if someone had turned the key on something ancient and familiar. She reached for the light switch but stopped. The music was not menacing. It was… wistful. She stepped to the window. The streets were silent. No fog, just the warm yellow of the streetlamp bathing the trees outside. But on her desk, where she kept her papers and her camera lenses, lay a single white rose. Fresh. Morning dew clung to its edges.
She didn’t scream this time. She didn’t question. She knew Eleanor had kept her promise. To be remembered, yes. But not to haunt. Instead, to remain. Like all childhood friends do — somewhere at the edge of dreams, visible only when the world grows quiet enough to listen.
In the days that followed, Devika began writing.
She hadn’t written in years, but the words came easily now. Her memories, the diary entries she found, the newspaper clipping, the mirror that didn’t reflect — it all poured out. She titled the piece simply: The Fifth Room. She didn’t submit it to a travel blog. She didn’t post it online. She printed a single copy, sealed it in an envelope, and mailed it to a small archive office in Dehradun.
She included one line at the end.
“There are places that don’t belong to maps. Only to memory. And those memories, if loved, return.”
Months passed.
Spring melted into summer. Her plants bloomed. Her hands didn’t shake when she reached for her pen anymore. But every now and then, especially around 3:15 AM, she’d hear the faint scrape of a rocking chair in her mind. Or catch the scent of roses where none grew.
Once, while passing an antique shop in Hauz Khas Village, she spotted a mirror in the window — oval-shaped, with a cracked edge. She stepped inside, breath caught. “Where did this come from?” she asked the old woman behind the counter.
“Landour estate,” the woman said. “House closed down years ago. This was all they salvaged. That and a silver music box someone stole back.”
Devika smiled. She didn’t touch the mirror.
Instead, she walked on.
That night, she opened her drawer and pulled out the locket. The one she thought had burned. The one Eleanor had shown her. Inside was a tiny photograph — two little girls, one dark-haired, one light, sitting side by side on a windowsill. The edges were faded. Their faces were smudged. But the joy was unmistakable.
She whispered, “I remember.”
The lights flickered briefly in her room.
Then stilled.
And from somewhere far away — or maybe inside her heart — a music box played its final note.
The End
