The Honeymoon Lodge

Arif Khan

Arrival at the Lodge

The winding road snaked through the mist-cloaked forests of Simla, flanked by towering deodar trees whose branches interlocked like conspirators. The hired taxi, an old white Ambassador with rusted edges and a rattling engine, coughed its way up the slope. Rhea looked out of the foggy window, her breath forming tiny clouds on the cold glass. Her fingers tightened around Aarav’s hand.

“This feels like a scene from an old horror movie,” she murmured with a nervous chuckle.

Aarav grinned. “Romantic horror, maybe. Like Honeymoon in Hell.”

“Not funny,” Rhea said, swatting his arm.

They had been married for just three days. A whirlwind ceremony in Delhi, too many relatives, too much noise. Now, finally, it was just the two of them. No phones, no notifications, no people. Just a long-planned honeymoon in an offbeat, “heritage” British-era bungalow in the woods of Simla, booked on a boutique travel site that promised “an unforgettable experience.”

They didn’t know how literal that would become.

The car pulled to a halt in front of a rusted iron gate half-swallowed by vines. Beyond it, a two-story stone bungalow stood in eerie silence. The slate roof was covered in moss, and one of the upstairs balcony railings hung off, broken.

“Is this… the place?” Rhea asked uncertainly.

Aarav double-checked the printed booking confirmation. “Yeah. ‘The Honeymoon Lodge.’ This is it.”

The driver, a man in his sixties with tired eyes and a red scarf around his neck, didn’t step out to help with the luggage. Instead, he sat motionless, his gaze locked on the bungalow.

“You two staying here?” he finally asked.

“Yes,” Aarav replied, stepping out and reaching for their bags.

The driver leaned toward them, lowering his voice. “Then listen. After sunset, don’t leave the house. And whatever you do, if you hear someone calling your name… don’t answer.”

Before they could react, he accelerated down the path, tires screeching against the gravel.

“Well, that was… unsettling,” Rhea whispered.

At that moment, the iron gate creaked open by itself.

A tall, frail man emerged, wrapped in a thick shawl and holding an old brass lantern. His skin looked paper-thin, his eyes milky but strangely sharp.

“I’m Raghu,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “Caretaker.”

He handed them an antique brass key tied with red thread. “Don’t go into the woods after dark. And don’t use mirrors after midnight.”

Aarav forced a polite smile. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

Rhea was less amused. “Is this some sort of local superstition thing?”

Raghu stared at her without blinking. “No superstition. Just rules.”

He turned and walked away into the mist, disappearing behind the lodge like smoke dissipating.

Inside, the lodge was preserved like a time capsule. The walls bore fading wallpaper patterned with roses. A heavy chandelier hung in the center of the main hall, its crystals coated in dust. Wooden stairs spiraled up to the second floor. A musty smell lingered in the air—mothballs, old wood, and something else beneath. Something coppery.

Despite its age, the place was beautiful in a haunting way. Antique furniture, embroidered curtains, oil paintings of couples in vintage attire—all gave it a forgotten grandeur. A giant fireplace sat at the end of the hall, and above it hung a peculiar painting.

It showed a couple—possibly from the 70s—posing in front of the very same bungalow. But their faces were odd. Too pale, the eyes slightly too large, the smiles frozen unnaturally.

“Creepy,” Rhea muttered. “Why would anyone hang this here?”

Aarav shrugged. “Maybe part of the ‘heritage’ vibe?”

They chose the master bedroom upstairs, where an old four-poster bed awaited under a faded canopy. The wardrobe smelled like camphor. A full-length mirror stood beside it, its frame carved with vines and roses.

“Okay, this is either incredibly romantic or straight out of a horror novel,” Rhea said, unpacking their bags.

“I vote romantic. No ghosts on our honeymoon, please,” Aarav said, grinning.

They spent the afternoon exploring the property—finding a garden overrun with weeds, a backyard swing barely clinging to its chains, and an abandoned greenhouse with broken glass panes.

By sunset, the temperature dropped sharply. Fog began to pour in through the trees like waves, swallowing the path behind them.

Rhea stood on the balcony, watching the forest dissolve into grey. “It’s beautiful… but it’s too quiet.”

Aarav wrapped his arms around her. “It’s just nature. No honking, no yelling neighbors. Isn’t this what we wanted?”

She smiled and nodded, though the unease inside her hadn’t gone away.

That night, they lit the fireplace. The warmth and crackling sounds made the room cozier. Wrapped in a shawl and sipping hot chocolate, Rhea felt a little more at ease.

Until the fire flickered.

The shadows around the room danced strangely. For a second, Rhea thought she saw something move in the corner of her eye.

“Did you see that?” she asked Aarav.

“What?”

“There… by the mirror.

They both turned.

The mirror showed only their reflection.

But for just a second… Rhea thought she saw someone else standing behind them.

Someone… smiling.

Whispers in the Pines

That night, the forest outside whispered.

Rhea lay awake, her ears straining against the silence. Aarav slept peacefully beside her, one arm around her waist. But something about the air had changed—thicker, colder, almost breathing.

It was nearly 2:00 a.m. when the sound began.

Not loud. Barely a murmur. But unmistakable.

A whisper. Her name.

“Rheaa…”

The voice was delicate—like the sound of leaves brushing in wind, or a child calling from far away.

She sat upright, goosebumps prickling her skin. “Aarav,” she whispered, shaking him. “Wake up. Did you hear that?”

Aarav groaned, eyes half-lidded. “Hear what?”

“I think… someone said my name.”

He sat up, blinking toward the darkness. “It’s probably just the wind. These old houses creak and groan all night.”

But the moment he said it, a soft giggle echoed from the hallway.

Rhea gripped his arm tightly. “That wasn’t wind.”

Aarav climbed out of bed, lighting a candle from the nightstand. Its trembling flame barely lit the room.

“I’ll check,” he said.

“No—let’s go together.”

The corridor outside was bathed in shadows. The long wooden floor creaked beneath their steps. The mirror at the end of the hall now reflected only blackness. The air was thick with the smell of damp wood and something metallic… like blood.

They passed the staircase, descended toward the ground floor, and peeked into each room—library, dining, drawing.

Nothing.

And then they reached the door to the back garden.

It was slightly open.

Rhea whispered, “We locked this, didn’t we?”

Aarav nodded.

He pushed the door wide, and a gust of cold air rushed in. Beyond the threshold, a carpet of mist lay over the grass, and the tall deodar trees stood motionless.

Then they both saw it—faint footprints in the dew-covered lawn.

Small. Bare. Like a child’s.

“Maybe an animal?” Aarav offered.

But they both knew better.

They followed the trail until it vanished near the edge of the woods.

Suddenly, Rhea shivered violently. “Let’s go back. I don’t want to be out here.”

Just then, they heard it again. A whisper.

“Come play with me…”

And then—footsteps. Running. Giggling.

But no one was there.

They turned and ran back into the bungalow, bolting the door behind them.

Back in bed, Rhea couldn’t sleep. Her thoughts kept returning to the whispering voice. The giggle. The footprints.

She picked up her phone to call someone—anyone—but there was no signal. The Wi-Fi router showed no light. She opened the window slightly for air, but the forest loomed close—too close.

She shut it quickly.

Aarav turned in his sleep. “Don’t… let them in…” he mumbled.

Rhea froze.

“Who?” she asked quietly.

But he didn’t answer.

Just then, the fire in the fireplace extinguished itself with a low whoosh.

And the temperature plummeted.

The mirror beside the wardrobe began to fog up, even though the windows were closed. Rhea watched, transfixed, as faint letters began to appear on the glass. Like breath against cold.

She crawled out of bed, heart hammering in her chest.

The message finished forming:

“Once you look, it sees you.”

And below it, a smudge slowly became the shape of a handprint.

But the hand was from inside the mirror.

Rhea screamed.

Aarav leapt out of bed, grabbing the candle again. “What happened?!”

She pointed, shaking, at the mirror—but the message was gone.

Just their reflections again. The same bed. The same room.

But now… Rhea noticed something else.

Their reflections were not synchronized.

In the mirror, her reflection was still staring at the glass—while she had turned away.

Aarav stared at it too. His mouth fell open.

“Get away from it,” he whispered.

They backed toward the bed, eyes never leaving the mirror.

The reflection slowly caught up—tilting its head… and smiling.

The next morning was grim.

Neither of them had slept.

They skipped breakfast. Instead, they combed the house looking for clues, for logic, for understanding.

In the library, among old travel magazines and yellowed books, they found a peculiar object—a red velvet album, half-buried beneath a stack of newspapers.

It was old. Fragile. Tied with black thread.

Aarav untied it.

Inside were photographs. Dozens.

All couples. All in front of the same bungalow. Different decades. One from 1948, another from 1967, then 1985. The most recent one was dated 2007.

But something was wrong with the images.

Each couple looked… off.

Their smiles were too wide. Eyes either too bright or completely empty. In some, the shadows behind them formed strange, unnatural shapes.

But then Rhea saw it.

A photo marked 1973.

She gasped.

The woman in the picture looked exactly like her.

Same hair. Same dimples.

The man—identical to Aarav.

Same jawline. Same half-smile.

Even the way they stood—his hand around her waist—was exactly the same as one of their wedding photos.

But the caption chilled her to the bone:

“Mr. & Mrs. Sen — Forever Honeymooners. They never left.”

Rhea whispered, “What is this place?”

Aarav didn’t answer.

Because behind them, the mirror was fogging up again.

The Album and the Attic

The velvet photo album lay open on the antique table, pages fluttering as if disturbed by an unseen wind. The image of Mr. and Mrs. Sen stared up at them—faces that looked eerily like their own, captured in time nearly five decades ago.

Aarav slammed the album shut.

“Nope. This is messed up. It has to be some trick.”

“Then how do you explain that they look like us?” Rhea’s voice trembled.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he crossed the room, pulled the curtains wide, and let pale morning light spill into the dusty library.

“We need answers,” he muttered.

Rhea turned back to the album. Flipping back through the pages, she noticed something else—each couple’s photo had a handwritten caption. Some sweet, some ominous.

“She never stopped smiling.”

“He followed the whispers.”

“Together in life, and now beyond.”

There were no contact numbers, no locations—just memories trapped in ink and fading images.

“We need to talk to the caretaker,” Rhea said. “Raghu. He must know something.”

But Raghu was nowhere to be found.

His room at the rear end of the lodge was empty. His coat hung neatly on a rusted hook, but the bed was cold. The only thing they found was a small wooden box on the bedside table.

Inside it—a bundle of human hair, tied with red thread, and an old iron key labeled “ATTIC”.

“Why would a caretaker keep this?” Aarav asked, unnerved.

“Because,” Rhea whispered, “he wasn’t just a caretaker.”

The attic door was hidden behind a wooden panel above the staircase. It groaned open after several tugs, releasing a flurry of dust and a gust of stale, cold air.

They climbed the narrow staircase. Each step creaked like a bone breaking.

The attic was filled with relics: moth-eaten furniture, rusted trunks, old musical instruments, broken dolls.

But what caught Rhea’s eye was a writing desk. On it lay an open diary—its pages yellowed and ink faded, but still legible.

It began with:

“They come in pairs. Always newlyweds. Always in love. That is how the Lodge feeds.”

Rhea and Aarav read in silence.

The diary belonged to Anita Sen, dated December 1973—the woman in the photograph who looked like Rhea.

Her entries grew more frantic:

“Aarav doesn’t remember anything. But I do. Every night, I see our reflections move on their own. Every morning, we wake up in the same clothes, even if we change. Every window shows a different season. We are trapped.”

“The mirror is the gateway. It watches. It mimics. It learns. Then it replaces.”

“I burned the mirror once. It came back. I tried to leave. The trees won’t let us go. We walked in circles for hours, always ending up here.”

Rhea’s hands trembled.

“She wrote about you,” Aarav said, pointing.

The next page read:

“Today, Aarav looked at me and called me ‘Rhea.’ He doesn’t remember my name anymore. I think… it’s starting.”

Rhea dropped the diary. “This can’t be real.”

But Aarav wasn’t listening anymore. He had turned, staring at a large sheet covering something tall and rectangular.

He yanked the cloth away.

It was another mirror.

This one was cracked in the center. The edges were scorched.

“Burned and broken,” he muttered. “Just like she said.”

But even in its damaged state, the mirror held reflections.

Not theirs.

In its surface were different people—dozens of them—moving faintly, as if behind glass. Some waved. Some screamed.

One pressed her palm against the mirror and mouthed: “Don’t trust him.”

Rhea gasped.

“She looks like me.”

They fled the attic.

Back in the bedroom, Rhea pulled out her phone again. Still no signal. She opened her photo gallery—only to find all their honeymoon pictures replaced with black screens and static.

Only one photo remained: a selfie from the first evening.

But something was wrong.

In the image, there were three people.

Aarav. Rhea.

And behind them—Raghu.

But Raghu was smiling in a way he never had in real life. His mouth stretched unnaturally wide, eyes entirely black.

Suddenly, Aarav dropped the phone. “I think I’m remembering something.”

“What?”

“I think we’ve been here before.”

Rhea froze. “What do you mean?”

He turned toward her, his face pale. “This isn’t our first honeymoon.”

“What?”

He shook his head violently. “No, no… I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s like a dream. Déjà vu. I remember this mirror. I remember you saying the same things. But… not with your face.”

Rhea backed away.

“Aarav—what are you talking about?”

“I don’t know anymore.” He collapsed onto

the bed, holding his head.

Suddenly, the mirror in the room cracked—spider-web fractures racing across its surface.

Rhea turned to Aarav.

But his reflection didn’t move.

The reflection smiled.

Echoes of the Past

Rhea stared at the mirror, her pulse racing.

Aarav’s reflection—her Aarav—stood still, smiling in that same grotesque, exaggerated way they’d seen in the photo album. But when she turned to look at the real Aarav, he was collapsed on the bed, clutching his head in pain.

Who was the one in the mirror?

Rhea slowly stepped backward, keeping her eyes on the reflection. Her hand brushed the old brass lamp on the bedside table. She grabbed it tightly.

“Aarav,” she said softly, not looking away from the glass. “Say something only you and I would know.”

He groaned, lifting his head. “You… hate ketchup on fries. You only like the end pieces of bread. And on our first date… I spilled coffee on your sketchbook.”

The reflection still smiled.

But now, the smile widened. And it blinked—slowly, unnaturally, out of sync.

Rhea turned and swung the brass lamp at the mirror. It shattered with a thunderous crack, glass raining down like broken ice. A gust of cold air whooshed through the room. The lights flickered and died.

The reflection was gone.

Aarav gasped. “What the hell was that?!”

“I don’t know,” Rhea whispered. “But I think… that thing was using you. Like a shadow. It watches us, and then it pretends to be us.”

They sat in silence, only the wind howling outside the cracked window.

“I need to get out of here,” Rhea whispered. “Now. I don’t care if we have to walk down that mountain on foot.”

Aarav nodded, but there was fear in his eyes.

He looked toward the window.

“I think we’re already too late.”

They packed hurriedly—only the essentials. Phones, jackets, money.

They ran to the main door.

Locked.

The same brass key they’d used before didn’t fit anymore.

“How is that possible?” Aarav shouted.

They tried the backdoor. The garden exit.

Also locked.

Rhea grabbed a chair and smashed one of the old glass panes beside the entryway.

Outside, the woods were unnaturally still. The path leading to the main road was gone. In its place—rows and rows of trees, all identical.

It was as if the house had moved.

Or the forest had shifted.

She stepped outside, crunching over the frost-laced grass. The air felt denser now—like walking through syrup.

And then—whispers.

Dozens of voices. Soft, pleading.

“Help…”

“Let us out…”

“Don’t forget us…”

“It’s your turn…”

She turned back toward the house—and froze.

Aarav wasn’t at the window anymore.

He was behind her.

But not moving.

Not speaking.

And his reflection, in the jagged shards of the broken glass pane, was grinning again.

“No,” she whispered. “Not again.”

She ran inside, pulling him by the hand. “We need to destroy every mirror. It’s the only way. That’s how they enter, how they mimic—”

Suddenly, Aarav pulled back.

“Rhea…” he said, voice trembling. “I think something’s inside me.”

She stopped.

He lifted his shirt.

Across his chest—faint bruises, like handprints, forming slowly.

From the inside.

“I’ve been dreaming of a girl,” he said. “She has no face. Just a black void where her features should be. And she whispers… in your voice.”

“What does she say?”

“She says, ‘You’ve already left me once. Now I’ll keep him.’”

Rhea backed away. “This place… it wants us to relive something.”

“The diary,” Aarav said. “Anita Sen. She said you… I mean, she… was trapped. And I started forgetting her.”

“I’m not her,” Rhea insisted.

“But what if this place wants us to become them?”

They returned to the attic.

This time, the mirror wasn’t broken.

It was whole.

Reflected inside were dozens of couples. And now, one of them looked exactly like Rhea and Aarav—wearing the same clothes, same expressions—but their eyes were hollow.

Beside the mirror, a second diary was tucked under a rug-covered floorboard.

Aarav flipped it open.

This one was Raghu’s.

“The Lodge was built in 1889 by a British officer who believed in the ‘mirror world’—a plane where souls could be stored. He lost his wife in childbirth, and tried to ‘trap her soul’ using a mirror ritual.”

“But it worked too well.”

“The mirror didn’t just hold her—it began hungering. Feeding. Every time love entered the house, it wanted to keep it. So it mimicked it. Erased it. And replaced it.”

Rhea whispered, “Then everyone in those photos—”

“—never left.”

The final diary entry read:

“I tried to warn them. All of them. But it always ends the same. One stays, one fades.”

“Unless they destroy the Source.”

“What’s the Source?” Rhea asked.

Aarav turned to the center of the attic.

The old scorched mirror.

He walked toward it slowly. “I think… this is it.”

As he approached, the reflection inside began moving faster than him.

And then—emerging.

Aarav fell backward as a figure stepped out from the glass.

It was him.

But wrong.

Skin pale as chalk, eyes black, mouth too wide.

The mirror-Aarav lunged toward Rhea.

Aarav tackled it, shouting, “RUN!”

The two Aaravs fought—identical in strength, both silent, both terrifying. Rhea screamed, grabbed a rusted iron rod from the corner, and swung it hard.

It struck the mirror-Aarav in the temple.

It shattered into dust.

But at the same time, the scorched mirror behind them cracked loudly.

The attic shook.

A deep groan—like the earth opening up—echoed through the house.

The mirror began collapsing inward, sucking in light, air, and sound like a black hole.

Aarav grabbed Rhea. “We have to finish it.”

He lifted the rod again and smashed the center of the mirror.

With a deafening screech, the glass exploded in all directions.

Silence.

No wind.

No whispers.

Just sunlight… streaming in through the attic window.

The fog outside was gone.

The trees looked real again.

The Lodge was just a house.

Empty. Still.

Dead.

Before the Door Closes

For the first time since their arrival, the air inside the Lodge felt breathable.

No whispers.

No reflections moving on their own.

Just the creak of floorboards and the groaning of a house older than memory.

Rhea and Aarav stood in the attic, surrounded by shards of broken mirror. The silence was almost overwhelming.

“Did we do it?” Aarav asked.

Rhea didn’t answer right away. She was staring at the place where the mirror had stood, now just a wooden frame filled with ash and glass dust.

“I think so,” she said cautiously. “The Source is gone.”

Still, they didn’t dare relax.

The house had tricked them before.

Downstairs, the atmosphere had changed. The walls didn’t seem to press in anymore. The air was lighter, and even the smell—musty and old—had cleared.

The front door opened without resistance.

Outside, the path was back. The woods no longer seemed endless.

Aarav looked at her. “Let’s not wait.”

They walked quickly, each step down the gravel path feeling like liberation.

And then—just as the Lodge began to shrink behind them—a voice.

Faint. Female. Desperate.

“Wait…”

They froze.

It wasn’t a whisper.

It was a cry.

Rhea turned. “Did you hear that?”

“I don’t want to,” Aarav muttered, pulling her hand.

But she broke free.

“Someone’s inside. Someone else.”

“We’ve barely escaped,” he argued. “It’s a trick. It always is.”

She hesitated.

And then they saw her.

A figure in the upper window.

Not Anita Sen.

Not the faceless girl.

A young woman. Pale. Terrified. Pounding against the glass.

“Please,” she mouthed. “Don’t leave me here.”

Rhea’s throat tightened. “She’s real.”

“Or she wants you to think she is,” Aarav snapped.

Rhea stepped forward. “I saw her in the mirror… but she never attacked. She tried to warn us.”

The air changed again.

A gust of cold wind blew across the woods.

Branches bent unnaturally. Leaves flew upward instead of down.

Behind them, the Lodge doors creaked open on their own.

Inside again.

The house was silent—but not welcoming.

Rhea made her way to the second floor, back to the master bedroom, following her instincts.

Aarav followed reluctantly.

When they entered the room, the mirror was whole again.

Unbroken.

Untouched.

And the girl was trapped inside.

She stood behind the glass, eyes pleading. Her hands were bloodied from pounding.

The room was otherwise empty.

“Is that… Anita?” Aarav asked.

“I don’t think so,” Rhea whispered. “She’s someone else. Maybe one of the couples from the album?”

The girl pressed her hand to the mirror.

And something passed between them.

A pulse. Like a heartbeat in the air.

And a whisper in Rhea’s mind.

“Only love can let us out.”

Rhea reached toward the mirror—slowly, carefully.

Her palm met the glass.

It was warm.

Suddenly, her vision blurred. Her body stiffened.

The room shifted.

The walls melted into darkness.

She wasn’t in the Lodge anymore.

She was inside the mirror.

A corridor stretched before her, lined with doors. Behind each, voices wept, screamed, or pleaded.

She walked, heart pounding.

Names echoed through the dark: “Meera… Kabir… Anita… Pratik…”

Then—one door creaked open.

Inside, a girl sat alone, her knees to her chest, crying.

It was the woman from the mirror.

“You came,” she said.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Nidhi. My husband and I came here in 2004. He forgot me. Left me. The Lodge wouldn’t let me leave.”

“Why didn’t it take you completely?”

“I fought,” Nidhi said. “I refused to become the echo. I refused to forget. But I can’t escape alone.”

Rhea stepped forward.

“How do I help you?”

Nidhi looked up.

“You have to remember me. Truly. Speak my name to the mirror. And you must mean it.”

“Only then will the Lodge let go.”

Back in the real world, Aarav watched helplessly as Rhea stood frozen, her hand on the mirror, eyes glazed.

He was about to shake her when her lips moved.

“Nidhi,” she whispered.

The mirror rippled.

“Nidhi Sharma,” she said again, louder. “I remember you. I believe you.”

A burst of white light shot from the mirror.

Rhea was flung back, landing hard on the floor.

And standing before her—real, breathing, shaking—was Nidhi.

Alive.

Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“You… you brought me back.”

Rhea nodded, breathless.

Behind them, the mirror cracked—one final time—and turned to ash.

They didn’t wait.

Together, all three of them fled the Lodge.

The forest path was clearer now. The wind gentle. The air light.

When they reached the highway, Aarav flagged down a jeep.

As they drove off, Rhea turned back one last time.

The Lodge was still there—but older now.

Crumbling.

Forgotten.

As if it had aged a hundred years in moments.

And just before it vanished from view—

She thought she saw another reflection in the window.

A tall man in an old British uniform.

Watching.

Waiting.

The Lodge Remember

Three months had passed.

Back in Mumbai, life seemed almost normal again. Rhea returned to her work as an illustrator. Aarav resumed architectural consulting. Nidhi, now staying in a women’s shelter, had begun therapy, trying to piece together the years she lost. She spoke little—but when she did, it was always about the Lodge.

“It remembers,” she would say, in a voice as fragile as burnt paper.

“It never forgets. It waits.”

At first, Rhea dismissed it as trauma.

Until the nightmares started.

It began with dreams of mirrors—shattered pieces whispering in languages Rhea didn’t understand. Then came dreams of faceless couples walking hand in hand through endless forests, eyes like hollow moons.

Sometimes, she saw herself reflected back. Smiling a second too late.

Other nights, she’d wake up and find the mirror in their bedroom fogged from the inside.

Aarav, too, had changed.

He became quieter. Distracted. Sometimes, she’d find him staring at his reflection for long minutes, unmoving.

One night, he said, “Do you ever think we were supposed to stay?”

Rhea sat up. “What do you mean?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

But his eyes betrayed a thought he couldn’t shake: What if the Lodge hadn’t finished with them?

One evening, a letter arrived.

Handwritten.

No return address.

Just three words on the front:

“Come back. Please.”

Inside was a polaroid photo.

A fresh one.

Of them.

Standing in front of the Lodge.

Smiling.

Only… they had never taken that photo.

And in the background window, behind their image, was a tall figure in a tattered British officer’s coat.

They contacted the police.

Aarav’s cousin, who worked with the Himachal Pradesh tourism board, pulled records.

The forest bungalow—“The Honeymoon Lodge”—was never officially listed.

No blueprints.

No leaseholder.

And when a search team was sent to the GPS coordinates Rhea had saved—there was nothing there.

Just trees.

No structure.

No debris.

No signs of human habitation.

It was as if the house had never existed.

Except for the photo.

Except for the scratches on Rhea’s arm that kept reappearing each morning.

Except for the whisper Aarav heard at night when Rhea was asleep—

“I kept my promise. Now it’s your turn.”

Rhea began digging into the Lodge’s history herself.

She found scraps online: forum posts, hushed travel blogs, mentions in forgotten local papers.

“Avoid the old forest road near Simla. People vanish.”

“There’s an abandoned British estate, but the locals won’t speak of it.”

“Every ten years, a honeymooning couple disappears. No bodies. No answers.”

And then—one article.

Dated 1892.

“British officer dies in ritual fire. Mansion collapses into sinkhole.”

His name: Lt. Col. E. J. Hawthorne.

Married in India. Wife died in childbirth. Obsessed with Eastern mysticism. Built a house “to bridge the worlds.”

According to a local priest, Hawthorne tried to bring her soul back using a tantric-mirror rite.

But something else came through.

Something that hungered for love and permanence.

Something that learned to mimic the people it observed.

Something that still waited in the reflection, longing to become.

Nidhi called one stormy evening.

“I think it’s back,” she whispered.

“Where are you?”

“At my sister’s. In Delhi.”

Rhea tried to calm her.

But then she heard it.

In the background.

A sound not made by any human mouth.

Low. Wet. Whispering.

“Anita… Nidhi… Rhea…

One of you must return.”

And the line went dead.

That night, Rhea stood in front of her bedroom mirror.

She stared at herself.

Then at the faint, foggy handprint on the inside.

She wiped it. It came back.

She pressed her hand to the glass.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said.

Silence.

Then, from deep within the glass—

Her own voice answered back:

“Then come back and prove it.”

The mirror went black.

The next morning, Rhea was gone.

No note. No sign of struggle.

Aarav filed a report, retraced every step—but found nothing.

No footage. No trail.

Only her sketchbook left behind.

The last drawing: the Lodge.

Alive. Intact.

And in the window—two figures.

A man and a woman.

Smiling.

One year later…

Tourists trekking through Simla’s deeper wood

s often speak of a strange occurrence.

A path that appears only under moonlight.

A two-storied colonial house with ivy-choked walls and glowing windows.

And always—always—a young couple waving from the attic window.

They’re beautiful. Polite. Inviting.

They ask only one thing.

“Won’t you come in?”

 

THE END