The night Meera returned to the old house, the wind was too still.
It stood at the edge of the village like a forgotten thought—windows dark, gate half-hanging, the paint peeled down to grey wood beneath. No one had lived there for years. Not since her grandmother died. Not since the stories began
Meera didn't believe in stories.
She pushed the gate open. It creaked louder than she expected, the sound stretching unnaturally long, like it didn't want to end. The air smelled of dust and something faintly sweet jasmine, maybe. Her grandmother used to grow jasmine along the front wall.
"I'm just here to collect the papers," she muttered to herself
The door wasn't locked.
Inside, the house felt… wrong. Not empty—just paused. Furniture sat exactly as it had been left. teacup on table, shawl over the armchair. Even the clock on the wall ticked, though Meera was certain no one had wound it in years.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
She stepped further in.
"Hello?" she called.
The word seemed to sink into the walls instead of echoing back.
Meera shook her head. "Old houses make noise," she whispered. "That's all."
She moved toward the bedroom, where her grandmother kept documents in an iron trunk. The hallway felt colder with each step. Not a breeze—just a steady drop in warmth, like she was walking into a shadow.
Halfway down, she heard it.
A soft dragging sound.
Behind her.
Meera froze. Slowly, she turned.
Nothing.
Just the hallway. The clock ticking faintly from the other room.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
She exhaled and turned back—only to stop again.
The bedroom door, which had been slightly open, was now closed.
"I didn't…" she whispered.
Before she could finish, the handle turned.
Slowly.
The door creaked open on its own.
Inside, the room was dim, but she could see the iron trunk at the foot of the bed. Relief flickered through her—this was what she came for. She stepped inside.
The moment she crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind her.
Meera spun around, heart pounding. "Who's there?!"
Silence.
Then—
A voice. Soft. Familiar.
"Meera…"
Her blood ran cold.
It was her grandmother's voice.
"No," she whispered. "That's not possible."
"Meera…"
This time, it came from the corner of the room.
She turned slowly.
At first, there was nothing. Then the darkness seemed to gather, folding in on itself until it shaped into something… someone.
A figure.
Bent slightly. Draped in a familiar shawl.
Face hidden.
"You came back," it said.
Meera stumbled backward, hitting the trunk. "You're not real."
The figure tilted its head.
The clock in the other room stopped.
Tick.
Silence.
Then the figure lifted its face.
And smiled.
The last thing Meera noticed was the scent of jasmine growing stronger, filling the room until she couldn't breathe.
The next morning, the villagers found the house exactly as it had always been.
Quiet.
Undisturbed.
Except for one thing.
On the table in the living room sat two teacups.
Still warm.