Ravi opened his eyes slowly.
His head was spinning. The air felt heavy, as if the haveli itself was pressing down on his chest.
He was lying on the cold floor of his grandmother's room.
"How… how did I come here?" he whispered.
The rocking chair was still moving.
Creek… creek…
Ravi stood up, his legs shaking. The red words on the wall were gone, as if they had never existed.
But the smell was still there.
Old incense. Damp wood. And something else… something rotten.
He stepped back into the corridor. The haveli felt different now. Darker. Alive.
Suddenly, he heard a soft crying sound.
A child's voice.
"Dada… dada…"
Ravi's heart skipped.
"There are no children here," he told himself. Still, his feet started moving toward the sound.
At the end of the hallway, near the old prayer room, he saw a small shadow sitting on the floor.
A little girl.
Her hair covered her face. She was wearing a torn white frock.
"Hey… are you okay?" Ravi asked gently.
The girl stopped crying.
Slowly, very slowly, she lifted her head.
Her eyes were completely black.
No white. No reflection.
Just darkness.
Ravi stumbled backward.
"What are you?" he gasped.
The girl smiled.
Her mouth opened wider than it should have.
Behind her, the walls began to breathe. The portraits started bleeding from their eyes. The doors slammed shut one by one.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
"You came back," dozens of voices whispered together.
"This house remembers you."
Ravi ran.
Down the stairs. Through the main hall. Toward the exit.
But the front gate was gone.
In its place stood his grandmother.
She looked exactly as she had before dying.
Same saree. Same calm face.
"Ravi," she said softly, "this haveli needs a caretaker."
Her eyes slowly turned black.
Ravi screamed.
And somewhere deep inside the walls, something laughed.