Ethereal Bonds

The wheels of the SUV crunched against gravel as it slowly pulled into the overgrown driveway. A pale mist curled low around the tires, snaking through the tall deodar trees like ghostly vines. The ancient mansion loomed ahead, its moss-covered roof hunched beneath the grey sky like a sleeping beast.

Arnav Singh Raizada exhaled long and slow, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. "Well... it's hideous. Perfect."

He stepped out, boots sinking slightly into wet earth. A biting wind rustled through the trees, whispering things that might’ve been his imagination. The house before him was three stories of stone and silence — arched windows, a wraparound balcony that had clearly seen better centuries, and a front door that looked like it might open straight into a horror movie.

Which, to be fair, was exactly what he needed.

After all, who better to finish writing a haunted love story than a man hiding from his own heartbreak?

He slammed the car door shut, ignoring how it echoed unnaturally loud. “Alright, Raizada. You’ve lived in Mumbai traffic and survived Bollywood producers. You can handle an old house in Himachal.”

But the house had other opinions.

Inside, Khushi Kumari Gupta blinked in disbelief as the stranger stood outside her front door like he owned the place. Which, according to the signed documents on the landlord's table — she had checked — he now technically did for the next six months.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, arms folded across her ethereal chest. “A man. Another one. I told the last owner no males allowed!”

Of course, she had said this by possessing a goat and writing “NO BOYS” in mud across the fence. But still. She had made her point.

Khushi floated through the living room wall and hovered just behind the front door, watching him fiddle with the rusty key. Her translucent form shimmered faintly — not quite invisible, not quite solid.

“Oh no you don’t,” she whispered as he jammed the key in and turned it with a triumphant click. “You’re not even handsome enough to be haunted by me.”

With that, she made the chandelier above him rattle ominously.

Arnav froze in the doorway.

The moment he stepped inside, the temperature dropped. His breath misted. Something skittered up his spine, uninvited.

He glanced at the chandelier, which had stopped moving.

“Old wiring,” he murmured to himself. “Definitely not ghost.”

Khushi raised a ghostly eyebrow. Challenge accepted.

As Arnav dropped his bags and explored the ground floor, she followed, floating just above the floorboards.

Her expression shifted between annoyance and curiosity. He wasn’t shrieking. He wasn’t praying or running. He was—

“Talking to himself,” she muttered. “Great. He’s insane and immune.”

Arnav, meanwhile, ran his fingers along the dusty mantelpiece in the drawing room. “Creepy. But rich in atmosphere. This is going to make an excellent setting for Chapter 8.” He pulled out his leather-bound notebook and scribbled something.

Khushi squinted over his shoulder, then made the pen fly out of his hand.

It clattered against the floor, rolling toward the hallway.

Arnav frowned.

He bent to retrieve it, only to hear a soft giggle echo behind him.

He turned. No one.

“Alright, this house is haunted,” he said out loud, finally. “But I paid three months' rent in advance, and I am not losing that deposit.”

Khushi’s jaw dropped. “Did he just—?”

“I’m staying,” he said to no one in particular. “Ghost, ghoul, demon, or disgruntled forest spirit — you’ll have to share.”

SHARE?

Khushi practically combusted with disbelief.

“Oh, you’re on, Mister Rational.”

She floated into the kitchen and started opening every cabinet violently, slamming them shut in rhythm like a poltergeist percussionist.

Arnav calmly opened his duffel and pulled out a mug.

The cabinet above him flew open. A plate launched itself like a frisbee and shattered against the far wall.

He didn’t even blink.

Instead, he sighed and muttered, “Dramatic much?”

Khushi gaped. "He’s mocking me."

Her fingers twitched with irritation. This man was not scared. He was bored.

It was… insulting.

Back in the living room, Arnav sat cross-legged on the floor with his laptop open, typing:

“She appeared before him, a shimmering figure in white, eyes hollow with grief, her voice the wind’s cry—”

His fingers paused.

There, in the dusty antique mirror across the room, something shimmered.

Khushi hadn’t realized he could see her reflection.

She locked eyes with him through the mirror.

For the briefest moment, his face twitched in something that almost resembled surprise.

And then — a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Nice touch,” he said calmly, as if complimenting a screenplay. “But if you're going to go ghost, you should lose the eyeliner. It breaks immersion.”

Khushi screamed.

Which sounded more like an outraged tea kettle than a banshee.

Arnav laughed.

He. Laughed.

That was the final straw.

Khushi stormed — floated — up the staircase, furious. "Fine! Let’s play, Mr. Nonbeliever. But when you’re crying into your organic coffee and begging to leave, I’ll be the one laughing."

She disappeared through the wall.

Downstairs, Arnav leaned back against the couch, eyes still on the mirror where the shimmer had vanished.

His smile faded a little.

He whispered softly to the empty room, “I know you’re there.”

No answer.

And then:

From upstairs came the sound of a music box — one he hadn’t touched — playing a haunting, lilting tune.

Arnav closed his eyes, listening.

“It’s going to be an interesting six months.”

To Be Continued…