The Perfect Couple… Almost
If there was one thing Priya loved more than mango lassi, it was posting couple reels on Instagram. And if there was one thing Rahul loved more than Priya, it was not being in them.
Unfortunately for Rahul, love is sacrifice. Especially when your brand-conscious, social-media-influencing wife insists on documenting every blinking moment of your life.
“Smile! And tilt your head like I showed you,” Priya chirped, angling her iPhone with the precision of a military drone. Her glittery sunglasses reflected Rahul’s awkward stance: bent at a 45-degree angle, holding two suitcases, a half-open travel bag, and a snack packet clutched under his chin.
Rahul attempted a smile, but it came out more like a man bracing for dental surgery.
“Perfect!” Priya said, not even checking the photo. “#TravelGoals. #MarriedLife. #HauntedHoneymoon.”
Rahul blinked. “Wait, what was that last one?”
She looked at him innocently. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? The mansion’s supposed to be haunted! It was the cheapest option with a colonial aesthetic. Plus, it has five-star reviews. Except for one where a guy said he saw his dead wife walking upside down on the ceiling. But people exaggerate, right?”
He gaped at her. “We could’ve gone to Goa. Or even Mussoorie. At least those ghosts wear sweaters.”
But there was no turning back. Behind them loomed their destination: an old colonial-era bungalow with faded white walls, rusted iron gates, and a name that sounded more like a horror novella than a honeymoon getaway — The Whispering Orchards.
The signboard was swinging on one hinge. Below it, in bold red paint, was a special offer:
“Honeymoon Package — ₹999 Only. Free Wi-Fi. Free Ghosts.”
Rahul read it twice. “We’re paying for ghosts?”
“Technically, they’re free.”
The gates creaked open on their own.
Rahul jumped. “Did you see that?”
“Romantic!” Priya squealed. “Like in those Netflix thrillers. Maybe we’ll get a sexy ghost who plays piano.”
“What if it’s a ghost that sings Bambai Se Aaya Mera Dost on loop?”
They walked in, dragging their luggage over gravel and dead leaves. The trees on either side looked like they were whispering gossip — probably about the last honeymoon couple who entered and never returned.
The mansion door opened by itself too, revealing a dimly lit hallway with spiderwebs elegantly draping every chandelier. A grandfather clock wheezed somewhere in the distance, like an asthmatic senior citizen.
Rahul sneezed. “Great. Haunted and dusty. My allergies are gonna host a rave in here.”
They were greeted by a tall, gaunt man wearing a black kurta, white pajama, and an expression that screamed I’ve seen things.
“I am Kaka Ram,” he said solemnly. “Caretaker. Chef. Exorcist. Depending on the day.”
“Hi!” Priya beamed. “We’re here for the Honeymoon Package.”
“Of course,” he said, turning with a dramatic flourish. “Follow me. Don’t stray from the carpets. Some tiles are… unpredictable.”
“Unpredictable?” Rahul asked.
Kaka Ram smiled. “Last week one tile turned into a well.”
Rahul clutched Priya’s arm. “Let’s go to OYO. We can still cancel this.”
Priya whispered, “Think of the content, babe. Ghosts? Algorithms love ghosts!”
They reached Room 7 — or at least that’s what the half-burnt wooden sign suggested. Kaka Ram opened the door, paused dramatically, and said, “Whatever you do… do not open the third wardrobe.”
Before they could ask why, he vanished into the shadows like Batman’s exhausted uncle.
Rahul turned to Priya. “Third wardrobe? Why? What’s in it?”
She shrugged, opening her vlogging app. “Maybe a cursed suit? Let’s do a room tour!”
Inside, the room was charming — in a “this-used-to-be-an-asylum” way. A grand antique bed, two wardrobes, a dressing table, and… wait, one… two… three wardrobes?
The third stood slightly ajar, even though Kaka Ram had said it was locked.
Priya was already on camera. “Hey guys! Welcome to our haunted honeymoon! This is Room 7 at Whispering Orchards — the room where a bride once turned into a goat. Let’s see if it happens again!”
Rahul groaned. “I should’ve married your cousin. She was into cats, not spirits.”
Then came the first sign.
The mirror fogged up, even though there was no steam.
And slowly, scrawled across the glass by an invisible finger, appeared three words:
“Welcome, Priya. ❤️”
Rahul dropped the chips. Priya gasped, clutching her chest. “Aww, babe. You romantic fool.”
“I didn’t write that.”
They turned to the mirror. The words began dripping. Like blood. Or ketchup. It was hard to tell in the lighting.
Then, the third wardrobe creaked open fully. No breeze. No trick. Just a deep, dramatic creak straight out of a Ram Gopal Varma B-movie.
Rahul grabbed a pillow. “Don’t go near it. It might be one of those cursed wardrobes that sucks you in and spits out an evil version of you. Like me, but with worse credit.”
But Priya stepped forward. “If I die, I want good lighting. Record me.”
From within the wardrobe… stepped a figure.
Tall. Transparent. Dashing. Wearing a sherwani, designer shoes, and Ray-Bans. And floating two inches off the ground.
“Yo,” he said casually. “I’m Shyam. Her ex-husband. Mind if I join the honeymoon?”
Rahul fainted.
