It was a windy day; red dried leaves flew about ornamenting the sky. A pair of delicate hands opened the huge and dusty doors of the Surajghar Mansion. Maya walked into the hall, with luggage 4 times her size. The quiet bespectacled girl went about setting up the haveli that was to be her home for the next 6 months. By 6pm she was done turning the mansion into a house, home. Headed to her room, she dredged along the long dark flight of stairs with caution. The piercing wind broke through the window and tore into the basement, the mist clearing to reveal a set of foggy footprints .They appeared to mark the floors of the mansion, steadily moving towards the very steps Maya was climbing. Feeling suddenly chill Maya turned back, only to find two honey coloured eyes looking at her. Her eyes scanned the rest of his face, chiselled with a stub, straight nose, and dark brown hair. He held her face, leaning in to kiss her standing there with her eyes closed, having never been in such an intimate situation before. Skin touched skin, their lips met; taking her through a journey of the best memories life had given her. After what seemed like eternity, she woke up, in bed, in darkness, unable to recall the face of the man who had swept her off her feet. Confused and dazed, she stepped downstairs to get some fresh air. A man walked up to her, with a bright smile, “I am the maintenance man. I am sorry I couldn’t come yesterday to help fix the windows.” Maya was perplexed. If it wasn’t him who could it be? Nevertheless, she led him to broken glass dangling in its frame in the basement. But her attention was caught by something else- a huge portrait of a man, not any man but the man who had kissed her the previous night. Interrupting her moment of shock, the maintenance man on his way out clarified, “Pretty face, isn’t he? He was the owner of this huge mansion 150 years ago. He was killed on the staircase, by his wife. They say he still hangs around here, waiting for prey to love and kill.” Colour drained out of her skin. A cold sweat lined her forehead as the dashing dead man from the portrait walked out of its frame.
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