Detective Arun Menon had seen his share of strange cases, but this one was something else entirely.
The call came at midnight. A man named Vikram Desai reported that his wife, Meera, had vanished—from a locked room.
When Arun arrived at the Desai mansion, a grand colonial structure that had stood for over a century, he was greeted by a visibly shaken Vikram. His face was pale, his hands trembled as he led the detective inside.
"I swear, she was here! The door was locked from the inside, and the windows were sealed shut!" Vikram stammered.
Arun scanned the bedroom. It was untouched—no signs of struggle, no broken locks, no secret passageways. A chill crept up his spine. The only unusual thing was an old, dust-covered painting hanging on the wall opposite the bed.
It was a portrait of a woman in a traditional saree, her deep-set eyes piercing. But what made Arun pause was the uncanny resemblance. She looked exactly like Meera.
"Who is this?" Arun asked, his voice steady but cautious.
Vikram hesitated before answering. "That’s my great-great-grandmother, Amrita Desai. She disappeared over a hundred years ago... also from a locked room."
Arun frowned. Two women, vanishing from the same room a century apart? He didn't believe in ghosts, but the facts unsettled him.
His gaze shifted back to the painting—and that’s when he noticed something odd. The woman in the portrait wore a necklace. Not just any necklace, but the same emerald pendant Meera had been wearing when she disappeared.
A cold gust of air passed through the room. The window was shut.
Arun turned to Vikram. "Tell me everything. From the beginning."
Vikram took a deep breath. "Meera always hated this room. She said it felt... wrong. But it belonged to my family, so we kept it as a guest room. Tonight, she was here looking for an old diary that belonged to Amrita. She wanted to learn more about her disappearance."
Arun folded his arms. "What happened next?"
"She called me, said she found something strange. I came up, knocked... but she didn't respond. When I broke the door down, she was gone." Vikram’s voice cracked. "She couldn't have left, Arun. There’s no way out!"
Arun turned back to the painting. He needed more context. "Where’s Amrita’s diary now?"
Vikram led him to an antique wooden desk in the corner. Arun flipped through the brittle pages, eyes scanning the faded ink.
August 3, 1902.
I hear whispers when I sleep. They come from the painting.
August 14, 1902.
It watches me. Its eyes move when I turn away.
August 21, 1902.
It wants me.
The entries stopped there. No records of what happened next.
Arun exhaled slowly. He turned toward the painting, staring at the woman’s face. Her expression seemed different now—a hint of a smile that hadn’t been there before.
"We need to take this down," Arun said.
Vikram hesitated. "It’s been in the family for generations."
Arun ignored him, grabbed a chair, and carefully lifted the painting off the wall. Behind it was nothing but the plain wooden paneling of the old house. No hidden door, no strange markings.
Disappointed, he turned back—only to freeze.
The portrait had changed.
The woman was still there, but her face was no longer identical to Meera’s. It was shifting, morphing—slowly reverting back to its original form.
Arun’s heart pounded. He had seen logical explanations for most things in his career. But this... this was beyond reason.
"She’s trapped," Vikram whispered. "Isn’t she?"
Arun clenched his jaw. He refused to believe it. There had to be another explanation.
"Help me search the house," he ordered.
For the next two hours, they tore the mansion apart. Every hidden compartment, every dusty attic space, every forgotten hallway. Nothing. No sign of Meera.
Frustrated, Arun returned to the bedroom. The painting sat on the floor, staring back at him.
Then, he noticed something new. The woman in the portrait—her hand was now raised, fingers pointing toward the antique mirror on the dresser.
Arun’s pulse quickened. He strode toward the mirror, running his hands along the frame. At first, it seemed normal, but then he noticed faint scratches along the edges.
He pressed against the glass. It moved.
With a slow creak, the mirror swung open like a door, revealing a dark, narrow passage.
"Vikram," Arun called. "She’s in here."
They stepped into the passage, their footsteps echoing against the damp walls. Cobwebs clung to their clothes as they made their way forward. The air was thick, suffocating. Then, a faint sound—ragged breathing.
"Meera!" Vikram cried.
They found her at the end of the passage, slumped against the wall, weak but alive.
She looked up, her eyes filled with terror. "The painting... it tried to take me."
Arun didn’t waste a second. He carried her out, shutting the mirror-door behind them.
Once back in the bedroom, Meera sobbed into Vikram’s arms. Arun turned to the painting one last time. The woman's face was normal again. The smile was gone.
Without hesitation, he pulled the painting off its frame, tore it apart, and set it aflame in the fireplace. The wood crackled, the flames licked the edges of the cursed portrait.
A final wisp of cold air swept through the room.
Then, silence.
Meera was safe. But Arun had a feeling this house held more secrets than he wanted to know.
And some doors... should never be opened.