Everyone called Preeti “clever.”

Only twenty-three years old, fresh out of college, with no stable job, yet after just a few months of “diligently spending time with the old man over coffee,” Preeti married a rich husband – Mr. Sharma – eighty years old.

Mr. Sharma was once a real estate tycoon. Old, but wealthy. A huge house, luxurious cars, and bank accounts that steadily generated interest. His two previous wives had both passed away. His children and grandchildren lived separately, leaving him alone in a sprawling mansion spanning thousands of square feet, ancient and covered in moss.

Preeti didn’t love him. But she knew that in just a few years, when he passed, everything would be hers. She closed her eyes, accepting his wrinkled touches and dinners of plain dal and rice instead of beefsteak. Everyone called her “the sensible young wife.”

The wedding took place quietly. Not many guests. Only family members. The bride smiled brightly, the groom leaned on his trembling cane. But everyone clearly saw something… unusual in Mr. Sharma’s eyes. As if he was hiding a secret.

The wedding night.

The old mansion was eerily silent.

Preeti stepped into the grand bedroom. The scent of camphor, old medicine, mixed with the smell of wax candles, made her dizzy. The walls were covered with portraits of Mr. Sharma – from his youth to old age – hanging closely beside the wedding bed. The eyes in the portraits seemed to follow her.

Mr. Sharma sat in the corner of the room, wearing silk pajamas. His voice was hoarse:

“From now on… you belong to this house. There are a few things to remember. Tonight… do not leave the room. Do not open the back door. Do not look into a mirror at midnight. If you hear your name called… do not answer.”

Preeti chuckled faintly. She thought the old man was senile. But to “play the role” of a good wife, she nodded.

Midnight.

The wind whistled through the windowpanes. The house felt older, darker, deeper than it had during the day. Preeti awoke with a start when she heard a… clinking sound. Footsteps? No. It was like fingernails scratching on a wooden door.

Then a voice called. Softly. Intermittently.

“Preeti… Preeti…”

A woman’s voice. Suppressed. Calling her name word by word.

Preeti trembled. She remembered the warning, but curiosity made her get out of bed. She slightly opened the door.

No one was there. But… in the hallway, the wall mirror gently swayed, even though there was no breeze.

She walked closer.

The mirror was dim, but it reflected the space behind her. And… there was a figure standing behind her! A long-haired woman, wearing a white wedding dress, her face smeared with blood.

She turned around — no one.

Turned back to the mirror — the woman smiled, then pointed towards the bed.

Preeti screamed.

Mr. Sharma was still lying there, eyes wide open, arms outstretched. She thought he was fast asleep. But when she tried to shake him awake, his hand was ice cold. His heart had stopped.

He… was dead.

Right on their wedding night.

The next morning, the servants found Preeti unconscious by the bedroom door, mumbling: “Ghosts… blood… a bride…”

The police were called. They discovered a faint etching on the mirror of two women — Mr. Sharma’s two former wives, both of whom had died mysteriously in that very room. One by hanging. One by falling from the balcony. No one had investigated thoroughly because he “had money” and was “discreet.”

Mr. Sharma knew — and still tried to marry Preeti as his third wife.

But perhaps… the dead did not want another newcomer.

Preeti never recovered. Her family had her admitted to a nursing home. Sometimes lucid, sometimes delusional. Always muttering:

“I see them standing in the mirror… in their wedding dresses… calling my name…”