The airport lights shimmered in Anaya’s eyes like a haunting memory she couldn’t wash away. She stood still, wrapped in a beige coat, heels clicking against the floor as if time had frozen to watch her return.

Anaya.

That name wasn't hers once. She was born Anita Singh — the obedient daughter of a strict Indian family, the girl with dreams tucked away under layers of culture, duty, and fear. A girl once promised to a man with a smile too sharp and hands too greedy. A man she ran from.

And she never looked back.

Her family hated her for running away — but she hated them more for forcing that unwanted marriage on her. Now, her parents were forcing her younger sister to marry the very same man. They were determined for the wedding to take place in a royal castle, a place with secrets darker than anyone could imagine.

The castle wasn’t just old stone and whispered legends. It was haunted — or so the stories said. But it wasn’t a ghost that lived there. It was a demon from hell, centuries-old, hiding in plain sight, living as humans do. The demon family had kept their true nature hidden for generations.

Yet one daughter among them hated this human existence. She lived alone in the castle, a fierce rebel trapped in mortal skin.

Her younger siblings, eager to torment her, had sold that castle to the man Anaya had once been engaged to — the very same man she escaped years ago.

Anaya, sharp and unyielding, enjoyed wearing short clothes, deliberately defying the conservative values her family clung to so tightly. It was her silent rebellion — a way to provoke and unsettle them.

But what neither Anaya nor her family knew was that the haunting was far from over. The demon who loathed her own captivity was about to play a deadly game, with Anaya caught in the middle.

Anaya was no longer just Anita. No longer just a runaway bride.

She was a target.

And the real nightmare was just beginning.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The wind howled through the ancient corridors of the castle, slipping through cracks in the stone like it had a mind of its own. The chandeliers above flickered as if gasping for breath, though there was no one around to see them tremble — except her.

Azazel.

She stood by the arched window, draped in a crimson robe, her black hair loose and wild around her face. She didn’t need candles to see in the dark. The shadows were her oldest friends, and the cold never bit her skin. She had lived too long to be bothered by such mortal discomforts.

The castle was alive. And it whispered to her.

“You're coming, aren’t you, Anita?” Azazel murmured, eyes glowing faintly as she pressed a hand to the icy glass. “Or should I say... Anaya now?”

She hated the name change. Humans always thought a new name meant a new beginning. But the past clung like blood on silk — it never truly faded.

Downstairs, the staff scurried about preparing for the wedding. The man — Rajveer — had arrived earlier that morning to inspect the renovations. His smile still hadn’t changed. It was as crooked as ever, and Azazel could smell the rot under his charm. The castle didn’t like him either. Walls moaned quietly when he passed, and shadows lengthened, eager to feed on his filth.

Azazel had tried to kill him once — silently, in his sleep, suffocating his breath with illusion. But the damn bloodline magic on the estate protected him. It only broke when she arrived. The one who had once said no. The one who had once run.

Anaya.

Azazel’s mouth curled. She didn’t hate Anaya — not yet. But she didn’t like her either. Humans were selfish. Always running from one fire just to ignite another.

But something about Anaya called to her. Not just her rebellion. Not just her pain.

There was something darker buried inside her — something not even Anaya herself had touched yet.

The demoness could feel it.

A fracture in her soul.

A wound left open.

A door begging to be unlocked.

And Azazel... she had the key.

---

Anaya stepped out of the car, her heels clicking sharply on the cobblestone driveway of the castle. Her breath caught — not from the chill, but from the sight before her.

The castle was enormous, beautiful in a terrifying way. Gothic towers clawed at the sky, windows like hollow eyes watching her every move. Ivy curled around the stone like veins around old bones.

It wasn’t a home.

It was a warning.

And yet, she walked forward, her coat flaring behind her like a cape. Her sister’s wedding was in three days. She had come under the guise of helping — but she had no intention of letting this marriage happen.

Not again.

Not to her sister.

Inside, the scent of dust and roses hit her nose. Servants bowed, but their eyes darted away from hers too quickly.

Like they knew something.

Like they saw something they weren’t supposed to.

Anaya glanced upward — and for a single second, swore she saw a woman in red watching from the top tower window.

But when she blinked, the figure was gone.

Only a whisper remained.

“Welcome home, little storm.”

Anaya had sworn never to return. Not to India. Not to her past. And certainly not to anything remotely connected to Rajveer. But here she was, walking into a castle she hadn’t even known existed until last week. A castle that now held the fate of her younger sister—and, if she wasn’t careful, her own soul.

She wasn’t here for nostalgia or closure. She was here to stop the wedding.

Letting this marriage happen?

Not again.

Not to her sister.

Inside, the scent of dust and roses hit her nose like a memory soaked in decay. Velvet curtains lined the hallway like funeral drapes. Servants bowed as she passed, but their eyes—those darting eyes—looked away too quickly.

Like they knew something.

Like they saw something they weren’t supposed to.

Her heels clicked against the marble floor as she slowed her pace. Goosebumps lifted across her skin, and she glanced upward—instinct more than curiosity.

For a second, her breath caught.

There.

High above, in the tallest tower, stood a woman draped in crimson. Her posture still, her face unreadable. Just… watching.

A blink later, the figure was gone.

Only a whisper remained.

“Welcome home, little storm.”

Anaya shivered.

It wasn’t the kind of chill that came from cold air. It was deeper. Like something old had remembered her—and was glad she’d returned.

She reached her room in silence. Her luggage was already there, neatly placed beside a carved wooden armoire that looked centuries old. Everything about this place felt theatrical. A set built for a ghost story.

She kicked off her heels, unwrapped her beige coat, and tossed it onto the bed. Her black dress clung to her skin as she walked to the window and stared out into the courtyard below. Mist coiled between hedges like snakes, and the sky was already darkening.

There were no city lights. No hum of traffic. Just silence. The kind that pressed on your ears and made your thoughts sound louder than they were.

She didn’t like it.

A knock came at the door.

Anaya turned, sharp as a blade. “Yes?”

The door creaked open.

It was a girl—young, no older than seventeen—with wide eyes and trembling hands.

“Dinner will be served in the red hall,” she said quietly. “Your sister is waiting.”

Anaya offered a curt nod. “Thank you.”

The girl didn’t leave immediately. She lingered, lips parting like she wanted to say something more. Warn her, maybe.

But fear won.

She bowed quickly and fled.

Anaya stared at the door after it shut. Something about this place was wrong. Not just creepy-wrong. Off. The kind of wrong you couldn’t see but could feel in your teeth.

She dressed down slightly for dinner—still in black, but softer now. Loose silk pants, a sleeveless blouse. She didn’t dress for others anymore. Her family hated her style, said she brought shame. Said her bare arms and painted lips were signs of corruption.

Good.

Let them choke on her freedom.

The red hall was exactly what it promised—red velvet chairs, red drapes, a massive crimson chandelier dripping with candlelight. And there, seated at the center of a long table, was Mira.

Her sister.

Bright-eyed. Nervous.

Too young to wear a ring from a man like Rajveer.

Mira stood as soon as she saw Anaya and ran into her arms.

“Didi,” she whispered. “You came.”

Anaya held her tightly, pushing down the anger threatening to boil over.

“I’ll always come,” she murmured.

They ate together, mostly in silence. Other guests arrived—relatives, old money types, and a few aristocrats Rajveer’s family had invited. Their eyes wandered, measuring Anaya like a curiosity, a scandal in heels.

She let them look.

Let them wonder if she was going to ruin everything again.

Spoiler: she was.

Later that night, after Mira had gone to bed and the hallways had emptied out, Anaya returned to her room. The air felt different now. Thicker.

As she shut the door, the lamp on her dresser flickered. Then again.

Then it went out.

The room plunged into shadows.

Anaya turned to relight it—but something stopped her.

A sound.

Like breathing.

But not hers.

Slow. Deep. Behind her.

She spun, fists clenched.

Nothing.

No one.

Except…

In the mirror.

Not her reflection.

A woman in red.

Standing behind her in the glass.

Watching her with golden eyes that glowed like embers. A slow smile curved her lips.

“Welcome to the cage,” the woman whispered, voice like ash and silk.

Anaya didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The woman in the mirror raised one finger and dragged it down the glass.

A long, shrill crack followed.

The mirror split—clean, vertical, like a wound.

Then the image faded.

Gone.

Anaya staggered back, heart pounding so hard it echoed in her ears.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t cry.

But the words burned in her mind, haunting and strange.

Welcome home, little storm.

Anaya should have left last night.

She should have packed a bag, stolen a car, and vanished into the mist before the sun ever rose over the dead hills surrounding the castle. But she didn’t. Something—some pull—had kept her rooted.

Or maybe something hadn’t let her go.

She sat on the floor of her room, back pressed against the cold wall, eyes wide and wild. She hadn’t slept. She hadn’t even blinked. Every time she did, she saw her. That woman in red. In the mirror. In the corners of the room. In the soft moan of the wind brushing against the stone walls.

And in her dreams—if they were dreams—she felt her. A hand curling into her hair. A voice pressed against her neck. A body that moved like smoke and fire at once.

“Little storm…” the voice had whispered into her skin last night. “You taste like defiance.”

Anaya shivered now, wrapping her arms around herself.

She was being haunted.

And not just by any ghost.

By something… hungry.

She had tried to escape the bedroom three times before dawn. But every time she opened the door, the hallway changed. Twisted. Sent her back to where she started.

The castle wasn’t letting her leave.

No—she wasn’t.

Anaya got up slowly. Her knees trembled. She walked to the mirror again, half-hating herself for it.

“Show yourself,” she whispered.

The reflection stared back. Her hair was a mess. Her lips were parted. There were faint red marks on her neck she didn’t remember receiving.

Then—flicker—she saw her again.

Behind her.

Red dress. Bare feet. Eyes like burning honey and sin.

Anaya spun around.

Nothing.

But the mirror didn’t lie.

And neither did the whisper that followed.

“You can run, little storm,” the voice purred, close and far all at once. “But you’ll never outrun me.”

Anaya backed up toward the door. “What do you want from me?”

A pause. Then the air in the room thickened like silk.

“You.”

She bolted.

The corridor wasn’t the same as before. It shifted as she ran, doors blinking in and out, staircases curling like the ribs of a beast. She had no idea where she was going—only that she had to go anywhere but here.

But the castle pulsed around her, alive and amused.

A door swung open on its own.

And she fell through it.

She landed in a room she’d never seen. Red velvet draped the walls. Black candles flickered in iron sconces. There was a scent of roses and blood in the air.

And in the center stood her.

Not a reflection. Not a whisper.

Her.

The ghost. The demon. The haunting.

The woman in red.

“Welcome to my room,” she said, eyes gleaming. “You’ve been trying so hard to avoid me.”

Anaya scrambled back. “You’re not real.”

The woman tilted her head. “Then why are you trembling?”

She moved like poetry. Like smoke. Each step closer stole the air from Anaya’s lungs.

“What do you want?” Anaya demanded, voice sharp but weak.

“You,” the woman said again, and this time her voice wrapped around Anaya’s spine. “Your fear. Your fire. Your fight. I want to break them down. I want to taste what makes you run.”

Anaya pressed herself against the wall, breath shaking. “You can’t touch me.”

“Oh, little storm…” The ghost’s smile darkened, almost sad. “I already have.”

She raised her hand, and Anaya’s skin burned—not with pain, but with the memory of every touch she never wanted to admit felt good. Fingertips brushing her thighs in the dark. A mouth she never saw on the curve of her back. Breath at her ear that turned her blood to ash and lightning.

“I hate you,” Anaya whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks.

“I know,” the woman whispered back, suddenly close enough to feel. “And that’s what makes this so fun.”

She leaned in, mouth just beside Anaya’s.

“Because hate... tastes a lot like hunger.”

Anaya tried to run again—but this time her body wouldn’t listen. Invisible threads curled around her wrists, her waist, her throat. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind her she wasn’t in control anymore.

“You’re mine now,” the ghost said.

“No.”

“Yes.”

And the lights went out.