The inn loomed like a jagged wound at the end of the mountain road, its blackened roof slashing the storm-lit sky. Rain pelted Mira's car, turning the asphalt into a slick mirror. Every gust of wind made the vehicle shudder, and she realized too late that she couldn't see more than ten feet ahead.

In the distance, a flickering neon sign offered the faintest hope: VACANCY.

She hadn't planned to stop. But the storm swallowed the road ahead, and somewhere deep inside, she knew she had no choice.

Inside, the air was smelling faintly of mildew, something else-an underlying tang she couldn't place.Her instincts whispered warnings she tried to ignore.

The receptionist didn't look up. Her eyes were dark, liquid obsidian, unreadable.

"Only one room left," the woman said, brittle as cracked glass. "Room Nine. King bed. Do not sleep on the left side."

Mira laughed, a short, tense sound. "That's oddly specific."

"If you value your sleep... or your skin... stay to the right." She slid a brass key across the counter. Mira's fingers brushed the cold metal. The chill raced straight to her bones.

Room Nine

When the door creaked open, Mira felt a tremor she couldn't explain. The room smelled of lavender, sweet at first, but layered beneath it was copper and decay-something metallic, like blood long dried.

The bed commanded attention. Dark mahogany, roses carved into its posts like thorns reaching for the ceiling, sheets white but impossibly heavy. It wasn't just furniture-it was a presence. It seemed to pulse, alive, like it had been waiting.

Mira set her bag down, the thud reverberating like a heartbeat. That's when she saw it: the left pillow, slightly indented, as if someone had been lying there just moments ago.

A cold shiver ran through her. She should leave, laugh it off, convince herself she was tired. But something inside-the very marrow of her bones-knew she could not.

Sliding to the right side, she whispered to herself, I'm not afraid. Not of furniture. Not of ghost stories.

And yet, when the lamp flickered out, the mattress dipped beneath her, as though a phantom had joined her.

.

.

.

.

Since this was a rainy area, the downpour didn't stop quickly, so Meera had no choice but to stay there, whether she wanted to or not.

As night deepened, rain clawed at the windowpanes like restless fingers. Mira curled into the vast bed, its sheets cool against her skin, whispering faintly with the storm outside.

She had just begun to drift when it happened.

A brush at her hip.

Her body jerked. A hand-ice-cold, firm as marble-slid up her side, tracing her ribs with unnerving precision. Every nerve in her body snapped awake.

"Mira..."

The whisper was velvet and smoke, carrying weight, carrying centuries.

Her breath caught, lungs burning as if she'd forgotten how to breathe. She turned her head slowly, dread pounding with every heartbeat.

He was there.

Pale as moonlight, black hair tumbling into eyes molten and silver, a figure carved of shadow and longing. His presence pressed into her, heavy and suffocating, as though the storm outside had taken human form and crawled into her bed.

Her trembling hand fumbled for the lamp. Light spilled across the sheets-empty, untouched, smooth on the left side.

No one there.

Her chest rose and fell in jagged, desperate gulps. "No," she whispered to herself, "no... I felt it."

But she could still feel him-those fingers ghosting over her skin, teasing, claiming, pulling at something deeper than flesh. Her soul quivered like a candle in the wind.

Then she realized-

The bed was humming.Low, guttural, almost like a growl from beneath the wood. The sound seeped into her bones, wrapping around her like a warning-or a promise.

It knew him.

Or it knew her.

Or perhaps, horrifyingly, it knew them both.

"Mira..." the voice came again, closer now, brushing against her ear like a lover's breath. "At last... you came back."

Her body broke into goosebumps so sharp it hurt, every hair standing as though the storm itself had entered the room. Her lips trembled.

"I-I don't know you," she whispered.

"Yes, you do," the voice purred, almost tender, almost broken. "Your body remembers. Your blood remembers. Even if your mind lies."

She froze, shivering-not from the cold touch, but from the way her pulse answered his words, betraying her.

Next Morning

Breakfast was stale, bitter, almost as if the inn itself was testing her. Mira laughed, hollow, ignoring the innkeeper's gaze that lingered too long.

But when night returned, so did he. Lying on the left side. Shirtless, skin pale as frost, more real than a ghost yet colder than the storm.

"You're not supposed to be here," she whispered.

"Neither are you." Fingers traced her jaw, cool but searing, demanding.

"Don't be afraid," he murmured. "I'm keeping you alive."

Mira shivered. The bed shifted under them, groaning, as if warning her: this is forbidden. Yet she stayed. She couldn't leave.

.

.

.

Time blurred. She awoke in the chair by the window, only to find herself back in the bed. Always on the left side. Always with him. Always with the bed somehow... guiding, pulling, claiming her.

His name was Rakshit. Minimal words, maximum obsession.

He noticed everything: the curve of her lips when she smiled, the way her hair tumbled over her shoulder, how her pulse throbbed at the brush of his hand.

"You're not dead," she whispered, recalling fragments of whispered stories.

His silver eyes darkened. "Aren't you?"

The bed groaned beneath them. Its weight seemed to press into her chest, a claim not just of skin, but of soul. She realized then that she recognized it too. A flicker of memory, a dream-like vision of a past she didn't know she had: she had lain here before. Not in this life, but in another. Centuries ago. And it had waited for her to return.

As the days bled into nights, their nearness became inevitable. What began as whispers and phantom touches had grown into something that devoured her-mind, body, and soul. Mira stopped asking herself if he was real. He was. Too real.

And then, one rain-drowned night, resistance finally shattered.

His lips brushed hers. Slow. Deliberate. A kiss that burned with centuries of hunger, centuries of longing compressed into a single heartbeat. The world tilted, her chest tightening as if that kiss alone might kill her-and she didn't care.

His hand slid to her waist, fingers tracing the curve of her hip with sinful precision, teasing, daring. The sheets tangled around them, not innocent cotton, but a silky prison that refused to let her go.

"Stay with me, Mira," he whispered, voice muffled against her skin, velvet edged with steel. "One more night... and you'll never have to leave."

Her breath tore from her throat, desperate. "I can't... not with you."

His teeth grazed her neck, cold and sharp, a kiss and a threat in the same motion. "Then don't," he murmured. "Not ever."

The bed shuddered beneath them, alive, pulsing. Jealous. Its wooden frame groaned like something half-asleep, half-awake, wanting them, feeding on them. Shadows writhed across the walls, moving not with the storm but with their bodies, echoing each gasp, each racing heartbeat, each frantic brush of skin.

It wasn't just a kiss anymore. It was possession. It was a storm made flesh.

Then He leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear. His voice was rough silk, velvet soaked in sin.

"Do you know how long I've waited for this? Centuries. Centuries of silence, and then you-" His voice broke into a shuddering moan as if even saying her name pulled him apart.

Her fingers dug into his hair, desperate, wild. "I want it all," she gasped. "You. This bed. This madness. Don't hold anything back."

The bed moaned with them-yes, moaned. It was no longer furniture, not wood and fabric. It was alive. Predator. Lover. Witness. Every gasp, every shudder, every filthy sound was absorbed into its core, feeding it, binding her tighter.

She arched against him, body trembling between terror and rapture. "Harder," she begged, broken, shameless. "Make it choke on us, Rakshit."

And he did.

The storm outside roared to life, thunder crashing over the mountains like applause, like warning. Lightning carved their shadows onto the walls-two bodies tangled, and a bed that wasn't just holding them, but consuming them.

.

.

.

Morning came heavy, as though the storm had seeped into the walls. The dining room was too quiet, the clatter of cutlery muffled, the other guests blurry, faceless. Mira sat at the far end of the buffet table, untouched plate cooling before her.

The innkeeper's voice broke the silence. Low. Grave.

"You shouldn't have talk to him," she said, eyes fixed on Mira.

Mira's fork clattered against the plate. "You knew," she hissed. "You knew all along. Who is he? What is he?"

The innkeeper's face did not soften. Instead, she leaned close, her whisper slicing through the air like a blade.

"102 years ago, Rakshit's bride was murdered in that very bed. Stabbed through the heart. He followed soon after-or so people believed. But the bed... the bed never let go. It waits.

Mira's throat closed, the taste of iron flooding her mouth. "Why me?" Her voice cracked.

The innkeeper's stare was bottomless, almost pitying.

"Because you look like her. Because you are her bloodline. That bed doesn't just choose bodies-it chooses souls. You didn't stumble in here by chance, Mira. You answered its call."

Her pulse raced, but it was not just fear. A memory stabbed into her skull-her body in a white gown, centuries ago, Rakshit's hand clasped in hers, the bed beneath them breathing, alive. The roses carved into its posts seemed to bloom, drinking them in.

It wasn't a coincidence. It was inevitability. She hadn't arrived. She had been summoned.

The same Night

Mira should have fled. Packed her bag. Driven until the rain broke. But the storm pinned her, and something deeper, hungrier, pinned her heart.

That night, Room Nine waited.

The lamp flickered as she stepped inside, shadows crawling up the walls like skeletal hands. She knew-if she lay down, she would not rise the same.

And yet, she lay on the left side.

The air shifted. A presence settled over her.

"Back again..." His voice broke against her ear-equal parts relief, obsession, and despair.

Then his hands were on her. Cold, unrelenting, but worshipful. Fingers mapped her body like a cartographer memorizing every detail, like he was carving her into eternity. Her breath stuttered, caught between desire and dread.

"Rakshit..." She tried to speak, but it fell into a moan.

"Don't leave me," he rasped. His lips brushed her jaw, her throat, her trembling mouth. "Not again. Not this time."

She felt it slide into her-an icy tendril curling through her ribs, clawing at her chest. Her body shook. But instead of terror, instead of fighting, she arched toward him.

Because what terrified her most wasn't the bed. It was how much she wanted to give in.

.

.

Meera asleep in the left side but in her dream she saw

A flash of steel.

Rakshit's eyes widened. "Run!" he said

The blade sank-not in pain, but in freezing, deep pull. She gasped. Turning, she saw... herself. Older. Paler. Eyes empty.

"You always come back," the other Mira whispered.

The scene collapsed. Room Nine's bed pulsed beneath her, Rakshit beside her, breathing in perfect rhythm.

"You see?" he murmured. "You're why I can't leave. You're the one who kills us every time."

Morning came. The storm faded. Room Nine empty. No Mira. No bag.

Two perfect pillow indentations remained, warm.

The bed had hunted again and won.

Her connection to it was undeniable. Blood, soul, and memory intertwined across centuries. And she knew, somewhere deep inside, she would always return.

A/N :

Hello everyone 🤍

Do let me know how you felt about the prologue.

I request you to please read at least the first 10 chapters before judging the story, as the plot unfolds slowly and reveals its depth with time.

Are you excited for the next part?

This story will be available on Scrollstack—you can read it there once I upload the chapters.

The initial chapters will be completely free, so do give it a try when they’re uploaded.