CHAPTER 3: The Mystery Behind the Mirror

My hands were trembling. In front of me was the secret door, which I had unknowingly opened. Should I open it? There was fear in my heart, but curiosity had overpowered it.

"Now that I have come this far, I should see," I told myself, encouraging myself.

I slowly pulled the door further, and it opened slowly. Inside, I saw a narrow, dark tunnel. The walls were made of stone, and the cold wind coming from there made me shiver from within. A soft sound was coming from inside the tunnel, as if some soft music was playing or someone's soft whisper.

"What is all this?" I whispered to myself.

I turned on the phone's flashlight and slowly stepped into the tunnel. The gust of wind gave me goosebumps. At every step, I felt as if someone was watching me. I looked back, but there was only darkness.

"Maybe it's just my imagination," I consoled myself, but somewhere inside the fear was deepening.

As soon as I reached the end of the tunnel, a small room appeared in front. There was an old table in the middle of the room, and on it were kept some old papers and a photo. The photo was covered with dust, but when I cleaned it, my breath stopped.

In the photo was the same woman whom I had seen in the mirror. The same deep sadness and pain was clearly visible in her eyes.

"It's her," I muttered. "But who is this woman? And how did she die?"

A flood of questions rose in my mind. A name was written below the photo-Amrita Devi.

"Amrita Devi..." I read the name. This name seemed to me like an old family tree, but someone I had never heard of.

I picked up the papers lying near the photo. Those were old, yellowed pages, with someone's handwriting on them. They looked like pages of a diary. I started reading them.

---

"22 June 1925,"

"I had the same dream today too. Every night those voices and the same image. The fear in my eyes cannot be expressed in words now. I feel that this house is swallowing me. I want to run away from here, but I can't go anywhere. Women's stories are always suppressed, but there is no one to know my truth."

---

When I turned the pages, my reading became more intense. The pages of Amrita Devi's diary were slowly telling the story of her suffering, her loneliness and the pain she had endured in this house. Every night she had strange dreams, she felt that the walls of the house were surrounding her, and as if someone or something was coming to harass her.

But the most shocking part was in the last page.

---

"15 August 1925,"

"I can't bear it anymore. I have found out everything about my husband. I can't hide what he did. I am tired of his violence and lies. But no more. Tonight I will talk to him face to face. If something happens to me, this truth will also be buried in these walls."

---

The pages fell from my hands.

"Her husband?" I said to myself. "So he killed her?"

My heart started beating fast. I was now completely convinced that Amrita Devi's death was not an accident, but she was killed by her husband. And that truth had been suppressed within this house for so many years.

Just then a soft voice came from behind.

"Anya..."

I quickly turned around. There was no one.

But at that moment I was convinced that Amrita's soul was still wandering in this house. She wanted to tell me something.

"I will help you," I said softly, as if she could hear me. "I will tell your story to the world."

---

I picked up the diary and the photo and ran back outside. It was no longer safe to stay in this house. I closed the secret door and stood near the door as I came out, breathing heavily.

Now I was sure that this was not just an inheritance. This house had hidden a truth, and now that truth had to come out.

---