Roswell Mansion 1

For Arun, the place felt nothing short of paradise — surrounded by lush, green mountains that stretched endlessly into the mist, and in the far distance, snow-capped peaks gleamed like strokes from an artist’s brush upon the canvas of the sky.

The weather, cool and crisp, suited him perfectly; the faint chill in the breeze only added to the charm.

This was one of the upper regions of Himachal — not too densely populated, yet lively enough to feel connected — and lately, it had begun to grow fast as a tourist destination.

Arun was a civil engineer, sent here by his company to oversee the early stages of a project. It was work that had brought him all the way from Delhi, and for the next few months, this was to be home.

He had managed to reach here somehow — first by train up to Una, and then by bus through winding hill roads. But upon arriving, he was greeted not by comfort, but by a small complication: his accommodation hadn’t yet been arranged.

The company had initially chosen a place called Roswell Mansion, but after some local inquiries, it turned out that the place was not… quite ideal. They told him he’d have to manage on his own for a day or two until better arrangements were made.

When he’d asked what was wrong with Roswell Mansion, the answer had been both amusing and unsettling:

apparently, the place had a bad name. People whispered it was haunted.

By day, it appeared ordinary enough — calm, even picturesque — but at night, strange things were said to happen. Some who had stayed there claimed to have seen or heard things beyond explanation. A few had even lost their lives, others their sanity.

The mansion, he learned, belonged to a wealthy man from Shimla, who rarely visited; a local caretaker looked after it.

During the day, people came and went — travelers, campers, the curious — but anyone who stayed the night did so in tents pitched in the courtyard, never inside the building itself.

No one quite knew what really happened inside those walls after dark. For no one who had tried to explain had ever been found in a state fit to talk.

Arun, though, was not one to be swayed by superstitions.

He was a man of science, of reason — modern, educated, and grounded.

Ghosts and spirits did not trouble his mind.

Still, he couldn’t ignore the possibility that, under the guise of these ghost stories, some very real mischief — perhaps even criminal activity — might be taking place there. So, before jumping to conclusions, he decided to see the place for himself.

And that was how he now found himself walking toward Roswell Mansion, a backpack slung across his shoulders, another bag swinging from his hand, as he climbed the lonely path beyond the last cluster of houses.

Under the shade of tall trees, he kept climbing higher, thinking to himself that it was better to settle here for a while than to waste time searching for some perfect lodge.

If the inside wasn’t comfortable, he’d simply sleep outside.

After a while, he reached a small fork in the road and stopped.

Two paths lay ahead: one led to a small village of about twenty-odd houses, the other climbed further uphill, toward a picturesque ridge where Roswell Mansion stood — a place that, in another age, had once been a royal rest house.

At the junction stood a tiny tea stall, a wooden shack manned by an old man who sold tea, biscuits, cigarettes — the usual fare.

In front of it were two wooden benches, where three men sat chatting lazily. When Arun arrived, all three fell silent and turned to look at him.

He placed his bag on the bench and took off his backpack, letting his eyes wander. Two people were walking toward the village — one on foot, one pushing a bicycle — while from the way he had come, a woman with a bundle on her head trudged uphill.

At the center of the junction stood a large oak tree, encircled by a low mud platform.

And on that platform sat a man — a strange figure — mumbling to himself as though deep in conversation with someone invisible. Every now and then, he would snap his fingers in the air, as if flicking cigarette ash, then raise his empty hand to his lips and inhale, mimicking a smoker’s gesture.

Moments later, he set down his clay cup of tea, bent forward, and tried to stand on his head — only to topple off the platform, muttering angrily under his breath.

Arun’s curious gaze drew the others’ attention; the men on the bench started laughing at the man’s antics.

“Mad fellow, sir,” said one of them — the oldest, roughly the tea-seller’s age. “Spends the whole day like that.”

Arun nodded, half-smiling. “Hmm. One tea, uncle,” he said, addressing the tea-seller.

“Right away, babuji,” the man replied, and began pumping the small stove beneath his milk pot. The smell of burning kerosene grew sharper as the blue flame caught. He lifted the pot, placed a kettle over it, and soon poured steaming tea into a clay cup, handing it over.

Arun sat down, his eyes still drifting toward the madman, who had now resumed sipping tea quietly.

The others had fallen silent, perhaps out of politeness before the stranger who looked like an outsider.

He took a slow sip from the earthen cup — the warmth of the clay, the earthy aroma of brewed tea — and felt that small, familiar pleasure he always sought in such roadside stalls, the kind that no fine café could ever offer.

Just then, his phone rang.

A small wave of relief passed through him — at least there was still some network here.

He pulled out his phone and smiled when he saw the caller’s name. Yamini.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, answering the call. Yamini was his wife — barely a year into marriage, still wearing that freshness of new love.

“Have you reached?” her voice crackled through a weak signal.

“Just about. I’m here, but haven’t reached my stay yet — still on the way.”

The signal kept breaking. He had to repeat himself twice, and her words came back in fragments, like echoes through wind. What he managed to gather was that she was asking if the place looked like somewhere one could actually live for months.

He smiled faintly. “Let me reach first, love. I’ll check it out and send you pictures,” he said before the call dropped.

When he looked at the screen again, the network bars were gasping — barely alive.

“Doesn’t the network work here?” he asked the young man sitting beside him.

“BSNL does, sir. The rest don’t. They work better near the village.”

Arun nodded. He took another sip of tea, then casually asked,

“Which way’s Roswell Mansion?”

The moment the name left his lips, the group went quiet.

The young men exchanged uneasy glances. Even the old tea-seller stopped stirring his kettle and looked up at him, worry clouding his face.

“That way,” said one finally, pointing toward the uphill trail. “But… why do you ask?”

“Because that’s where I’m supposed to stay — for a few months.”

A shadow of discomfort rippled through them.

“Why, what’s wrong?” Arun asked, half-smiling, half-curious.

No one spoke immediately. Then the older man — the one who’d first mentioned the mad fellow — cleared his throat.

“If you’re here for sightseeing, sir, you should stay in town. People go up there only for camping — groups of boys and girls, sometimes film people. They stay during the day, and by nightfall, they’re back down. Nobody stays there alone.”

Arun gave a small chuckle. “I work for a company that’s building a resort nearby. I’m here to start the groundwork. Others will join me later. For now, it’s just me. But what’s the problem with the place?”

The old man sighed. “Sir, that mansion… strange things happen there at night. Nobody knows exactly what, but those who’ve tried sleeping inside — they never came out the same. Some didn’t come out at all.”

He nodded toward the madman on the platform.

“Like him.”

Arun turned to look. The man was now blowing into his empty hands, pretending to sip from an invisible cup.

“He stayed there?” Arun asked, startled.

“Yes, sir,” said the tea-seller. “Used to be a city man like you — educated, smart. Came for some work. I’d warned him not to stay inside the mansion at night, but he wouldn’t listen. Didn’t believe in ghosts and spirits. Next morning, he was found like this.”

Arun frowned. “If it’s that serious, why hasn’t the administration shut the place down?”

“Administration doesn’t care, sahib,” another man replied. “The estate belongs to the local Thakur. He could close it if he wanted, but he doesn’t. People still come, and it keeps the place alive. Otherwise, it would’ve been ruins by now.”

“Who’s this Thakur?” Arun asked.

“The owner. His ancestors built the mansion — it used to be a royal guest house, back in the day. After that, it was abandoned for years. The current Thakur lived abroad, and when he returned and reopened it, strange accidents began to happen. Since then, it’s said that dark forces live there.”

“But if it’s so infamous, why do people still go?”

“Because it’s beautiful, sir. Up there, at the edge of the hill, there’s a flat stretch like a garden. There’s a small lake — breathtaking to look at. The danger, if any, is only inside the mansion and only at night. During the day, there’s no problem.

Thakur sahib even built two large tents outside for campers. So, adventure seekers, college groups — they keep coming. Some film units too. It’s not completely deserted. A man named Khem Singh takes care of everything there — the caretaker. If people need cooks or cleaners, he arranges them, but none of them stay the night.”

Arun’s gaze drifted again toward the madman. “Has he ever said what happened to him that night?”

The tea-seller shook his head sadly. “How can he, sahib? Looks awake, but his mind’s gone. Lost somewhere in those walls.”

For a moment, Arun thought of going over and talking to him — but one look into those vacant eyes, and he changed his mind.

He finished his tea, dropped the empty cup into a rusted tin dustbin, and stood up.

“One cigarette, uncle. And how much for the tea?”

The tea-seller handed him a pack — not his usual brand, but it would do.

Lighting it, Arun took a deep drag, the smoke mixing with the thin mountain air.

“If you’re really staying there, sir,” the tea-seller said quietly, “please don’t spend the night inside.”

Arun nodded politely — though he hadn’t yet decided anything.

He paid the man, slung his backpack on again, and started walking toward the uphill path that led to Roswell Mansion.

It was around five in the evening, but dusk was already gathering. In the mountains, twilight comes early — and he wanted to reach before the shadows claimed the road.

There was no public transport now — none that he could find — so he walked.

The dirt road was wide enough for two jeeps to pass, lined with thick trees whose branches wove a dark canopy overhead. Within minutes, daylight began to dim faster than it should have.

After about twenty minutes of climbing, the mansion finally came into view.

It stood like a relic from another time — surrounded by a beautifully tended garden with shaped hedges, flowering plants, and animal-shaped shrubs.

Small stone bridges crossed narrow water channels, and though the fountains stood silent, their design still whispered of the grandeur they once had.

Beyond the garden rose the mansion itself — old, restored with paint and plaster, but unable to hide its age. The entire property was encircled by a high, thorn-fenced wall.

Near the front lawn stood two large white tents, and beside them, a man — waiting, it seemed, just for him.

As Arun approached, the man’s features grew clear: a simple, wiry hill man, dressed plainly in a woolen shirt and pajamas.

This was Khem Singh, the caretaker.

“Ah, sahib! You took your time,” Khem Singh said as soon as Arun came near. “I was about to leave.”

“Couldn’t find a ride,” Arun replied, a little breathless. “Had to walk nearly an hour.”

Khem nodded. “Well, you’re here now. Everything’s ready outside — bedding, food. I thought you might be hungry, so I cooked something in the kitchen. Here’s the key — master key for all four rooms inside. You can wash up, eat, rest. I’ve prepared your camp outside for sleeping. If you need any staff, I’ll arrange tomorrow. Just tell me what groceries to bring for your stay.”

He spoke almost mechanically, as if repeating a memorized script.

Arun took the key and asked casually, “Why outside? Why not sleep inside the mansion?”

Khem’s face froze. “You don’t know?”

“What?”

“I mean… the things people say about Roswell Mansion. I don’t know what’s true, sahib, but if there’s even a chance of danger, why risk it? That’s why Thakur sahib arranged these tents. They’re safe. You can have dinner inside, but sleep outside.”

Arun looked at him keenly. “And what danger is there after dark?”

Khem swallowed. “They say… unholy forces awaken here at night. Demons, ghosts — who knows? Best not to find out.”

Arun laughed lightly. “Superstition. I’ll take my chances. I’m sleeping inside.”

Khem’s eyes widened in alarm. “Why risk it, sahib? Even if there’s nothing — you won’t sleep easy.”

“We’ll see,” Arun said with a shrug.

“You’re alone?”

“For now, yes. Others will come later.”

“Then… I’ll leave, sahib.”

“Go ahead. Just be here early tomorrow morning — I’ll need you for a few things.”

Khem nodded, hesitated, and then said softly, “Please, sahib. Don’t stay inside tonight. Some who tried… never woke up the same.”

“Alright, alright,” Arun said, half amused. “You go now.”

Khem lingered a moment longer, watching Arun’s back with worry etched on his face, then turned away, shaking his head.

Arun unlocked the heavy wooden door and stepped inside.

Written by Ashfaq Ahmad

x