Vikram raised an eyebrow. “Ghosts don’t bleed, Gopal. Stick to tea.” But the name stuck with him. Anjali Khanna. The Khanna family owned half the properties around Nainital, their colonial-era mansion looming on Ayarpatta Hill. Anjali, the youngest daughter, had disappeared after a public feud with her brother, Arjun, over their late father’s estate. The case had gone cold, but Vikram remembered the headlines

The fog clung to Nainital like a jealous lover, wrapping the hill station’s narrow streets and colonial bungalows in a shroud of white. It was October, and the chill of the Himalayan foothills had settled into the bones of the town. Inspector Vikram Rawat, a wiry man with a salt-and-pepper mustache, sipped his chai at a roadside stall near Mall Road, his eyes scanning the mist for shapes that didn’t belong. Nainital was quiet this time of year, the tourists gone, the lake a still mirror reflecting the ghostly outlines of deodar trees. But something was amiss—Vikram could feel it in his gut, a detective’s instinct honed over two decades.

The call had come at dawn. A body had been found near the Naina Devi Temple, half-hidden in the undergrowth by the lake’s edge. Vikram arrived at the scene as the first rays of sunlight pierced the fog. The victim was a young woman, no older than thirty, her silk scarf tangled in the brambles. Her face was serene, almost too perfect, but the gash on her temple told a different story. No ID, no bag, just a silver locket around her neck engraved with the initials “A.K.” The local constables were already whispering about a ghost—Nainital was rife with such tales—but Vikram didn’t believe in spirits. He believed in clues.

He crouched beside the body, his knees creaking, and examined the locket. It was old, tarnished, but the clasp was new, as if recently repaired. “Get this to the lab,” he told Constable Sharma, a nervous rookie who nodded too quickly. “And check for missing persons reports. Someone knows her.”

By noon, the town was buzzing with rumors. The chai stall owner, a grizzled man named Gopal, leaned over his counter as Vikram returned for a refill. “Heard it’s Anjali Khanna,” he whispered, eyes wide. “The heiress who vanished last year. They say she haunts the lake now.”

Vikram raised an eyebrow. “Ghosts don’t bleed, Gopal. Stick to tea.” But the name stuck with him. Anjali Khanna. The Khanna family owned half the properties around Nainital, their colonial-era mansion looming on Ayarpatta Hill. Anjali, the youngest daughter, had disappeared after a public feud with her brother, Arjun, over their late father’s estate. The case had gone cold, but Vikram remembered the headlines.

He trudged up the hill to the Khanna mansion, the mist thickening with every step. The house was a relic of the Raj, its wooden beams sagging under the weight of time. Arjun Khanna answered the door, his silk kurta immaculate but his eyes bloodshot. “Inspector,” he said, voice smooth as lake water, “I heard about the body. Tragic.”

Vikram noted the man’s composure, too polished for someone who’d just learned of a death. “We think it might be Anjali,” he said, watching Arjun’s face. A flicker of something—fear, perhaps—crossed it before the mask returned.

“Impossible,” Arjun said, leading Vikram into a drawing room lined with hunting trophies. “My sister left Nainital. She’s probably in Delhi, living her life.”

“Then you won’t mind if I look around,” Vikram replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The mansion was a maze of dusty corridors and locked rooms. In Anjali’s old bedroom, Vikram found a photograph: Anjali, smiling, wearing the same silver locket. A diary lay on the bedside table, its pages brittle. The last entry, dated a year ago, read: Arjun knows. He’ll never let me go. Vikram’s pulse quickened. He slipped the diary into his coat and left, Arjun’s eyes boring into his back.

Back at the station, the lab report confirmed the locket’s engraving: “A.K.”—Anjali Khanna. The gash on her temple was from a blunt object, likely a rock, and her time of death was less than twelve hours ago. She hadn’t been dead for a year—she’d been alive, hiding, until last night. Vikram leaned back in his chair, the pieces refusing to fit. Why return now? And who had killed her?

Constable Sharma burst in, breathless. “Sir, we found a witness. Old Man Negi, the boatman. Says he saw a woman by the lake last night, arguing with a man in a long coat.”

Vikram grabbed his cap and headed to the lake. Negi was at his usual spot, mending nets by his rickety boat. The old man’s hands trembled as he spoke. “She was near the temple, sir. Shouting at him. Couldn’t see his face, but he was tall, wore a fancy coat. Then the fog swallowed them.”

Vikram’s mind raced. Arjun had a long coat, a black one he’d worn at the door. But something else nagged at him—the scarf tangled in the brambles. It was silk, expensive, but frayed at the edges, like it had been caught before. He returned to the crime scene, the mist now a heavy curtain. Kneeling by the brambles, he found a tiny scrap of black fabric snagged on a thorn. Wool, not silk. A coat, perhaps.

He confronted Arjun that evening. The man was in his study, a glass of whiskey in hand. “You were at the lake last night,” Vikram said, tossing the fabric scrap onto the desk. “Care to explain?”

Arjun’s face paled, but he recovered quickly. “I was home, Inspector. You’re grasping at straws.”

“Then you won’t mind if we test this fabric against your coat,” Vikram said, his voice low. Arjun’s hand tightened around the glass.

The lab results came in the next morning: the fabric matched Arjun’s coat. Faced with the evidence, Arjun cracked. “She came back,” he spat, his polished facade crumbling. “Anjali wanted her share of the estate. Said she’d expose me for forging Father’s will. I followed her to the lake, we argued, and… I didn’t mean to kill her. It was an accident.”

Vikram cuffed him, the clink of metal echoing in the silent mansion. As he led Arjun to the jeep, the fog began to lift, revealing Nainital’s lake in all its glassy glory. The town would talk of ghosts for years, but Vikram knew the truth: the only spirits here were human greed and guilt, laid bare by the cold light of day.