The next day was unnaturally calm.
No whispers.
No flickering lights.
No blood on the walls.
Aarohi and Veer sat in the living room, the morning light barely filtering through the grimy windows. Father Desai had blessed every inch of the house, but it felt… temporary. Like putting a bandage on a wound that was already infected to the bone.
"I think the spirit's resting," Veer muttered. "Planning its next move."
Aarohi shook her head slowly. "No. He's waiting for me to move."
And she was right.
Because the moment she stood to get water, the mirror above the fireplace shattered.
But not from outside.
It exploded inward, as if something inside the mirror had punched through.
Then, a piece of glass flew straight toward her face—
—Veer yanked her back just in time.
Blood ran down her cheek from a small cut. It dripped onto the floor in slow, fat drops.
And the moment her blood touched the wood, the house screamed.
All the windows shuddered.
The chandelier above them began to spin on its own.
And the painting of Rajnath Bhattacharya that hung in the hallway—an old, dignified portrait—burst into flames.
They rushed to the hallway just as the frame crashed to the floor, blackened and smoking.
"What the hell is happening?" Veer gasped.
Father Desai stepped in with wide eyes. "He's not after you anymore, Aarohi. He's after the bloodline's essence. Your ancestor's memory is tied to this house. And now, so are you."
"But I've told the truth," Aarohi cried. "I begged for forgiveness. What more does he want?"
"Not words," Desai whispered. "He wants to make you feel what he felt."
That night, Aarohi couldn't sleep.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, afraid to close her eyes.
At 3:08 a.m., the door creaked open slowly by itself.
She sat up—but no one was there.
Then she looked down.
Her feet were covered in ash.
She stood up slowly.
Ash was trailing from under the bed.
With trembling hands, she knelt and lifted the covers—
And saw herself lying beneath it.
Eyes wide.
Mouth stitched shut with black thread.
Burns covering her arms.
Aarohi screamed—and the corpse opened its eyes.
She shot awake in her bed, panting.
A dream. It had to be a dream.
But the bedsheets were covered in soot.
And her feet were black with ash.
"Veer!" she cried out.
He rushed in from the guest room, where he'd been keeping watch.
She pointed to the bed, but the soot was gone.
Clean.
Normal.
"I'm losing my mind," she whispered.
"No," Veer said. "He's trying to break you."
Later that morning, they found something chilling.
The name "Rajnath" had been carved into the wooden dining table.
Over and over.
Dozens of times.
Aarohi's hand began to tremble.
"Veer… I didn't do this."
"I know."
But the carving knife was on the floor.
And her fingerprints were on it.
That night, while they tried to stay awake together in the living room, Aarohi dozed off in Veer's arms.
When she opened her eyes again… she wasn't in his arms anymore.
She was wearing a silk sari, sitting on a carved wooden throne.
Around her, people were chanting.
She wasn't Aarohi anymore.
She was Rajnath.
Looking down at Dev, bound in chains, kneeling before her.
He looked up.
"Spare me."
Rajnath's voice—her voice—boomed through her skull:
"You brought shame to this land. Your death will cleanse it."
Flames rose again.
Dev screamed.
And Aarohi felt everything.
The heat.
The rage.
The pleasure of revenge.
She woke up screaming.
Veer was shaking her. "Aarohi! You were chanting in your sleep!"
Her fingernails had gouged into his forearm. Blood trickled from the wounds.
She backed away, horrified. "I… I think he's inside me."
Father Desai arrived, eyes filled with dread. "Dev has done it. He's possessing you, moment by moment. Reliving his death through you. Corrupting your mind with Rajnath's cruelty so you feel both sides of the curse."
As the day passed, Aarohi's body grew weaker.
She spoke in voices that weren't hers.
She stood in corners for hours, eyes blank.
And at times, she scratched her own skin until it bled, whispering things like:
"I was burned."
"The blood won't wash."
"Justice is pain."
Veer refused to leave her side.
He held her when her hands shook. He kissed her forehead when her body convulsed.
He looked at Father Desai with tear-filled eyes. "Tell me what to do."
Desai's voice was cold now.
"If we don't act soon… Aarohi won't survive the next possession."
But before the priest could finish his sentence, all the lights exploded.
A cold wind swept through the house.
And they heard a sound coming from upstairs.
A new voice.
A male voice.
Rough. Boiling with fury.
"Come… come to the attic, Rajnath's blood."
Aarohi's eyes rolled back.
Her mouth whispered:
"I'm ready."