They had moved into a small rented flat on the outskirts of the city. Clean walls. Large windows. Bright sunlight.
Normal.
The kind of place where nightmares weren't supposed to follow.
But nightmares don't always obey rules.
On the seventh night, Veer woke up screaming.
He sat upright in bed, clutching his chest, drenched in sweat.
Aarohi rushed to his side. "What happened?"
He looked at her, eyes wild. "He was here."
"Who?"
Veer's hand shook as he pointed to the wall. "Dev."
Aarohi went cold.
"No. We ended him. I signed the deed. We broke the bloodline—"
"I saw him," Veer said. "He wasn't in the house. He was in me."
That same morning, something strange appeared in their kitchen.
Scattered ash.
In a perfect circle.
No fire. No stove left on.
Just ash—coarse and black—surrounding Veer's chair.
They swept it up.
Said nothing.
Tried to smile.
But fear had returned. Quiet, like fog creeping under a door.
Aarohi made an appointment with a therapist.
The trauma of the haunting, she told herself. Residual fear. Hallucinations.
But when she opened her wardrobe that night, she froze.
At the back, nestled between folded sweaters, was an old, burned photograph.
The corners curled.
The image blurred.
But she recognized the face instantly.
Rajnath Bhattacharya.
The man who started it all.
Father Desai arrived the next day.
He brought with him incense, holy water, and a look of defeat.
"I felt something the moment he reappeared in your dreams," he told them. "When you severed the curse, the house collapsed. But not the hatred."
Veer frowned. "Then what did we destroy?"
"The blood curse," Desai replied. "But curses are roots. What you didn't kill… was the seed."
Aarohi's voice was dry. "So he followed us?"
"No," Desai said grimly. "You carried him."
That night, Desai prepared a cleansing ritual in the new flat.
Salt lines around the doors.
Candles placed at every corner.
He chanted for hours.
At 2:58 a.m., the air in the room dropped by ten degrees.
At 3:01, every candle blew out on its own.
And at 3:08 a.m. sharp—
The ash returned.
This time, on the walls.
WORDS.
Scrawled in burnt smears:
"THE HOUSE BURNS WHERE THE HEART LIVES."
Aarohi backed away, whispering, "He's not tied to the house anymore…"
Veer finished the thought.
"He's tied to us."
Suddenly, all their belongings exploded outward from the closets—books, clothes, dishes—shattering against walls, ceilings, floors.
Aarohi screamed as the lights burst above her.
Desai gripped the holy symbol around his neck. "He's become more than spirit now. He's become emotion. A force."
The room roared with Dev's voice:
"You left the house. But the house is inside you."
Veer dropped to his knees.
His eyes turned white.
Not possessed—but lost.
Dev's memories flooding in like a tsunami.
The fire.
The betrayal.
The screaming.
The chains.
Veer gasped, "I can feel him… he's angry… but he's not after revenge anymore."
Aarohi touched his face. "Then what?"
Veer's lips trembled.
"He wants to be."
Outside, the neighbors were starting to notice strange things.
The air around the building had grown colder.
Lightbulbs flickered even in other flats.
An old woman on the third floor claimed she saw a man of ash walk across her wall.
One little boy from next door knocked on Aarohi's door at dawn, holding a drawing:
A black figure with fire for eyes.
"I saw your shadow monster," he said softly.
That evening, Aarohi made a decision.
"I need to return to the ruins," she whispered.
Veer looked horrified. "Back to Hollowridge?"
"Yes," she said. "The house may be gone, but its foundation remains. I left something behind. Something Dev is still feeding on."
Desai nodded slowly. "He's unfinished. A spirit that wasn't avenged. He's tethered. If we don't find what ties him to the earth…"
Veer finished the sentence:
"He'll never leave."
At midnight, they packed candles, salts, and the remaining holy relics.
Aarohi looked at Veer and Desai and whispered, "Let's finish this."
Outside their window, smoke gathered into the shape of a hand—
—and scratched three long marks on the glass.