The storm came back that night without warning.No slow wind building in the distance—just a violent gust slamming the shutters open all at once.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Amara sat up in bed, her heart pounding. Ravi was already on his feet, grabbing the lantern. The cat leapt down from the chair, fur standing on end, tail lashing wildly.
"What now?" Amara whispered.
Before Ravi could answer, a deep groan echoed through the walls—like the whole house was breathing in. Then came a sound from below.
Thump… Thump… Thump…
It wasn't footsteps this time. It was heavier. Slower. Measured. As if something was pulling itself up from the earth.
They moved through the dark hallway, the lantern light trembling over the cracked walls. The air was thick, smelling of damp soil and something coppery—like blood.
"Don't go down," Ravi warned. "It wants you to follow."
Amara hesitated, but the sound seemed to tug at her bones. "I think… I think it's calling me. Not my name. My blood."
Ravi grabbed her shoulders. "What do you mean?"
She swallowed hard. "When I was little, my aunt told me our family came from this village. She said there was a woman long ago who 'chose love over duty'… but no one said her name. What if…" Her voice cracked. "…what if Asha was my ancestor?"
The lantern flickered. The house seemed to listen.
Before Ravi could answer, a loud crack split the air. The floorboards beneath them shuddered. Down the hall, the cellar door—barred and locked—burst open.
A rush of cold air swept through, carrying with it the smell of the well.
And then the shadow came.
It wasn't just a figure now. It was a whole mass of writhing darkness, filling the doorway, spilling across the floor like a living tide. Eyes—too many, too bright—opened within it.
"You are her blood," it hissed. "You will finish what she refused."
The cat arched its back and hissed, standing between Amara and the thing. Its eyes glowed, and the shadow recoiled slightly, but not enough.
Ravi pulled Amara back toward the stairs. "Go! Upstairs!"
They ran, but the shadow surged after them, its voice whispering in a thousand tones at once.
Raghav waited for her…She never came…You will come to me…
The walls stretched, the staircase seemed longer than it should be, each step dragging them into molasses. Amara felt cold fingers brush her ankle.
They burst into the bedroom and slammed the door. Ravi shoved a heavy dresser in front of it.
The shadow struck the wood—THUD! THUD!—making the whole frame shake.
Amara's breath came fast. "If it's tied to my blood, it won't stop."
Ravi's face was pale in the lantern glow. "Then we cut the tie."
The pounding stopped suddenly. The silence was worse.
Then—Tap… Tap… Tap…—at the window.
They turned.
A face was pressed against the glass. Pale. Eyes wide. Lips moving without sound.
It was Asha.
Amara's heart clenched. She moved toward the window, but Ravi caught her arm. "It's not her. It's using her face."
"No," Amara whispered, "I can feel her sadness."
The cat leapt onto the sill and yowled, long and loud. The face flinched, then mouthed a single word.
Roots.
And vanished.
"The roots," Ravi muttered. "The house's roots? The tree? The land?"
Amara's voice trembled. "The big banyan in the garden. The one with the strange carvings."
Realization hit them both at once.
"That's where we end it," Ravi said. "Not tomorrow. Now."
They wrapped themselves in coats and lit two lanterns. Outside, the wind tore at their clothes. The banyan tree loomed in the lightning—its massive trunk twisted, its roots thick as snakes. Carvings marked the bark, old and deep: spirals, eyes, and something like a face.
At the base of the tree, half-hidden under a root, was a stone slab. The cat paced around it, meowing sharply.
Ravi knelt and brushed away the dirt. A symbol appeared—one Amara had seen in Asha's diary. "It's a binding mark," she breathed. "It's keeping him here."
They pried at the slab until it shifted. A foul gust of air burst out. Beneath was a narrow hole, leading into darkness.
And from that darkness, two pale hands reached up.