The night settled over Hollowridge House like a coffin lid. The darkness was so complete, it seemed to press in from every corner. Even the moonlight dared not touch the windows for long.
Aarohi lay in bed, wide awake. Veer had fallen asleep hours ago after their fight. His back was turned to her, his breaths shallow and angry. She clutched the leather-bound book tightly under the covers, its presence both terrifying and comforting.
She hadn't shown him the blood writing on the back page.
She hadn't told him she saw Dev's burned face staring from the attic mirror.
He wouldn't believe her anyway.
Suddenly, the temperature in the room dropped. It was sharp and unnatural, like stepping into a freezer. Aarohi's breath puffed out in small white clouds. She sat up slowly, her teeth chattering.
Then—tap. Tap. TAP.
She turned her head toward the window.
Nothing.
But the sound came again. This time louder. Closer.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
It was coming from the inside of the wardrobe.
She stared at it.
The antique wooden wardrobe in the corner of the room began to creak. The doors trembled slightly, as though something inside wanted out.
Her heart pounded. She reached over and shook Veer. "Wake up. Wake up now."
He groaned. "What now?"
"The wardrobe… it's shaking. Listen!"
They both sat in silence.
The shaking had stopped.
Veer sighed. "Nothing's there. You probably had a nightmare."
"I'm not imagining this," she whispered. "I heard knocking. It was inside."
Veer got out of bed, crossed the room, and flung open the wardrobe doors.
It was empty.
Except...
At the bottom, beneath some hanging coats, was a charred footprint. Just one.
Veer stepped back. "What the hell…"
Aarohi's voice trembled. "It's him. It's Dev. He's here."
"Stop it!" Veer snapped. "It's probably a mark from something the previous owners stored. Don't start blaming ghosts for every smudge."
She didn't argue. There was no point anymore.
But deep in her soul, she knew. That print wasn't a smudge.
It was a warning.
The next day, Aarohi tried to stay busy. She cleaned, cooked, and tried to avoid every mirror in the house. But Hollowridge wasn't a place you could ignore. The house wanted her attention.
The whispers began at noon.
Faint, like a radio playing through water.
She was washing dishes when she heard:
"…blood… bring it back… burned me… she pays…"
She dropped the plate in her hand. It shattered in the sink.
The whispers stopped.
She looked around the kitchen. Nothing.
But the air smelled faintly of smoke.
She backed away, hands trembling.
Later, when Veer returned from town, she told him. Again.
He listened this time—but only with half-hearted concern.
"Aarohi," he said slowly, "this house is old. It makes noises. You're stressed. Maybe even dealing with post-marriage anxiety. It's a big change."
"You think I'm going crazy," she said flatly.
"I think you're seeing what you expect to see."
Aarohi stared at him. "Then explain the footprint. The freezing cold. The whispering."
He opened his mouth—then paused.
"Can we just have one night without this?" he said softly. "Please."
That night, as they lay in bed in silence, Aarohi couldn't sleep again. Her eyes were drawn to the mirror on the wardrobe door.
She'd tried covering it, but the sheet never stayed. Something always pulled it down.
This time, the reflection was off.
It showed the room—but Veer was missing from the reflection.
Only she was there.
And behind her, in the mirror's world, someone stood by the bed.
Dev.
Burned. Mouth wide open. His eye sockets oozing black.
He slowly lifted a hand and pointed to her belly.
Aarohi gasped and looked behind her.
Nothing.
She turned back to the mirror.
The image was normal again.
Both she and Veer, asleep. Peaceful.
But on the mirror's surface, written in dripping condensation:
"SEED OF BLOOD. WOMB OF DEBT."
She covered her mouth to keep from screaming.
Her body shook as she turned toward Veer, curled up against him, burying her face in his back.
And then she felt it.
A hand—not Veer's—gently stroke her hair.
The next morning, the house was alive with noise.
Doors slammed by themselves. The chandelier rattled violently. The TV in the study turned on and off rapidly, flipping through static and screaming voices.
Aarohi ran downstairs, heart hammering, and called Veer.
He didn't pick up.
She dialed again.
Straight to voicemail.
Then she heard it. Footsteps in the hallway. Slow. Deliberate.
Someone was in the house.
She ducked into the dining room and peeked through the doorway.
No one was there.
But on the wall, in deep red letters—scratched in, not written—were the words:
"SHE OWES ME. HE CAN'T SAVE HER."
The letters bled like wounds.
Aarohi backed away, only to bump into something behind her.
She turned.
A figure stood at the end of the hallway. Not quite human.
A man. Burned beyond recognition. His flesh black and melted. His mouth stitched closed with wire.
But his eyes—black pits of hatred—were fixed on her.
He raised one skeletal finger and dragged it across his throat.
Aarohi screamed.
Veer returned home to find her curled up on the bathroom floor, shivering and sobbing.
He held her. "What happened?"
She couldn't speak.
She just pointed toward the dining room.
But the blood writing was gone.
Veer carried her to bed. "We'll leave tomorrow," he whispered. "We'll sell the house. Whatever this is… we're done."
Aarohi clutched his shirt like a lifeline.
But as she fell into an exhausted sleep, the wardrobe door slowly creaked open again…
And from inside, something whispered:
"Not yet."