By morning, the fog had lifted just enough for Veer to drive to the nearby town. Aarohi stayed behind, unwilling to face the house alone but unable to escape its grip on her soul. The air inside Hollowridge was heavier now, like breathing through ash.
When Veer returned, he wasn't alone.
An elderly man stepped out of the car, dressed in a faded cassock, silver crucifix hanging at his chest. His eyes were sharp—too sharp—and his face creased with the weight of things he'd seen but rarely spoken of.
"Father Desai," Veer said, helping him with a small wooden box. "He's handled cases like this before."
The priest gave a slow nod. "This house... it reeks of ancient guilt. Something very old is festering here."
Aarohi met him at the door. "He's still here. Dev."
Father Desai paused on the threshold. His eyes scanned the entrance, lingering on the broken windowpanes and the soot stains above the fireplace.
Without a word, he placed salt lines at the door and windows, muttering prayers under his breath.
But even as he worked, the lights flickered.
The temperature dropped again.
And then the house began to whisper.
It wasn't loud, but it was everywhere.
In the walls. In the floorboards. In their ears.
"He lied... he burned me... she bears his blood..."
Father Desai's mouth twitched.
Veer looked at Aarohi, pale. "They're talking to you."
Aarohi didn't respond.
Because she already knew.
That afternoon, Father Desai walked the house alone, holding a wooden crucifix and sprinkling holy water. In the attic, he stayed the longest. When he came back down, his face had changed.
"Tell me everything," he demanded. "Your family's connection to this house."
Aarohi opened the old book.
"My great-grandfather—Rajnath Bhattacharya—was a local landlord. He was superstitious… and cruel. When strange deaths began happening in the village, he blamed Dev, his own advisor, for witchcraft."
"He wasn't wrong," Veer muttered.
"No," Aarohi snapped. "He was. Dev practiced old magic—but not black magic. People feared him because he was different."
She turned the pages to show Father Desai the final entries.
"He was burned alive in this house. Chained in the attic. He died swearing vengeance."
Father Desai nodded solemnly. "What you're facing isn't a normal haunting. It's a blood curse. You live in a cycle of inherited guilt. This spirit is not just angry—he's bound here."
Veer looked desperate. "Can we stop it?"
Father Desai hesitated. "There's one way. We cleanse the house… and if that fails, we trap the spirit again. But…"
"But what?" Aarohi asked.
Father Desai turned to her slowly. "Spirits this strong… they feed off pain. They evolve. If we fail, the next attack may not just be spiritual."
Veer clenched his jaw. "Let's do it."
At midnight, the ritual began.
Father Desai chanted in Sanskrit, drawing a circle in chalk around the attic door. Aarohi and Veer stood behind him, hearts pounding.
Candles flickered violently as the air turned sour—like rotten eggs and burned metal.
Then—BANG!
The attic door slammed shut on its own.
The circle blew out.
All three were thrown back as a loud scream echoed through the house—so loud the windows cracked and the lights exploded.
Dev had awakened.
And he was angry.
The hallway lights stuttered.
From the attic above, something began to crawl—slow and dragging. The sound of burned flesh peeling off wood.
Father Desai pulled out a vial of sacred oil.
But before he could move, something hit him.
Hard.
He flew back against the wall, unconscious.
"Father!" Aarohi screamed, running to him.
Veer grabbed her. "We have to go!"
But as they turned, the house began to shift.
The hallway stretched. The stairs elongated. The front door vanished.
The walls moaned like they were alive.
And behind them… footsteps.
Then breathing.
Then a voice—hoarse and bubbling like it came through tar.
"She burns like I burned…"
Veer shoved Aarohi into the nearest room and locked the door.
They were trapped.
Inside the room, they could hear scratching—like nails across stone.
Aarohi backed away from the wall.
"Why me?" she whispered. "What does he want from me?"
Veer took her hand. "Because you're blood. He wants to hurt those who carry your great-grandfather's sin."
"But I didn't do anything."
Veer looked at her with hollow eyes. "That doesn't matter to spirits."
The lights in the room flickered again.
The mirror above the dresser cracked—just once.
And the whisper came again.
"Blood for blood."
When dawn broke, the house quieted.
They found Father Desai still breathing, but barely.
He opened his eyes and muttered, "The house… it doesn't want release. It wants a reckoning."
"What does that mean?" Veer asked.
Father Desai looked directly at Aarohi.
"It means… it's not enough to survive. You must confess the sin. Face it. Let him see it."
Aarohi felt cold.
Because she knew where she had to go next.
The attic.