Blood. That was what Ahalya had been seeing in her dreams. Lots of blood, red and visceral. Scenarios change every time, as if fears have a trail room in her head.

For instance: she returns home carrying a bag of groceries and the old woman's standing in the living room. She wears a wicked smile, her teeth alarmingly brown. Vishwa's head is in her hands, cut off from his body and its jagged edges dripping blood down the couch. There were days she randomly checked for bloodstains on the couch.

One more: She's sitting on their bed, watching the camera's footage of Vishwa spending time with her. Somehow, the woman escapes her room, jumps out and watches into the camera as she bites and peels the skin off Vishwa's neck.

The worst thing is Ahalya's frozen in these dreams, unable to help, unable to cry or scream. Like she's the queen of a forgotten ice kingdom.

Ahalya finishes eating but isn't in a mood to move. She stands tilted; her head bobbed sidewards at the Vishwa's poetry book. Her eyes loop between the pages and the screen. She has concerns about their safety. Although she agreed to help her husband get his revenge, now she's not so sure. They've to start a life. Together. Alone.

She remembers Rayavaram; the terror, the jitters and the irregular sleep timings. She shouldn't have let Vishwa take her to the Village. The grandeur of the wedding is not worth it. May it be a morning, afternoon or night, she would wake up in some room, sweating with sketches lying around her. The old woman confronting her, at last, was the swan song to these nightmares.

Ahalya is made of fear now. It's in her atoms, splitting in two each time she looks at the screen. The rice and gravy on her right hand are getting dry, but she doesn't move, doesn't wash. This laziness is innate.

She breathes in and places her left hand on her stomach. What if she gets pregnant? Is this where they will raise their children? Warning them not to go into the first-floor corridor? There's a ghost? An evil lady? A demon? It's irritating to know that they're living an R-rated Disney movie. The skin on her palm slides over her belly. Oh, how badly she wants to get pregnant. She needs something more than love to bind her with Vishwa. A binding with flesh, blood and soul of its own.

One more look at the screen, and her heart jumps. The skin on her neck shivers upwards in seismic waves. She stands straight, one hand on the plate and gazes at the screen. Vishwa is lighting the sketches on fire. And the image gets blurry behind the smoke. That is not normal; unforeseen. She climbs her elbows on the granite and looms into the laptop. The flames are smouldering, eating away the papers. She glints at the woman, who's severely sticking out the gate like an animal receiving the sacrifice.

Meanwhile, a housefly flies in through the window. Ahalya has her eyes glued to the screen. The papers are burned. A shocking ritual. Done. The fly revolves around her head, deciding where to land. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Later, it finds some food on Ahalya's unwashed hand. It rests its wings, shakes its body and hops between the rice and the gravy. Ahalya doesn't shake it away.

In the footage, the old woman is turning away. She must be angry. Or hurt. Ahalya's eyes have widened. She doesn't breathe, doesn't blink. She's frozen. She becomes the girl in her dreams. Air gets heavy in the room and the housefly randomly elevates, coursing up Ahalya's body and settling a few degrees west of her lips. It doesn't see the growing smile on her face. A pale smile. A strange smile. A dead smile.