Horror fiction: Tara has written some (in)famous romances featuring monsters. Now one is hunting her

Tara gets home and makes herself a large pot of coffee. With a deep breath, she opens the Word doc on her Mac, and pops a piece of nicotine gum into her mouth. She chews rabidly, ignoring the chaos in her rented Vasant Kunj apartment a la “A Hovel of One’s Own”.

Plants lifelessly droop in their unwatered pots, which double up as dustbins. She sits on her unmade bed, using a pillow and a balled-up blanket as an impromptu desk. A pile of her unsold books is stacked against one of the ugly mustard-coloured walls, while the other has a pin-up board that’s plastered with covers of Victorian bodice rippers – a shrine to all the dysfunctional romances that have shaped her writing. Each features a variation of the same archetype: the Bewitching Rake, the Wandering Wolf, the Philandering Count, the Reckless Viscount – shirtless and clutching catatonic semi-clad women on the brink of orgasm.

Tara can’t seem to conjure up any words today. She silently stares at her laptop until the screen goes dark, shuddering at her own reflection – spotty, dark-circled, hair like a bird’s nest – staring back at her.

She can’t help but recall Ahana’s worried words from...

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