In the remote village of Bhangarh, nestled deep within the Aravalli hills, stood an ancient house shrouded in darkness. Locals whispered of its cursed past, warning travelers to stay away after sunset. But curiosity often lured the foolish, and their fate was always the same—never to be seen again. Rahul, a young journalist from Delhi, arrived in Bhangarh to investigate the legends. The villagers refused to speak of the house, their eyes filled with dread. Undeterred, he decided to spend the night inside, armed with only a flashlight and a camera. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the air grew thick with an unnatural chill. The wooden door creaked open on its own, revealing a dimly lit hallway covered in cobwebs. Shadows flickered along the walls, though there was no wind.
Rahul’s heartbeat quickened as faint whispers echoed through the corridors—voices pleading in an unknown tongue. Suddenly, the camera’s screen glitched, revealing a ghastly face with hollow eyes staring back at him. He stumbled back, dropping the device. The whispers grew louder, now morphing into agonized screams. The walls began to bleed, dark crimson liquid oozing from the cracks. A skeletal hand shot out from the darkness, gripping his ankle. Rahul screamed, kicking frantically, but more hands emerged, dragging him toward a hidden cellar. The last thing he saw was a swarm of shadowy figures closing in, their hollow eyes burning with hunger.
The next morning, the villagers found the house’s door wide open. Rahul’s camera lay on the floor, its last photo showing a blurred figure with a twisted smile. No one dared enter again. To this day, the cursed house of Bhangarh stands untouched, its horrors waiting for the next foolish soul to cross its threshold. Some say Rahul’s ghost still wanders the halls, forever trapped in the nightmare he sought to uncover.
The villagers of Bhangarh had long accepted the evil that dwelled within the crumbling mansion on the hill. They avoided it, whispering prayers whenever the wind carried eerie wails from its direction. But Rahul, the reckless journalist from Delhi, had ignored their warnings. Now, he was gone—swallowed by the house.
Three nights after his disappearance, a faint knocking echoed through the village. Old Man Dinesh, the village priest, awoke to the sound of something dragging itself across his doorstep. When he opened the door, he stumbled back in horror. Rahul stood there—or what was left of him. His skin was deathly pale, stretched tight over protruding bones. His eyes were black voids, and his lips moved soundlessly, forming words that never came. Then, in a voice that wasn’t his own, he rasped: "They want more."
Before Dinesh could react, Rahul’s body collapsed into dust. The wind howled, carrying the ashes back toward the cursed house.
The Dark Ritual
The next morning, the village gathered in panic. No one had seen Rahul return, yet his tattered clothes were found near the temple. The bravest among them—a hunter named Vikram—volunteered to enter the house at dusk, armed with a rusted talisman from the local shrine. As Vikram stepped inside, the door slammed shut behind him. The air reeked of rotting flesh. Shadows slithered along the floor, converging into human-like shapes. A cold hand gripped his shoulder, and he turned to see a woman in a tattered red sari, her face half-eaten by decay.
"You shouldn’t have come," she whispered, her voice echoing from the walls. The floor beneath him gave way, and he fell into a pit of bones—fresh and ancient alike. Above him, the shadows laughed as the house sealed his fate. Days later, children playing near the outskirts of the village reported seeing figures watching them from the mansion’s broken windows. Some swore they heard Vikram’s voice calling for help—but no one dared answer. The village elder, Maheshwar, declared that the curse was waking again. Years ago, a sorcerer had been executed within those walls, and his dying curse bound his spirit—and his victims—to the house forever.
Now, the house demanded new souls.
Each night, another villager would vanish, lured by whispers in the dark. Their bodies were never found, but sometimes, at midnight, their voices could be heard screaming from inside the mansion. A group of paranormal investigators arrived, armed with cameras and holy relics. They entered the house at noon, when the evil was said to be weakest.
Their footage, recovered days later, showed them descending into the cellar—where a massive, pulsating shadow waited. The last frame was a close-up of a grinning face, its teeth jagged and endless, before the screen cut to static. The villagers finally accepted the truth—the house would never release its dead. And if they didn’t flee, they would join them. But as the first families packed their belongings, a slow, rhythmic knocking began at every door in Bhangarh.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The house was hungry again.
