The sun was setting on the horizon, casting long, eerie shadows over the ancient mansion that stood tall, cloaked in its forgotten past. Maya had always been drawn to places like this—silent, mysterious, and steeped in stories that whispered to her soul. She didn’t know why, but something about the house on the hill had called to her ever since she had arrived in the small town.

“Stay away from there,” the locals had warned. “There’s a reason we call it ‘Shaitaan Ka Mahal.’ The devil’s mansion.”

But Maya was not one to be easily deterred. An aspiring filmmaker, she had traveled far and wide to capture the essence of old folklore and urban legends, and the tale surrounding Shaitaan (2024 film) was too intriguing to ignore. They said the house was cursed, and that whoever entered it would never be the same again. Some even claimed the spirits of those who died there roamed the halls, driven mad by a demon that consumed their souls. Maya, however, believed it was just another exaggerated ghost story—fuel for the fire of her next script.

As she pushed open the rusty gates and stepped onto the overgrown path, a chill crept up her spine, but she dismissed it. The air inside the mansion was thick, heavy with the weight of forgotten memories. Dust floated in the dim light, swirling as if disturbed by unseen hands. Maya adjusted the camera hanging from her neck and began her exploration. The creaking of the floorboards echoed through the vast, empty halls, each sound amplifying the eerie silence around her.

In the grand ballroom, the air was colder. A large chandelier, covered in cobwebs, hung from the ceiling like a skeletal hand frozen in time. Maya gazed at the once-beautiful room, imagining the lavish parties that must have taken place there. She began filming, her lens capturing the decayed opulence. But something was off. As she panned across the room, the camera picked up a flicker of movement—just for a second.

She paused, peering into the viewfinder. The room appeared empty.

A soft, melodic humming filled the air.

Maya froze. She hadn’t noticed it before, but now it was unmistakable. The sound seemed to come from the grand staircase. Slowly, she followed the noise, her heart pounding against her ribs. The humming grew louder, clearer. It was a woman’s voice—sweet, haunting, like a lullaby.

At the top of the stairs, the door to a bedroom was slightly ajar. Maya’s hand trembled as she pushed it open. Inside, the room was unlike the rest of the mansion. It was immaculate, untouched by time. A large mirror stood in the corner, its surface shimmering in the fading light. In front of it sat a woman, her back to Maya, brushing her long, dark hair. The humming stopped.

Maya’s voice quivered. “Hello?”

The woman did not move. For a moment, everything stood still. Then, slowly, the woman turned, and Maya’s breath caught in her throat. Her face was pale, her eyes black as night, reflecting no light.

“Why have you come here?” the woman whispered, her voice soft but filled with an edge of malice.

“I—I’m just filming,” Maya stammered, taking a step back.

The woman’s lips curled into a smile that never reached her eyes. “You shouldn’t have come here. He’s always watching.”

Before Maya could react, the woman vanished, dissolving into the air like smoke. The room suddenly felt suffocating, as if the walls were closing in. Maya stumbled back, her mind racing. What just happened?

She bolted out of the room, down the staircase, and into the foyer. The humming had started again, only this time it was louder, coming from all around her. Panic surged through her as the lights flickered violently, casting long, twisted shadows across the walls.

And then, in the middle of the grand ballroom, he appeared.

The figure was tall, clad in black, his face obscured by darkness. His presence radiated pure malevolence, a force that seemed to suck the air from the room. His eyes—those cold, red eyes—locked onto Maya, and in that moment, she understood. This was no ghost story. This was the Shaitaan the townspeople spoke of, the demon who claimed the souls of the curious and the foolish.

“Leave,” he growled, his voice like gravel scraping against stone. “Or stay, and dance with me in the dark forever.”

Maya felt her knees buckle. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but her body was frozen. The camera slipped from her hands, crashing to the floor.

The last thing she remembered before darkness consumed her was his laugh—a deep, hollow sound that echoed in her ears long after she lost consciousness.

When she awoke, she was outside, lying on the overgrown path, the mansion looming behind her, silent once again. Her camera was gone, and with it, the proof of what had happened.

Shaken but alive, Maya staggered to her feet. She glanced back at the mansion one last time before hurrying down the hill, vowing never to return.

As she reached the edge of the town, the wind carried a faint whisper to her ears—the sound of humming, sweet and haunting.