In the heart of Delhi, amidst its bustling streets and historic monuments, lies a neighborhood known as Malcha Mahal. Once the residence of a royal family, this decrepit structure is now infamous for eerie occurrences that have terrified locals and visitors alike. It was a chilly December night when Ananya, a young journalist, decided to explore the abandoned palace. She had always been drawn to the supernatural, and Malcha Mahal's grim history intrigued her. The legend spoke of a royal family that had been granted the property by the British but was later abandoned to their fate.
The last known resident, a prince, reportedly died in solitude, his spirit never finding peace. Determined to document the truth, Ananya ventured inside, armed with a flashlight and her camera. The air inside was heavy with the scent of damp stone and decay. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl. As she stepped deeper into the ruins, an unnatural chill ran down her spine. Suddenly, she heard footsteps echoing behind her. She spun around, but there was no one there. A gust of wind blew past, yet the air in the room remained eerily still.
Her pulse quickened as she saw a shadow flicker on the cracked walls—shapeless yet undeniably human. Refusing to give in to fear, she lifted her camera and clicked a photo. But instead of capturing the emptiness of the hall, her screen showed a blurred face staring back at her—eyes hollow, mouth twisted in silent agony. Her breath hitched as the air turned icy, and a whisper floated to her ears:
"Leave."
Panic surged through her. The walls seemed to close in, and a sudden force pushed her backward. Scrambling to her feet, she bolted toward the exit, her heart hammering. Just as she reached the doorway, she felt an invisible hand grip her wrist. A piercing wail filled the air, the sorrow of a soul trapped in limbo. Ananya yanked her arm free and ran, not stopping until she reached the main road. She gasped for breath, turning back to look at the cursed structure. The windows of Malcha Mahal seemed darker than before, as if something watched from within.
The next morning, Ananya checked her camera. Every photo she had taken was corrupted, except for one—a single frame showing a shadowy figure standing right behind her. She never returned to Malcha Mahal, but to this day, she wakes up at night, feeling the icy grip of an unseen force on her wrist. Some say the spirits of the abandoned palace never let go of those who dare to disturb them.
Delhi is a city of history, but some histories refuse to be forgotten.
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