The Vaidya Mansion had been abandoned for decades, standing alone atop a misty ridge in the hills of Himachal Pradesh. Its once-grand façade had crumbled, ivy clawing at its walls, windows shattered like fractured eyes. The villagers whispered that the house was cursed. Some claimed it was the site of unspeakable tragedy; others spoke of shadows that roamed the halls at night. No one dared approach it.
Until now.
Aditya, a successful businessman from Mumbai, inherited the mansion from a distant relative he had never met. Though he had little use for an old, crumbling estate, his wife, Kavya, was eager to leave behind the noise of the city. Their marriage had been under strain since the death of their son, Aarush, and Kavya believed the fresh mountain air might help them heal.
Their daughter, Naina, a spirited 10-year-old, was less enthusiastic. “It’s creepy,” she said as they arrived. “Like a ghost story.”
“There are no ghosts,” Aditya replied firmly, though even he couldn’t shake the unease that crept up his spine as they stepped through the creaking doors.
The first night was eerily quiet. The house seemed alive with strange noises—groaning beams, rustling curtains, and the faint echo of footsteps where no one walked. Kavya, unable to sleep, wandered through the halls, her flashlight casting long, wavering shadows.
In the dining room, she found an old family portrait. A severe-looking man, a beautiful woman, and a young boy, no older than six, stared back at her. Something about the woman’s eyes sent a chill through her, as if they were pleading with her to leave.
When she returned to the bedroom, Aditya was awake, his expression grim. “I thought I heard Naina crying,” he said. “But when I checked, she was fast asleep.”
The days passed, and the family began to settle in, though the mansion’s oppressive atmosphere lingered. One morning, Naina came running to Kavya, clutching a small wooden doll.
“Look what I found!” she said excitedly. “It was in the attic.”
Kavya frowned. “You went up there alone? It’s not safe.”
“I wasn’t alone,” Naina said casually. “Aryan showed me the way.”
Kavya’s blood ran cold. “Who’s Aryan?”
Naina hesitated. “He’s… my new friend.”
That night, Kavya told Aditya about Naina’s imaginary friend. He dismissed it as a child’s way of coping with their move and the loss of her brother. But Kavya couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.
The next morning, she ventured into the attic herself. It was filled with dust and cobwebs, old trunks, and broken furniture. In one corner, she found a small bed, perfectly made, with toys scattered around it. A name was etched into the headboard: Aryan.
Her heart raced as she realized Aryan was the boy from the portrait.
Things took a darker turn. Naina became withdrawn, speaking less and spending hours alone in her room. Kavya often heard her whispering, but when she asked who she was talking to, Naina would only say, “Aryan doesn’t like you asking questions.”
One evening, Kavya found Naina sitting by the fireplace, holding the wooden doll. The flames cast eerie shadows on her face.
“Naina,” Kavya said gently, “why don’t we put the doll away?”
Naina’s head snapped up, her eyes filled with anger. “No! He gave it to me. He said you’d try to take it!”
Before Kavya could respond, the flames in the fireplace roared to life, casting the room in blinding light. A whisper filled the air, low and menacing: “She belongs to me now.”
Kavya and Aditya decided they needed to leave the house very next day, and in desperation, Kavya went back to the attic, searching for answers. She found an old diary hidden beneath the floorboards. It belonged to Aruna Vaidya, the woman in the portrait.
The entries told a chilling story. Aruna’s son, Aryan, had died in the mansion under mysterious circumstances. Her grief turned to obsession, and she attempted to use dark rituals to bring him back. The final entry read: “The house took him, and now it will take anyone it desires.”
When Kavya returned to the bedroom, she found Naina standing by the window, the doll clutched tightly in her arms.
“He says we can’t leave,” Naina said softly.
Kavya grabbed her daughter and ran, screaming for Aditya. They found him in the living room, staring at the portrait on the wall.
The family in the painting had changed. Aryan was no longer there. Instead, Naina stood in his place, her expression eerily blank.
The family’s car finally started the next morning. They drove away, leaving the mansion behind. But the nightmare was far from over.
Months later, back in Mumbai, Kavya woke to the sound of laughter coming from Naina’s room. When she opened the door, she froze.
Naina was standing in the hallway, her doll in hand, staring out the window as if in a trance.
“Naina?” Kavya whispered, her voice shaking.
The little girl turned slowly, her face expressionless, as though the child she knew was no longer there.
“I can hear him,” Naina said softly. “Aryan is calling me.”
Kavya, heart racing, grabbed Naina’s hand and pulled her back to the bedroom. But the moment she stepped into the room, the air grew thick, heavy with a presence she couldn’t explain. The room seemed to pulse with energy, as if something dark was watching them. The walls groaned, the floorboards creaked.
That night, Kavya had a dream.
She saw herself back in the Vaidya Mansion, standing in the nursery where she had first seen the portrait. This time, however, Aryan’s face was no longer missing from the painting. He was there, smiling—his face pale, his eyes as black as the void. In the dream, he reached out his hand to her.
“Come,” he whispered. “You belong here now.”
Kavya woke with a start, drenched in cold sweat, her chest heaving. She looked at Naina, who was still sleeping beside her, clutching the doll tightly. But something was different. Naina’s breathing was slow, shallow, as though she wasn’t alive.
When Kavya gently shook her awake, the little girl’s eyes opened, but they were not Naina’s eyes. They were dark, empty, hollow—just like Aryan’s.
“Kavya… come to us,” the voice wasn’t Naina’s. It was deep, guttural, chilling.
Kavya screamed, pulling her daughter close, but the darkness in Naina’s eyes grew stronger. The room darkened around her, the walls closing in, and in the corner of the room, she could see shadows twisting, shifting, as if they were alive.
Suddenly, Naina’s small hand reached out, her fingers cold as ice.
“Let me go, Mom,” she said. “He’s waiting. He says I can never leave.”
The doll in Naina’s hand cracked open on its own, revealing a small, twisted piece of wood inside—carved with the name “Aruna.”
Kavya tried to pull Naina away, but the child’s body felt heavy, unyielding. A terrible force gripped Kavya’s chest, as if the house itself were choking the life out of her. The shadows grew, enveloping her, their whispers filling her mind.
“Help me,” Naina cried, but the voice was no longer her own. “Come with us, Mother.”
Kavya, tears streaming down her face, grabbed the doll and threw it across the room. “I won’t let you take her!” she screamed.
The room fell silent.
For a moment, everything seemed still. Then, from the darkness, a figure emerged—Aruna, the woman from the portrait. But she was no longer the graceful, serene figure from the painting. Her face was gaunt, hollow-eyed, a scream frozen on her lips. Her hand reached out, her fingers long and twisted.
Kavya backed away in terror, but the figure followed her every move.
“You cannot escape,” Aruna whispered, her voice sharp as broken glass. “We never let go. Not of him. Not of anyone.”
With a final, desperate scream, Kavya lunged for Naina, but the darkness swallowed her whole.
The next morning, the apartment was silent.
Naina was gone.
Kavya’s body was found in the corner of the room, curled up, her eyes wide with terror. The doll lay in her hand, its wooden body cracked and warped. But it was the look on her face that haunted the police—her mouth frozen in a scream, eyes wide open, as though seeing something no one else could.
There was no sign of Naina.
Months passed, and the apartment was left abandoned. No one could explain the horror that had unfolded inside. But the villagers in Himachal Pradesh spoke in hushed tones of the Vaidya Mansion’s curse. Some claimed to hear a child crying from the house on quiet nights, and others swore they saw a woman and a little girl standing at the windows, staring down at them.
And if you ever passed by the mansion late at night, you might hear a soft lullaby playing in the wind, carried by the trees.
No one had ever seen Kavya or Naina again. But every now and then, someone would find the same doll—cracked and broken—lying in the bushes near the mansion’s gate.
And on the walls, the painting still hung. This time, there was no longer just Aruna and her son.
Naina had joined them.
The three of them stood together, staring out from the portrait with dark, hollow eyes, forever waiting for the next soul to come.