It happened years ago in a village called Jharsar — a place known for its ancient mansion that people called Jharsar Haveli. The mansion stood tall, silent, and cold, with walls that had seen generations come and go. But hidden behind its beauty was something darker — a secret that connected my own family to something unholy.
I still remember the first night Riya, my cousin, was forced to stay there. She argued with her mother, refusing to perform a strange ritual in the basement of that old haveli. But her mother insisted, saying, “This is our family’s burden, Riya. The pact made by our ancestors must be fulfilled.”
Riya demanded to know the truth, and that’s when her mother revealed it — the basement temple represented an ancient agreement between our ancestors and a forgotten deity named Mayakaal Rudra. The ritual had to continue, or the curse would awaken again.
The story of this pact began in 1930, with a poor laborer named Nathuram — one of our ancestors. He was a hardworking man, living a miserable life while watching the rich Seth of the village thrive. Nathuram couldn’t understand how Seth, once just as poor as him, suddenly became so wealthy.
Frustrated and desperate, Nathuram confided in his friend Haraya one afternoon. “How can a man become that rich so fast?” he said. Haraya looked around, lowered his voice, and told him about the temple beneath Seth’s mansion — a secret shrine dedicated to a dark god called Mayakaal Rudra.
Haraya said he had learned this from a former servant of Seth — a man who was later found dead in a well. No one knew how he died, but since then, strange whispers had surrounded the Seth’s mansion.
Nathuram couldn’t get it out of his head. The thought of that hidden temple, the mysterious god, and the Seth’s sudden fortune consumed him. He started believing that maybe, just maybe, the same power could change his own fate too.
One humid evening, Nathuram went to Seth’s mansion to collect his daily wages. The house was eerily quiet, and Seth wasn’t home. His sister Kamla opened the door — her face pale, her smile oddly calm.
She told him, “Bhaiya and Bhabhi have gone to the city. Take this sack of grain instead; there’s no cash today.”
Nathuram nodded, but as he waited in the hallway, something drew his eyes toward a half-closed door — the one leading to the basement. The air near it felt colder. He stepped closer, curious, but Kamla quickly stopped him. “Don’t go near that door,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “Take the grain and leave.”
He obeyed — at least for that moment. But once he reached home, he couldn’t sleep. That image of the locked basement, Kamla’s strange expression, and the whispers of Mayakaal Rudra wouldn’t let him rest. His curiosity soon turned into obsession.
Late that night, when the whole village was asleep, Nathuram picked up a lantern and made his way back to the mansion. The wind was heavy, carrying a chill that made even the trees seem afraid. He found the back door slightly open — as if waiting for him.
He entered quietly, the wooden floor creaking under his feet. His heart pounded as he approached the basement door. It was ajar, and from the darkness below came the faint sound of chanting.
Step by step, Nathuram descended into the damp, cold basement. The air was thick, heavy with the smell of burnt ghee and something… metallic. And then he saw her — Kamla.
She was standing naked before a black stone idol — its face carved with hollow eyes and sharp teeth. Her hands held a brass plate filled with blood and ash. The idol wasn’t just a god — it looked alive.
Nathuram froze as Kamla chanted something in a language he didn’t understand. The flame of the lantern flickered violently, and the shadows seemed to move on their own. The realization hit him — this was no worship; this was a sacrifice.
Suddenly, Kamla stopped chanting. Her eyes turned toward him — glowing faintly, filled with rage and terror. “You shouldn’t have come here,” she whispered.
Nathuram panicked. In blind fear, he grabbed a stick lying nearby and struck her. The lantern fell, its flame bursting into smoke. Her scream echoed through the basement, followed by a sound — deep, growling, inhuman.
That night, Nathuram disappeared. The villagers found the mansion door open and Kamla lying unconscious beside the shattered idol. No one ever saw Nathuram again.
Years later, when Riya learned this story, she realized what her mother meant — the “ritual” was not a tradition, it was a continuation of the pact Nathuram had interrupted. Our family had been bound to that deity ever since.
Now, when I pass by Jharsar Haveli at night, I sometimes see a faint light flickering near the basement window… and hear a distant voice whispering, “The pact is not over.”
