Iran, a land of ancient empires, winding bazaars, and timeless deserts, holds secrets that go far beyond history books. Beneath its golden mosques and sprawling mountains, there are stories whispered only when the lamps are low and the stars are hidden.
One of the most haunting among them comes from a decaying mansion on the outskirts of Tehran: The Palace of the Spirits.
Locals call it by many names—"Qasr-e Arvah" (Palace of the Spirits), the Cursed House, or simply That Place You Should Never Visit. The mansion stands abandoned among dying gardens and cracked fountains, hidden behind high stone walls entwined with dead vines.
It is said to have once belonged to a wealthy nobleman during the Qajar dynasty. A man obsessed with immortality. Some say he dabbled in black magic; others say he invited spirits into the house through forbidden rituals, hoping to bargain for eternal life.
Whatever he did, it worked—just not the way he intended.
One night, without warning, everyone inside the palace vanished. The nobleman, his servants, his family—gone.
When curious neighbors finally dared to enter weeks later, they found the dining hall still set for a feast, the food rotted to sludge. But not a single soul remained.
Since then, the mansion has been cursed.
They say at night, you can hear the sound of a feast still going on—laughter, music, the clinking of glasses—echoing through the cracked halls. Ghostly figures glide past the broken windows. The nobleman himself is said to walk the corridors, eternally searching for a way to reverse the deal he made with the spirits.
—
I had heard the legend during my travels through Iran and, against better judgment, decided to see the place for myself.
Finding it wasn't easy. The locals were hesitant to even give me directions. One old man finally relented, pressing a string of black prayer beads into my hand before whispering, "Do not enter if the doors are open. And never, ever eat or drink anything inside."
It was dusk when I found it. The heavy gates hung open, as if waiting for me.
The garden was eerily still, save for the caw of a distant crow. The mansion loomed ahead, windows dark and broken like hollow eyes.
As I stepped inside, the smell hit me first: a mix of mildew, decay, and something sweeter—like rotting flowers.
Then came the sounds.
A soft, lilting music floated through the air.
Voices. Laughter.
It sounded like a grand party was still underway somewhere deep within.
I moved carefully through the halls, the cracked marble floors crunching under my boots. Portraits of grim-faced men and veiled women stared down at me from moldy walls. Their eyes seemed almost... alive.
In the main hall, a long table stretched out before me, laden with silver platters.
But the platters were empty—or so I thought.
When I blinked, for just a second, I could see a grand feast laid out: steaming meats, overflowing wine goblets, pastries piled high. Candles burned, casting warm golden light across laughing guests in fine silk.
And at the head of the table, a man with a sharp, hawk-like face and piercing dark eyes lifted a glass in a silent toast.
The nobleman.
He turned his gaze toward me.
The illusion shattered.
The room returned to its rotted, crumbling state—but the nobleman remained, still seated, still staring.
I stumbled back, heart hammering. As I did, a silver goblet toppled from the table and rolled toward me, coming to a stop at my feet. The scent of rich wine—or blood—rose from it.
"Drink," a voice whispered, curling around my ears like smoke.
I remembered the old man's warning.
I fled.
Behind me, the laughter turned into howls, and the walls themselves seemed to close in, groaning under the weight of centuries of regret and rage.
When I finally stumbled out into the dying light, the mansion seemed to shudder, as if disappointed.
Later that night, I dreamed of the palace—standing tall and glorious, bathed in golden light. The nobleman beckoned me to return, promising riches beyond imagination.
I woke with a jolt to find a silver goblet on my hotel nightstand, filled to the brim with dark, glistening wine.
I didn't touch it.
I left Iran the next morning.
Some say the Palace of the Spirits chooses its guests—and once you are chosen, it is only a matter of time before you return... forever.
—
To be continued...
---