In Kuala Lumpur’s quiet night,
July second, the moon shone bright,
Maslin Idris paced the floor,
A meeting planned, behind closed door.
A politician, proud yet tense,
His power fading, influence dense,
He dreamed to rule, the highest seat,
But feared his reign might face defeat.
Then came a knock—he smoothed his tie,
A stunning woman caught his eye.
Long dark hair, a smile so wide,
Two men stood flanking either side.
Mona Fandey—famed by name,
Once a singer of chart-topped fame,
Now a shaman, sought by all,
From wealthy lords to leaders tall.
She promised power, wealth, and might,
Through mystic rites performed at night.
Her husband there, her aide as well,
They claimed the gifts no coin could sell.
Maslin agreed, no cost too steep,
For dreams of glory his soul would keep.
A room was cleared, with petals spread,
“Lie down,” Mona calmly said.
“Close your eyes, let visions stream,
Of riches, gold, your grandest dream.”
He pictured treasures from the sky,
Unseen, Mona drew axe high.
One fatal blow—no second chance,
The “ritual” ended in bloody dance.
Not power for him, but fame for her,
A darker plan beneath the blur.
A year would pass, the cameras flashed,
Mona through crowded streets she sash’d.
In lavish dress, with lipstick red,
She smiled where most would bow in dread.
For Maslin’s death was not her first,
Eight souls had met this shaman’s curse.
But beauty masked her chilling art,
The nation watched, both awed and heart.
On trial she came in gowns and gold,
A killer’s story, glamorously told.
Her walk to court—a runway stride,
No hint of fear she chose to hide.
Guilty found, the sentence plain,
To face the rope with calm disdain.
Husband, aide, beside her stand,
Still Mona played her final hand.
For when the noose around her lay,
She smiled and had the nerve to say—
A whisper sharp, a chilling cry:
“I’ll never fade. I’ll never die.”