3:47 AM. The clock blinked red in the darkness, casting eerie glows across the room. Ayaan jolted awake, gasping as though something had crawled into his lungs and stayed there. The room felt different—denser. A presence loomed.
He tried to move but couldn't. A weight pinned his chest, invisible but suffocating. His eyes darted wildly, landing on the foot of the bed.
Someone was sitting there.
A tall silhouette. Shoulders rigid. Head slightly tilted—as if listening.
His breath hitched. Terror clawed at his throat. He tried to scream but only managed a stuttered croak. With all his might, his trembling hand shot toward the lamp.
Light burst across the room.
No one.
But the bedsheets—creased, sunken—bore the imprint of someone who had just risen. Slowly, it puffed back up like a breath exhaled.
Still shaking, Ayaan stumbled out of bed and went into the bathroom. He performed wudu with cold, trembling fingers. As he brushed his teeth, his mind wandered, trying to make sense of what he had just experienced.
Then, pain. He looked down.
Blood. Swirling, bright red in the white sink.
He had brushed too hard, too deep—but he didn't even feel it. His gums throbbed, raw. The toothbrush shook in his hand.
He rinsed the blood away, performed wudu again, and stepped out to pray. As he stood on his prayer mat and raised his hands, a cold breath touched his left ear. It was so close he could feel the moisture in it.
But he started his prayer.
Halfway through the first rak'ah, a soft whisper echoed behind him. Faint, like wind dragging over stone.
He dared not turn. He recited louder.
Then, a shadow moved across the prayer mat. Something walked behind him.
But when he turned to end his prayer and give salam, nothing was there.
At sunrise, Ayaan sat at the kitchen table. His tea had gone cold. He hadn't taken a single sip. The silence was too thick. It clung to the walls, to the ceiling, to the hollow inside his chest.
The radio his mother used to listen to sat quietly, untouched on the shelf, coated with a soft layer of dust.
A sudden knock jolted him.
He went to the door. Uncle Bashir stood there with a warm smile and a bowl in his hands.
"Assalamu Alaikum, beta," he greeted. "Didn't mean to disturb you this early."
"Wa Alaikum Assalam, Uncle. It's fine, please come in," Ayaan said, stepping aside.
But Bashir didn't enter. He held out the bowl. "Your favorite kheer. You used to run to our house just to get a bite of this, remember?"
Ayaan smiled, warmth flickering in his chest for a moment. "Thank you. I do remember."
Bashir glanced over his shoulder, then leaned in slightly.
"Were you… reciting too loudly near your window last night?"
Ayaan blinked. "No. I wasn't reading anything."
"Hmm," Bashir murmured, scratching his chin. "It echoed strangely. Like it wasn't coming from one place. The air felt... off."
Ayaan tried to laugh it off. "Maybe you misheard."
"Maybe," Bashir echoed, though his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Be careful, beta. Your grandmother used to say the walls here don't always sleep."
With that, he walked away as his grandkids called him from across the lane.
Later that morning, Ayaan stepped into the garden. The sun was out, but the earth clung to its cold. He wandered toward the jamun tree—the oldest tree in the yard. The grass beneath it had withered. Brown. Dry.
He knelt down to inspect it. His fingers brushed something hard beneath the soil. He dug gently, unearthing a small wooden spinning top. Smooth, with strange carvings circling its edges—symbols he couldn't place but somehow recognized.
As he held it, the top spun. Once. Slowly.
He hadn't moved. There was no wind.
From somewhere close, a sound followed—children laughing. But the laughter was warped, like a tape played backward through rusted reels.
Ayaan dropped the top. The laughter stopped. But a strange familiarity lingered, like he'd once known that voice.
He turned and walked back toward the house.
The hallway stretched longer than Ayaan remembered. Each step echoed unnaturally, the sound distorted—as if bouncing off walls that didn't exist. He paused before the old mirror near the staircase, one that had always stood there, untouched and antique.
But today… something was off.
The glass shimmered faintly, like heat waves over asphalt, even though the air was cold. He tilted his head. His reflection… wasn't tilting with him.
Ayaan leaned closer. His breath fogged the surface. Nothing looked odd at first glance—until he noticed the eyes of his reflection. They were too wide. Too knowing. And they blinked… just a second too late.
Goosebumps danced up his spine.
Then the lights flickered.
The mirror darkened.
Ayaan's reflection was gone.
Gone.
He stepped back, eyes wide—but stayed frozen in place. Slowly, painfully slowly, something began crawling into view within the mirror. It wasn't a reflection. It was… him. But not him.
The figure was hunched, like something broken and stitched back together. Its eyes were bloodshot, filled with terror, mouth opened in a silent scream. It crawled into frame on all fours, dragging itself toward the glass. Ayaan's heart pounded like a drum, sweat cold on his back.
The figure lifted its head.
It was weeping.
But the tears weren't clear—they were thick, black, like ink.
Its lips moved, but no sound emerged.
Then, it pressed its hand to the glass.
The mirror cracked beneath its fingers—spiderwebbing outward like ice. Ayaan stumbled back. The lights blinked off—then on.
Normal.
His own face stared back at him.
Except… now there was a hairline crack running straight down the mirror's center.
And on the surface of the glass, faintly etched like frost, were words that hadn't been there before:
"Don't turn around."
Ayaan didn't.
He sprinted down the hallway.
Later that afternoon, the call to prayer echoed from the mosque.
Ayaan sat on the porch, sipping tea. He tried to distract himself, but his eyes kept drifting to the jamun tree.
Another knock.
A young man stood at the gate. His clothes were traditional, but faded—like he'd stepped out of an old photograph. His hair was damp. His eyes...
Ayaan had seen those eyes before.
"Razia Begum's grandson?" he asked.
Ayaan nodded slowly.
"They're still waiting for you," the man said. "Beneath the roots. Where you left them."
"Who's waiting—?"
"Those who used to play with you. Like you were one of them."
The man smiled faintly, then turned and walked away.
Ayaan rushed to the gate. Turned the corner.
No one.
Later that evening Ayaan remembers entered his late mother's bedroom.
The room was heavy with dusk. Orange light filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows that stretched and moved even when nothing else did.
Ayaan stood in his mother's old room. Dust floated like ash in the dying light. Her scent—mild rose and sandalwood—still clung faintly to the air.
He trailed his fingers across her shelf. The prayer mat lay folded, untouched. Her Qur'an rested beneath a white lace cloth. Framed verses hung crooked on the walls, faded with time.
But his gaze kept drifting… upward.
The attic door.
It loomed in the corner, partially ajar.
It had never been wide open. Not even once.
He didn't know why his heart was thudding like a drum inside a tomb. But the pull—the strange, cold curiosity—was unbearable.
His hand lifted on its own.
He reached toward the latch.
Click.
The radio crackled to life.
Ayaan spun around.
The old radio on the shelf, the one his mother used to listen to in the mornings—was on. But it was unplugged. The cord hung limply down the side of the table, coiled like a dead snake.
The speakers hissed softly.
Then—something crawled out of the static.
> "Allahu Akbar… Allahu Akbar…"
But it was wrong. So wrong.
The adhan was slow. Drowned. As if chanted from beneath deep water—or worse, from within the earth.
> "Ashhadu… an… laaa… ilahaaa…"
The voice gurgled. It cracked in the middle like something ancient had forgotten how human vocal cords work.
Ayaan froze.
Then memory came crashing in.
Ayaan sat cross-legged as a child on this very rug, maybe six or seven. His mother was brushing his hair gently, smiling softly.
Her tone was sweet, but her eyes had gone hard.
> "If the attic door ever opens, jaan… don't go near it. Not even a step."
He frowned, childlike. "Why not, Ammi?"
> "Because some doors aren't meant for people like us. They're for those who never stopped waiting."
Ayaan remembered her looking up toward the ceiling.
> "And sometimes… they're still listening."
The radio was still chanting. Slower now. Deeper. Like something was sinking farther and farther into darkness.
> "...Hayya… ala…as-salah…"
Then—scratching.
From inside the attic.
Slow. Deep. Bone-scraping.
Not like a rat. Not like wood shifting.
It was deliberate.
Something was dragging its nails across the floor above his head—long, careful strokes. Like it wanted him to hear.
He backed away, breath caught in his chest.
The attic door creaked.
Not open. Not closed.
Just… moving.
He turned to the mirror near the shelf.
No reflection.
Not even the room. Just blank, polished glass.
He leaned closer.
His breath fogged the surface, and then—
A figure appeared behind him in the glass.
Black. Long-limbed. Head crooked unnaturally. Breathing. Watching.
Ayaan gasped, spun around—
Nothing.
But when he turned back—
His reflection was there. But wrong.
His mirror self was trembling. Shoulders shaking. Tears streaming down his cheeks.
And his lips were moving.
Ayaan wasn't speaking.
But the reflection was.
It pressed a hand against the glass. Skin pale. Fingernails dirty.
It leaned forward, wide-eyed, mouth opening slowly.
Then—
> "Don't turn around next time."
CRACK.
The mirror shattered—not with a bang, but a sharp, whispering hiss, like the glass itself had screamed too quietly for the ears to hear.
The attic door slammed shut.
The radio speaker burst into static, and from within it came a whisper so low, it barely stirred the air.
But it spoke his name.
> "Aaaayaaaaan…"
His knees buckled.
> "You left us… you forgot…"
The whisper turned into a laugh—low, cracked, like it had rusted over the years.
Then came the sound that would haunt him later:
Small feet. Running. Overhead.
Then scratching again—only this time, it didn't stop.
It circled. Crawled. Dragged. Like something walking on hands and knees.
And then, once more—
> "We're awake now."
Ayaan ran.
Out of the room.
Out of the hallway.
His heart thundered against his ribs, lungs heaving, skin cold. The house seemed to breathe with him. Each step echoed back strangely—distorted—like the walls had memorized his footsteps long ago.
He didn't sleep that night.
Didn't dare close his eyes.
Because in this house…
something had stirred.
And it remembered him.
But Ayaan did not.