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Beneath The Silence
Chapter One: The town of Hollow Pines wasn’t much—one main street, two stop signs, and enough pines to block out the sun. Most people stayed because they feared change more than the dark. But when children started disappearing, the darkness didn’t feel metaphorical anymore.
By Aria Writesabout a year ago in Horror
The Baby Monitor That Heard My Dead Sister's Voice
I was never the kind to believe in ghosts. Growing up, my sister Emily was the one who stayed up reading horror novels under the covers, watching ghost hunting shows with wide eyes, and insisting the attic door sometimes opened on its own. I was the older, grounded one. Practical. Skeptical. The kind who turned off the lights and said, "There’s no such thing," while she begged to keep the hallway light on.
By Muhammad Sabeelabout a year ago in Horror
Every Friday, My Sister’s Empty Room Smells of Mehndi
Every Friday, My Sister’s Empty Room Smells of Mehndi My sister Iqra was the light of our home. Laughter followed her, and so did the scent of mehndi — henna she applied every Thursday night, a family tradition passed down by our grandmother. On her wedding day, the whole house felt like it was glowing. But after the rukhsati, a strange silence settled in her room. We left it exactly as she had. Curtains untouched. Mirror un-wiped. Even the last pair of sandals still near her dresser. Ammi said: > “Don’t change anything. It’s her barakah.” --- A week passed. Then another. Then… on the third Friday, something happened. --- I walked past her door around Maghrib. And paused. A strong, fresh scent of mehndi flowed out. Warm. Floral. Just like she used to apply. I opened the door. The room was empty. Still. Silent. No cone. No bowl. No trace. Just… the fragrance. --- I asked Ammi if she had gone in. > “No, beta. I haven’t touched her room.” I checked the windows. Shut. Checked the drawers. Nothing. --- The next Friday — same time — it happened again. But stronger. I wasn’t the only one to smell it. My younger brother said: > “Why does it smell like she’s making mehndi?” --- We called her that night. > “Did you put any cone or cloth in your room?” > “No. I took everything with me. Why?” We didn’t tell her. Not yet. --- On the seventh Friday, something new happened. I stepped in to check… And saw a fresh stain on her old prayer mat. Small. Circular. Reddish-brown. Like the dried color of henna. I bent down to smell it. Same fragrance. But no source. --- We invited a local scholar. He listened patiently. Then smiled gently: > “Some people leave behind more than memories. Her love, her zikr, her presence… perhaps part of it stayed.” > “But why only on Fridays?” > “Because Friday is the day of mercy. Maybe this is her soul’s visit. Maybe this is Allah’s gift — to remind you she’s still connected.” --- That night, Ammi dreamed of Iqra. She was standing in her old room, hands full of mehndi. She smiled and said: > “I still pray here on Fridays.” --- We told Iqra everything. She went quiet. Then said: > “Sometimes on Friday mornings, I feel like someone’s with me. Like a piece of me never left home.” --- We’ve kept the room just like that. Now, we don’t fear the smell. We wait for it. --- And every Friday… As the sun dips below the horizon… We walk past that door, Breathe in that scent, And whisper: > “Jummah Mubarak, Iqra.” --- Because some souls don’t haunt. They just remember. And sometimes… So does the room.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
I Prayed Alone in an Abandoned Mosque — But Someone Said Ameen Behind Me
I Prayed Alone in an Abandoned Mosque — But Someone Said Ameen Behind Me It was a dusty, sunburnt village road — one I had never taken before. I was traveling between towns when the call for Asr rang out faintly. There were no visible masjids nearby, but a boy pointed toward a narrow dirt path. > “There’s an old masjid that way. No one goes anymore.” Curious, I followed it. A broken gate. Faded green paint. And a small, cracked board that once read: “Masjid Al-Taqwa.” --- The masjid was old… but still stood with dignity. Windows covered in dust. The wooden door ajar. No lights. No fan. No sound. Still, I stepped inside. Laid my prayer mat. Called the iqamah softly. And began my prayer — just me and the sound of my own breath. --- The air was still. Heavy. But peaceful. I prayed with presence — as if the silence helped me listen better. Then came the moment of salam. > "As-salamu ‘alaykum wa rahmatullah." As I turned my head to the right… > “Ameen.” Loud. Clear. Right behind me. A voice. Male. Mature. Powerful. As if he had been praying behind me — the whole time. --- My heart froze. I spun around instantly. Empty. No one. No shoes at the entrance. No shadows. No echo — the sound hadn’t bounced. It had come from a throat. I walked to the door. Stepped outside. Still nothing. --- I stood there for a full minute. Trying to convince myself: Maybe someone came in quietly? Maybe I imagined it? Maybe… Then I saw something carved on the inner wall of the masjid. Faint Arabic. Etched by hand. “And a man whose heart is attached to the masjid…” The Hadith of the seven under the shade of Allah. And beneath it, another line — messier, fresher: > "I never stopped coming." --- I walked out, goosebumps racing down my back. The boy who had pointed me here earlier was still outside. I asked him: > “Does anyone pray in that masjid?” He shook his head. > “No one since Imam Abdul Wakeel died. That was five years ago.” > “Did he live nearby?” > “He lived inside. Slept in the back room. Never missed a prayer.” Then the boy added quietly: > “Some people say… he still doesn’t.” --- Later that night, I returned to my hotel. Tried to forget it. But in my sleep… I heard it again. “Ameen.” This time… in my left ear. --- Since that day, I stop at every old masjid I find. Even if it’s falling apart. Even if there’s no one inside. Because maybe… Some houses of Allah may be abandoned by people — But not by those whose souls never left.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
We Buried My Father — Then Heard Crying from the Grave
We Buried My Father — Then Heard Crying from the Grave He passed away just after Fajr. Peacefully. Calmly. With his hand resting on the Qur’an he used to read every morning. My father — Ustaad Karim — was loved by all. A hafiz, a teacher, a man of dhikr and silence. The janazah was attended by hundreds. He was buried just before Asr — in plot 14, under the large banyan tree near the old madrasa. Everyone wept. Everyone prayed. We left feeling content. Until night fell. --- That night, just before Isha, I received a call from the cemetery caretaker. > “You need to come. Bring someone. Quickly.” His voice trembled. When we arrived, he was sitting under the tree, pale and shivering. > “There’s… there’s crying coming from his grave.” I frowned. > “Maybe a cat? Wind?” He shook his head. > “Beta… it’s a man’s voice. I heard it three times. Soft. Like sobbing.” --- We waited. Minutes passed. Then it came. A soft, human cry. From the ground. From beneath the soil. --- We froze. I dropped to my knees beside the grave. The sound faded. Just the wind and the rustle of leaves remained. --- By midnight, five people had heard it. An elder said: > “Sometimes the earth resists. Sometimes the body hasn’t accepted death.” Others feared worse. --- The next morning, we requested permission from senior scholars. They hesitated — but allowed us to open the grave, out of precaution and to rule out any unnatural disturbance. --- By Zuhr, the grave was opened carefully. No foul smell. No insects. The shroud… still intact. And then… we saw his face. Still. Peaceful. But his eyes were open. --- Not wide. Just barely. Moist. Unblinking. Some gasped. One man stepped back. But the senior aalim stepped forward, recited Qur’an, and placed his hand over the forehead. Then said: > “He is dead. But something was unsettled.” > “What do you mean?” > “Either he witnessed something at the moment of death… or something stayed behind to mourn.” --- We resealed the grave. Performed charity in his name. And for the next few nights… no more crying was heard. --- Until the seventh night. A small boy — playing near the cemetery wall — came running to the masjid. > “Uncle, that same uncle… the one in the white cloth… he smiled at me.” Everyone rushed to the grave. It was sealed. Intact. But beside the banyan tree… Was a single white rose. And written in the soil with a finger: > "I saw the Mercy." --- Since that day, the crying has stopped. The grave is calm. But sometimes, when I walk past after Maghrib… I still hear something soft. Not crying. But recitation. Surah Ar-Rahman. --- And I wonder… Did he weep because he feared what was coming? Or because… he saw what none of us have seen yet? --- 📂 Category: Spiritual Mystery + Islamic Afterlife + Grave Horror with Hope
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
She Dreamt of a Burning House — Then Watched It Burn
She Dreamt of a Burning House — Then Watched It Burn Her name was Areeba. Nine years old. Soft-spoken. Always drawing things she didn’t understand — flames, staircases, cracked ceilings. Her mother thought she had an overactive imagination. It started on a Thursday night. She woke up screaming. > “Ammi! The house is burning! The walls are falling! You were inside!” Her mother held her close. > “It’s just a dream, beta.” But it wasn’t. Because the dream came again. And again. Every single night. --- Same scene: The sky turns orange. The roof catches fire first. Her father’s voice screams from the basement. Her baby brother cries. Areeba watches from outside — helpless. Each time, she wakes up shivering, drenched in sweat. And each time, they dismiss her. --- She stopped eating. Stopped playing. Only stared at walls — waiting. One night, she told her grandmother: > “Nani, if I draw it… will you believe me?” The old woman nodded kindly. Areeba drew the house exactly. Then circled one room with red. > “That’s where it begins.” Her nani stared. Because the room she circled was the old storage room — filled with old wires, newspapers, and kerosene bottles. --- Still, the parents didn’t act. > “Are we supposed to believe a child’s dream?” “She’s just scared.” “It’s in her head.” --- Then came the Friday night. Stormy. Loud winds. Power outage. Areeba woke again — this time, not from sleep. From heat. And screams. The house… was burning. Exactly like the dream. The roof first. Then the old storage room. Then the entire second floor. Her screams pierced louder than the fire alarm. --- They barely escaped. Her baby brother was rescued through a window. The father suffered burns on his arms. The mother collapsed from smoke. Areeba stood outside — barefoot, crying — not because she was shocked… but because she had seen it so many times. --- The next morning, a fire inspector arrived. > “Cause?” He paused. > “Looks like a spark from the storage room. Old wires. Something flammable caught fire.” He looked at Areeba. She looked back. Then said softly: > “It waited until Friday.” --- After that day, Areeba never dreamed of fire again. But she began dreaming of water. Floods. Ceilings collapsing. And she draws them again. One by one. Room by room. --- Because now… she doesn’t warn to be believed. She warns… because the dreams always come true.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
CASE FILE 002-B – SALT HOLLOW, PART 2: THE WHISPER THAT FOLLOWED
This file was flagged for deletion twice. The audio was corrupted. The memory cards were cracked. The operative who submitted the final pages requested immediate reassignment to an Arctic post… and then vanished mid-flight.
By Veil of Shadowsabout a year ago in Horror
