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Art that’s as dark as it is evocative; discover horror-inspired artwork, from twisted mutations of classic paintings, chilling sculptures, spooky photography and more.
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
The Grave Was Empty — But He Was Buried
The Grave Was Empty — But He Was Buried His name was Qari Nadeem. Respected. Quiet. A man of Qur’an. He led Taraweeh every Ramadan, taught tajweed in the village madrasa, and rarely spoke of anything worldly. He passed away one winter night — peacefully, in sajdah. His funeral was attended by hundreds. They wrapped his body in fresh white cloth, recited every word with care, and buried him in grave number 27, beneath the old neem tree of the village cemetery. A simple stone was placed. His name. Date. Aayat. And peace returned. Until six years later… when the grave had to be moved. --- The graveyard was being renovated. Families were requested to relocate graves to a new, secure land. Qari Nadeem’s family agreed. They wanted to move him near the mosque he served. The exhumation was scheduled after Asr. The men dug with care. As they reached the shroud — something felt strange. The soil was too loose. The air felt too cold. When they opened the grave completely… they froze. The kafan was there. Folded. Neat. But no body inside. --- Everyone stared in silence. Some thought the body had decomposed fully. But the cloth was clean. Not even stained. And the smell — not of death, but of attar and earth. They dug further. Searched the sides. Nothing. The Qari… was gone. --- Panic spread. Whispers of grave theft or jinn involvement began. The Imam asked for calm. A second scholar arrived. He examined the site. And said softly: > “This isn’t theft. No sign of digging. No broken seal. No animal traces.” > “Then what?” they asked. He simply said: > “Allah knows who He raises. And when.” --- That night, strange things happened. The man who led the exhumation lost his voice. Another saw Qari Nadeem in a dream, smiling, saying: > “I’m not where you buried me.” A boy saw light hovering over the empty grave at Fajr. --- People began visiting the empty grave. Not to mourn — but to reflect. Some said his soul had been taken body and all, like Hazrat Isa عليه السلام. Others believed angels had moved him, as a sign of honor. But no one — no one — believed the body was stolen. Because deep inside… The place felt peaceful. --- One night, a student of Qari Nadeem, now grown, heard knocking at his door. He opened it — no one was there. But on the mat was an envelope. Inside: A page of Qur’an — Surah Mulk — in Qari Nadeem’s handwriting. And a note: > “Recite it every night. Some graves don't need guardians. They are guarded by His words.” --- The boy wept. And since that night — no insects have come near his house. Even in summer. --- It’s been years now. The new graveyard has expanded. But grave 27 was never reused. The stone remains. With just one word carved now beneath his name: > “Lifted.” --- Because perhaps some people… are too sacred for the earth.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
My Brother’s Shadow Didn’t Follow Him
My Brother’s Shadow Didn’t Follow Him I was ten when I noticed it. My brother, Zeeshan, was fourteen. He was tall for his age, quiet, and always seemed to be thinking about something distant. We’d play cricket in the empty street every afternoon. One day, while fielding, I saw something strange. Zeeshan was walking across the road — and his shadow wasn’t behind him. It was ahead. --- At first, I thought my eyes tricked me. Maybe the angle of the sun, maybe dust in the air. But the next day, I watched more closely. Every time he moved… his shadow didn’t match. He turned right. The shadow turned left. He stopped. The shadow kept moving. He stood still — and the shadow… turned to face him. --- I told Ammi. She said, “Beta, stop imagining things.” But one day, she saw it too. We were walking to the mosque after Asr. Zeeshan walked slightly ahead. The sunlight hit us all equally. But his shadow… It curved. Shifted. Then split into two for a moment — before rejoining. Ammi squeezed my hand. --- We tried to ignore it. Thought maybe it was… a rare condition. A trick of the light. Until Zeeshan started talking to it. At night. Whispers. Sometimes angry. Sometimes… sad. I heard him once through the door: > “I said not now. You promised! Let me sleep.” --- One evening, we found him sitting silently on the roof, knees to chest, eyes wide. > “Are you okay?” Abba asked. He looked up slowly and said: > “It’s trying to take my place.” --- The next day, mirrors started cracking near him. First in the bathroom. Then on his cupboard. Then the rearview mirror of Abba’s car. When we asked him what happened, he just said: > “It doesn’t like being seen.” --- A local aalim was called. He recited verses, gently questioned Zeeshan. During Surah Al-Falaq, Zeeshan’s eyes rolled back for a second. And his shadow disappeared completely. We all gasped. The aalim said calmly: > “This is not normal shadow-play. This is a naqil — something that has attached to his reflection, waiting to replace him.” > “Why him?” Ammi asked. > “Maybe jealousy. Maybe weakness. Or maybe… he touched something that was waiting to be seen.” --- Zeeshan began changing. He stopped eating much. His laughter sounded hollow. His reflection in water lagged behind his real movements. And sometimes, when no one was around… I heard two footsteps walking… even though he was alone. --- One day, I gathered courage and asked: > “Zeeshan bhai… what does it want?” He whispered: > “To live.” > “Live how?” He looked at me and smiled — but his eyes were crying. > “It wants to be me. It already knows how.” --- The final moment came just before sunset. He stood in the courtyard, facing the sun. We watched from inside. His shadow began to pull away — not on the ground, but rising… like smoke. It turned. Slowly. Deliberately. And smiled. A second mouth — forming in the darkness. --- Abba rushed out with a Qur’an. Recited loudly. Zeeshan collapsed. The shadow… vanished. --- He stayed unconscious for three days. When he awoke, he didn’t remember anything. But now, his shadow follows him normally. Except… Sometimes it flickers. And when he passes a mirror… He doesn’t look into it. And neither do we. --- Because what if one day… his shadow decides not to follow again?
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Boy Who Returned After 40 Days — But Not As Before
The Boy Who Returned After 40 Days — But Not As Before His name was Usaid. Three years old. Chubby cheeks. Curious eyes. The kind of boy who chased butterflies, laughed at birds, and cried every time his mother left the room.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Woman Who Was Dead — But Came to Bless the Living
The Woman Who Was Dead — But Came to Bless the Living Her name was Feroza Bibi. Kind. Quiet. Always in white. Known across the town for her charity and healing duas. Widowed early, no children, no complaints. People said Allah had given her “the touch” — those she prayed for recovered faster than doctors expected. She passed away on a Friday. Peacefully, in sujood during Fajr. They buried her by noon, near the old fig tree behind the town masjid. Everyone cried. But three days later… she knocked on someone's door. --- It was late evening when an elderly woman, Aapa Jameela, opened her gate. And there she stood — Feroza Bibi, smiling gently, holding a tasbeeh. > “Beta, I came to read a small dua for your daughter. May she find ease in her exams.” Before Jameela could speak, Feroza placed her hand over her daughter’s head, whispered a soft prayer, and left. Jameela stood frozen. Her daughter asked, > “Ammi, who was that kind aunty?” Jameela didn’t answer. Because Feroza Bibi had been buried 3 days ago — and she was at the funeral. --- The news spread fast. Some said it was her twin (she had none). Others claimed black magic (no evidence). A few said they saw her grave — still closed, undisturbed. But the visits didn’t stop. She appeared outside a house where a boy had fallen sick, whispered a prayer, and left. She comforted a widow and recited Surah Maryam with her. She gave dates to a hungry child and told him: > “Feed someone else when you're older.” She never entered homes. She never asked for anything. She only gave duas. And always vanished before Isha. --- One man, curious and suspicious, followed her. She walked slowly — hands folded, tasbeeh swaying, never speaking to anyone unless they were in need. He watched her turn a corner behind the mosque. When he turned too… She was gone. No door. No exit. No shadow. Only the sound of wind. And a faint scent of rose and rain. --- The Imam made an announcement: > “Stop spreading tales. Let the dead rest.” But he himself avoided looking at Feroza Bibi’s grave at night. Why? Because every Friday night, after Maghrib… a small lamp glowed on her qabar. No one lit it. No one placed it. And by Fajr — it was always gone. --- A man once challenged her. When she came to his gate, he said: > “You’re not real. You’re a jinn.” She smiled, gently touched his shoulder, and said: > “Real or not, the dua is still sincere.” His son, who had been bedridden for months, stood up and walked the next morning. --- One boy secretly recorded her with his phone. The video showed her lips moving… but no audio came out. Only static. And when he played it the next day — the file was corrupted. No image. Only a whisper: > “Some blessings aren't meant to be captured.” --- Then one day — the visits stopped. Just like that. No knocks. No blessings. No scent of roses. The people waited. Some even cried. As if they’d lost her again. --- But that Friday night, the entire town saw something. Feroza Bibi’s grave… glowed. Not fire. Not light. But something between — like peace made visible. And above it… dozens of white petals floated in the air before slowly disappearing. The Imam approached the grave. He found no lamp. No candle. Only her tasbeeh — lying neatly on the soil. Still warm. --- Since then, people claim she still visits. Not physically. But: Ill children recover after dreaming of her. Frightened women hear her voice reciting Ayatul Kursi in their sleep. Orphans say a soft hand tucks them in at night. And every year on her death date, someone anonymously delivers bags of food, medicine, and sweets to the poor — labeled only: > “From Feroza Aapa.” --- The town doesn't question it anymore. Because now they believe: Some souls don’t stay behind to haunt. Some… return to heal.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Room That Echoed the Qur'an
The Room That Echoed the Qur’an In the town of Miran, there was an old house with a small upper room — square, quiet, and filled with light. It had no furniture. Just a prayer mat, a shelf of Qur’ans, and a wooden rehal. It belonged to Aamir — a 28-year-old man who had inherited the house from his grandfather, a known hafiz and teacher of Qur'an. For years, Aamir used the room daily for recitation. Even the neighbors could hear the verses echo through the windows — soft, melodic, calming. Until he stopped. --- It began with distraction. A new job. A busier life. Missed one day… then two… then a week. “I’ll start again,” he kept telling himself. But the Qur’an remained untouched. And the room remained silent. Until it wasn’t. --- The first sound came on a Sunday night. A faint clicking noise. Like nails tapping wood. He assumed it was a bird. Or the wind. The next day, he heard it again. But the windows were closed. He walked into the room. It was cold — unnaturally cold for spring. On the prayer mat, there were footprints. Not muddy. Just… impressions. Barefoot. Small. Not his. --- He brushed it off. But each night, the sounds grew. Whispers behind the door. The shelf vibrating slightly. The prayer mat slowly sliding across the floor — without being touched. And always… around Maghrib time. --- He finally told his mother. She looked disturbed, but not shocked. > “That room was blessed,” she said. “Your grandfather used to say, ‘If you ever leave the Qur’an, something else will want to speak instead.’” > “What does that mean?” > “Every space wants a voice, beta. If you don’t give it light… it finds shadow.” --- Aamir decided to sleep in that room — to prove there was nothing. At midnight, he woke to a sound. Someone was reciting Qur’an. A beautiful voice. But… wrong. The pronunciation was off. The tone… mocking. It wasn’t a human voice. Too deep. Too sharp. Like a whisper that bled. He sat up — and saw a shape in the corner. A black, crouched form, slowly rocking. Its head turned sharply. > “You left the words,” it hissed. “So I picked them up.” --- Aamir screamed. When he switched on the light — the room was empty. But the rehal had been moved. And the Qur’an was open — to Surah Al-Baqarah. --- He went to an aalim the next day. > “You’re being warned,” he said. “Something in your family protected that space. When you stopped, the guardians left. And now…” > “Can I fix it?” > “Yes. But not just by fear. You must return to the Qur’an — not to escape the shadow, but to fill the room with what it remembers.” --- That evening, Aamir entered the room. He cleaned it. He sprayed it with rosewater. He placed the Qur’an on the rehal. He began reciting Surah Yaseen. His voice cracked at first. Then softened. Then steadied. And as he read, the cold lifted. The walls felt warm. The silence… sighed. --- That night, no voices came. But in a dream, he saw the shadow. It stood at the window, silent. And whispered: > “I wasn’t evil. I was empty.” --- Since then, Aamir has never left a day without reciting in that room. Not from fear. From responsibility. Because every space remembers. And every silence waits.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Girl I Wanted to Marry Was a Jinn
The Girl I Wanted to Marry Was a Jinn It started with a dream. I was standing in a field of white flowers under a purple sky. The air felt warm, soft — like I was being held. And then she appeared. A girl in a pale green dress. Barefoot. Eyes deep like the sea right before a storm. She smiled and said: > “You found me.” --- I didn’t know her. But I didn’t want to leave. The next morning, I woke up with her voice echoing in my head. The feeling didn’t fade. Her scent — something like old jasmine and firewood — lingered in my room. I thought it was just a vivid dream. Until she came again. --- Night after night, she returned. Same dream. Same field. Same smile. She didn’t tell me her name. She didn’t need to. Her presence felt… right. She listened when I spoke. She remembered things I’d said days before. She laughed softly. She cried once. I don’t know why. One night, I asked, half joking: > “Will you marry me?” She didn’t laugh. She just nodded and said: > “You already have.” --- I woke up drenched in sweat. There was a silver ring on my finger. I don’t wear rings. No one could explain it. It wasn’t expensive — but it wasn’t from this world either. My friend said it felt “wrongly cold.” My aunt tried to remove it. Her hand twitched violently and she screamed. After that, I stopped telling people. --- She started appearing outside the dream. I would catch glimpses — reflections in mirrors, shadows in closed rooms, perfume where no one had walked. One night, while alone, I whispered: > “Are you real?” She replied — not in voice, but in thought: > “I’m as real as your soul. And I chose yours.” --- I stopped searching for human relationships. Why would I? I was already in one. But slowly… things grew strange. I stopped feeling hunger. I stopped dreaming anything except her. I started hearing her voice in places where no one else did. One night, she said: > “You are becoming mine. Soon, fully.” > “What does that mean?” I asked. > “When the final veil lifts… you’ll never wake again.” --- I panicked. I went to an aalim — a man who dealt with unseen matters. He listened quietly, then said: > “She is not just a jinn. She is from the Zahira — the ones who bond through dreams. They don’t visit. They attach.” > “Can I break it?” He frowned. > “If she’s marked you willingly — and you accepted, even in jest — the bond is sacred to them. And dangerous to break.” > “So what should I do?” He handed me a page of Qur’anic verses. > “Recite this before sleep. Don’t talk to her. Don’t look at her. Don’t feel her.” I tried. --- The first night, she didn’t come. The second night, she stood in the dream — at a distance. Silently watching. On the third night, she spoke: > “You’re pushing me away.” > “I have to,” I said. “You’re not human. This isn’t real.” She walked up to me, gently touched my face, and whispered: > “Then wake up.” I did. My room was full of flower petals — the same from the dream field. --- After that, my sleep grew disturbed. My health declined. Voices followed me. One night, she appeared, but not in peace. Her face was hidden by a white veil. Her voice was colder. > “You asked for me. You wore my ring. You spoke the words. You called this love.” > “But I didn’t know!” I cried. > “Now you do.” She placed her hand on my chest. Everything went dark. --- I woke up in a hospital. Three days had passed. My mother said I’d been unconscious, my heart nearly stopped. Doctors had no explanation. The ring was gone. And so was she. --- I thought it was over. But sometimes, when I close my eyes — I see her, far across the field, watching. Smiling. Waiting. --- And last week, a parcel arrived. No address. No name. Inside it — the same silver ring. And a note: > “Even silence is a kind of yes.”
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Woman Who Laughed in the Graveyard
The Woman Who Laughed in the Graveyard Every town has one story people whisper but never confirm. In the town of Haripur, it was Raani Bibi — the woman who laughed in the graveyard. She appeared after sunset. Always alone. Dressed in black. Hair undone. Sitting beside a particular grave under an old neem tree. She never cried. She never spoke. She only… laughed. --- At first, people thought she was mad. Some said she’d lost her husband. Others believed she was cursed. Children were forbidden from going near the graveyard after Asr. > “She talks to the dead,” said an old chai-wala. “She doesn’t talk,” replied a boy, “she listens… and then laughs.” Years passed. She remained. She didn’t age. --- One night, Hamza — a curious 17-year-old boy — decided to follow her. Armed with courage and a camera, he hid behind the boundary wall near the neem tree. She arrived. And she laughed. But it wasn’t joyful. It was… deep. Heavy. Like it came from her stomach but pulled something from the ground with it. Then she did something strange. She looked straight at him — though he hadn’t made a sound. And whispered, without moving her lips: > “You hear him too?” --- Hamza ran. He didn’t stop until he reached home. He deleted the camera footage the moment he saw it — for in the video, her face wasn’t visible… just a void. A blur. Like the camera refused to capture her. He never went back. But the question never left him. > “Who was she talking to?” --- The grave she sat by was old — no name, just a stone and some withered flowers. A village elder finally confessed: > “That grave belongs to Junaid Akhtar — a man buried 41 years ago after being burned alive.” > “Why?” > “Because he laughed during a funeral. A child’s funeral. Said something made him laugh.” > “What happened after?” > “He disappeared for a week. Came back silent. Died mysteriously. No one ever found out what he saw.” --- And that’s when people remembered: Raani Bibi appeared exactly nine days after Junaid’s burial. Some believed she was his sister. Others whispered she wasn’t human at all — that she was the echo of whatever made Junaid laugh. --- One stormy night, she didn’t come. People thought maybe… finally… she had passed. But then, the grave cracked. Literally. The stone split, and the earth beneath it sank slightly. No animal had touched it. No flood. No lightning. Just an unnatural collapse. The Imam ordered the grave sealed again. The next evening, she returned — laughing louder than ever before. --- One little girl asked her grandfather: > “Dada, why does she laugh?” The old man replied, “Because she saw what comes after the angels leave.” > “What’s that?” > “Something even the angels don’t name.” --- The final night came during Muharram. Raani Bibi walked into the graveyard with a candle in each hand. She placed one on the grave. One beside herself. She sat, looked up at the sky, and spoke. For the first time. > “He showed me the joke,” she said softly. “The joke of life. The joke of death. And I… can’t stop laughing.” Then she was quiet. And she never came back. --- Her body was never found. But at night, some still hear laughing under the neem tree. And the grave? It continues to sink — an inch every year.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
The Man Who Slept in the Mosque
The Man Who Slept in the Mosque His name was Haris. Once a city man, now broken by life — jobless, divorced, and exhausted by the noise of the world. He came to a small village mosque just before Ramadan. He wasn't from there. No one knew his past. He simply walked in one evening before Maghrib, prayed in silence, and asked the Imam: > “Can I sleep here for a while?” The Imam looked into his tired eyes and nodded. > “A mosque is for all who seek refuge.” So Haris stayed. At first, just for one night. But one night became two. Then three. Then twenty-nine. And something began to change. --- The first night was calm. He slept beside the second pillar, facing the Qibla. The soft green carpet, the distant echo of insects outside, and the faint scent of musk in the air made him feel safe for the first time in years. But at 3:17 AM, he woke suddenly. He heard whispering. Not loud. Not frightening. Just… constant. He looked around. The mosque was empty. The windows shut. The fan turned slowly above him. The whispers didn’t come from outside. They came from above. --- He stood up, heart racing, and looked toward the mehrab. Nothing. No voices. He laid back down. But the moment his head touched the floor… the whispers returned. --- By the third night, the dreams began. He saw doors opening in the sky. Hands made of light offering books he couldn’t read. A man with no face standing in the minaret, reciting verses in reverse. Every dream left him sweating. Yet every morning… he felt lighter. Like something was being pulled out of him. --- On the seventh night, after Tahajjud, he sat alone. And something strange happened. The lights turned off — without a cut in electricity. The fan kept spinning in the dark. And in the silence, a voice said: > “Your name is not what you think it is.” He stood, trembling. > “Who’s there?” No answer. Only the soft sound of the mosque door unlocking — on its own. But when he checked — it was still latched. --- By the 10th night, people noticed. Haris’s eyes looked brighter. His face glowed, as if he hadn’t just slept — but seen. Children who used to run around the mosque grew silent around him. One said, > “Uncle’s shadow isn’t his anymore.” He laughed it off. But inside, he felt it. --- Every night, the whispers got clearer. Not evil. Not comforting. Just truthful. They told him things he had never heard. Names of prophets he didn’t recognize. Stories that weren’t in books. Languages that danced inside his head — and stayed. And one night, they said: > “You have been touched. Not possessed. Marked.” --- He began to feel time differently. Fajr felt only seconds after Isha. Words in prayer began to echo longer in his mind. He once stood for Tahajjud… and thought only ten minutes passed. But when he looked at the clock — three hours had gone by. --- On the 21st night of Ramadan, something happened. While others were praying Taraweeh, he stayed behind in the darkness. And for the first time… he saw them. Rows of shadowy figures, dressed in light, kneeling in perfect silence — in places where no humans sat. They weren’t jinn. They weren’t angels. They were something else. And one of them turned to him and whispered: > “You’re not just a guest anymore. You’re a key.” --- That night, his dream was of a gate. It was closed. And inside it… were versions of himself. One praying. One crying. One screaming. And one — staring directly at him. > “Unlock us,” the figure said. “Only those who surrender completely can open the gate.” --- The next morning, Haris wept after Fajr. The villagers watched him — not with pity, but with awe. He had become something different. Calmer. Slower. Focused. The children no longer feared him. They followed him. Sat beside him. Listened to his stories. Even the old Imam once said, > “When he speaks, I feel like I’m being taught.” --- But the truth remained: No one knew exactly what was changing him. Except Haris. Because deep inside, he knew… The mosque was no longer just a building. It had become a living thing. And it had adopted him. --- On the night of Eid, Haris did not go home. Because he no longer had one. He stayed in the mosque. And when the people left after the morning prayer, the Imam turned to lock the door — but stopped. Because Haris was gone. Only his prayer mat remained. And written on the wall in dust was one sentence: > “Some souls are prayed into other worlds.”
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
When the Jinn Came to the Imam’s House
When the Jinn Came to the Imam’s House In the quiet village of Khot, the mosque stood at the heart of life. Five times a day, the air vibrated with prayer, and peace was something people could touch with their hands. Imam Khalid was not just the prayer leader — he was the soul of the village. Young, sincere, and deeply respected, he lived in a simple house just behind the mosque with his wife and two young sons. But peace, as they learned, is not always permanent. It started one evening after Maghrib. --- Khalid returned home. The food was warm, the children were laughing, and everything felt normal. Until midnight. He awoke suddenly. The room was cold — far too cold for spring. His wife was asleep. But the lamp on the table was flickering… even though it wasn’t turned on. He reached for it. As his fingers touched the metal, he heard a whisper: > “You see them. But they see you more.” He froze. The room was empty. The windows were shut. The door locked. The lamp stopped flickering. --- He tried to sleep again but couldn’t. The next night, after Isha, he sat in his small study reciting Qur'an. As he reached Surah Al-Jinn, the air shifted. A smell — thick and sweet like burning roses — filled the room. And then came the knock. Not on the front door. On the roof. He rushed outside. Nothing. No birds, no branches, no cats. Only a stillness that didn’t belong. --- Over the next few days, odd things followed. A pot boiling on its own. His wife waking up with scratches on her back. The azan clock ringing exactly six minutes before Fajr — every single day. The baby crying only when Surah Baqarah was played. Khalid was a man of faith. He didn’t panic. He increased his worship, cleaned the house with zamzam and sidr, and recited ruqyah. But the thing that had entered his home… was not afraid of prayers. --- One night, while his wife read Quran in bed, the pages turned by themselves — rapidly — and stopped at a verse. > “And indeed, there are men among mankind who seek refuge in men among the jinn…” (Surah Al-Jinn, 6) Her hands trembled. She called Khalid. He read over her, calmed her, and put the Quran away. But that night, she saw a dream: A tall black figure, face covered in smoke, standing beside their younger son’s crib. Whispering. > “You brought light into my path. Now I will walk with you.” --- The dream repeated for three nights. The same figure. Same child. Same words. Khalid now believed — the presence wasn’t random. It was attached. Targeted. He spoke to a respected elder from a nearby town — a man known for his spiritual knowledge. The man listened, then said: > “You’ve disturbed something. Perhaps in your prayer, or unknowingly — you’ve recited something where they were near, and they heard it as a call.” > “But I was only reading the Qur’an!” Khalid replied. > “That is sometimes enough. You see, some jinn are drawn to light. Not out of evil… but out of loss.” --- Khalid returned home confused but determined. He continued his prayers — but now with caution. He began leaving one room in the house untouched by Qur'an or incense — a “neutral” space. And slowly… the activity reduced. Until it stopped. No scratches. No whispers. No dreams. Peace returned. But then — a week later — someone knocked on his door after Asr. An old man. Eyes pale. Skin rough like bark. He didn’t introduce himself. He simply said: > “You returned the light to him. He returns the silence to you. But remember — silence is not absence. It is patience.” And then he walked away. --- Khalid ran to the gate — but the man had vanished down the street that had no turns. That night, nothing happened. That week, the house was calm. But one evening, as Khalid was finishing his sermon after Maghrib, a child walked into the mosque and sat in the last row. Unknown face. Dusty clothes. Head bowed. After prayer, he had disappeared. Khalid returned home — to find a small white feather on his pillow. He doesn’t keep birds. And no windows were open. --- Years have passed. Nothing extreme has happened since. But sometimes, during heavy rain, a light flickers without power. A cold wind slips through a locked door. Or the azan clock rings six minutes early again. And Khalid whispers the only thing he can: > “You are not forgotten. But you are not feared.” And somewhere, the silence answers.
By Noman Afridiabout a year ago in Horror
