The world around Ayaan felt wrong from the very moment he opened his eyes.
It wasn't the comforting darkness of his room.
It wasn't any place he recognized.
A damp, heavy chill clung to his skin as he stood — barefoot — on cold, cracked stone.
The air smelled of ancient dust, forgotten prayers, and something faintly burned.
Above him, where a ceiling should have been, the night sky stretched endlessly, the stars faint and far, as if they too were afraid to look down.
Before him stood the skeletal remains of a masjid — broken but still defiant against time. The walls were cracked, scarred with age. Chunks of plaster dangled like peeling skin, and from the hollow windows, the sickly silver light of the moon spilled onto the broken floor in pale, trembling patches.
The main door hung open, creaking slightly in an invisible breeze that carried with it the scent of old dusty prayer mats and cold stone.
The masjid was silent — too silent. The kind of silence that hums at the edge of hearing, too complete, too deep.
Ayaan felt his heart pounding in his chest.
He tried to speak, to call out — but no sound left his lips. It was as if the air itself refused to carry his voice.
Drawn forward by something he couldn't name, he stepped through the doorway. The masjid floor was littered with debris — shattered tiles, scraps of forgotten carpets, and strange dark stains he didn't dare to examine closely.
Each step echoed softly, swallowed almost immediately by the thick, suffocating darkness.
Just then— somewhere deep within the masjid — he heard something.
A whisper.
Soft and trembling whisper.
It sound as if someone was reciting quietly.
At first, Ayaan thought it was his imagination —
but no —
there it was again —
faint and broken like wind slipping through hollow bones.
"Bismillah... Bismillah... Inna anzalnahu... Inna anzalnahu..."
Whispers of Quranic verses, half-formed, broken, stuttering.
His skin crawled.
Ayaan turned toward the source — deeper into the masjid, past the cracked pillars and the fallen stones. There, in the farthest corner, he saw them.
Figures.
Many of them.
Bowing.
Kneeling.
Facing the Qibla.
They all were praying together.
At first, the figures seemed human — but only from afar .As Ayaan's eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw the truth.
Their forms were twisted .Some shimmered like smoke, their outlines flickering and wavering as if about to vanish.
Others were dark and solid, hunched, their skin looked rough like burnt charcoal, with tufts of strange hair sprouting at odd angles.
A few stood unnaturally tall, their heads grazing the broken arches above, their bodies grotesquely long and thin, as if stretched by unseen hands.
No two were the same. Each one was a different nightmare given shape.
And yet —they were praying and all together.
Their movements were slow, almost reverent. Hands folding over chests. Foreheads touching cracked stone. Lips moving in silent devotion.
The whispers grew louder now, wrapping around Ayaan, pulling at his mind like cold, skeletal fingers.
He should have turned away and fled. Every instinct inside him screamed at him to run.
But something stronger — something ancient and heavy — held his feet in place. Dragged him forward.
Step by step, he moved closer. Drawn by the horrifying beauty of the scene. Drawn by the impossible, the forbidden.
The air grew heavier with each step, pressing down on his shoulders, making it hard to breathe.
Closer.
The figures which was a nightmare given shape continued their prayer, undisturbed.
Closer still.
Ayaan could see the textures of their skins now —the ragged edges where flesh blurred into smoke, the veins that pulsed with faint, eerie light beneath the blackness, the eyes — shut tightly in concentration — set deep into inhuman faces.
He was close enough now to hear their whispered prayers clearly:
"Ya Arhamar-Rahimeen...""Astaghfiruka Rabbi...""La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah..."
The words felt strange and familiar.
But still wrong.
The words were correct — but the voices...the voices were like old wood splintering, like wind moaning through a graveyard, like something forgotten trying to remember how to pray.
And then — without warning —they suddenly stopped.
Every single one of them froze mid-prayer. The whispers died.
Silence slammed down like a hammer.
Ayaan felt his blood freeze in his veins.
Slowly, so slowly it made his heart ache, the figures began to move —lifting their heads from the ground, straightening their backs.
They turned to look at him.
All at once.
Hundreds of burning, empty, dead eyes locked onto him —some glowing dimly like dying embers, others were deep pools of endless black.
Their faces were unreadable — emotionless. But the air around Ayaan seemed to pulse with a single emotion:
'You should not be here. your time has not yet come.'
The cold grew unbearable. The light from the doorway behind him seemed to shrink, retreating, as if refusing to witness what came next.
And then —
the whispering began again.
But this time — it was directed at him.
"Ayaan...Al-'ahd mundhu at-tufula... (The oath since childhood...)
Nahnul-ladheena salla ma'aka... (We were the ones who prayed beside you...)
Kharajta... wa taraktana... (You left... and abandoned us...)
As-sawtu la yusma' illa lil-mubtala... (Only the afflicted can hear the voice...)
Tala'at ash-shams... wala yazal az-zill... (The sun rose... yet the shadow remains...)
Satafham... 'inda an-nida'... (You will understand... when the call comes...)
Al-qadam al-akhirah taqtarib... (The final step approaches...)"
The voices layered atop one another, swirling around him in a thick, suffocating fog.
He couldn't understand most of it —the words twisted into strange forms, some Arabic, some a language he couldn't remember.
It felt like they were speaking inside his skull, not into his ears.
He staggered back, heart hammering.
The jinns didn't move closer. They only stared.
Whispering.
Repeating.
Building.
The sound rose and rose, until it wasn't whispers anymore — it was a low, vibrating hum that seemed to shake the very stones of the masjid.
Ayaan fell to his knees, clutching his head.
It was too much —too many voices —too many eyes —too many unseen hands pulling at the corners of his soul.
And then —just as he thought he would break —one voice cut through the chaos.
Soft. Clear. A child's voice.
"Ayaan... Ya Ayaan... Inna al-abwab tufattah... (The gates are opening.)...
Al waqt qad qarrab... (The time is near.)"
He looked up —and for the first time, he saw a familiar figure which was separate from the rest.
A small, hooded form — standing among the jinns —his face hidden, but his hand stretched toward him.
The dream shattered and Ayaan's eyes flew open.
He gasped. His chest heaved as if he'd been running for hours, lungs searing with cold air, sweat dripping down his temples. The room was still dark — but he knew that it was almost time for Fajr, that haunting hour when the world held its breath. But the silence wasn't empty.
It was thick.
There was a weight in the air, like something unseen pressed down on the very fabric of space.
And then he heard it.
A whisper — not a memory from the dream, not an echo.
Real.
"Inna al-abwab tufattah... (The gates are opening...)"
It slid like smoke into his ears. His body froze. He couldn't move.
His limbs were drenched in sweat, stuck to his bedsheets, but the chill crawling down his spine made the heat feel unreal. His mouth opened, but no sound came.
"Wala maradd li man dakhal... (And none return once they enter...)"
"Al waqt... qad qarrab... (The time is near.)"
He turned his head slowly, afraid of what he might see.
And then he felt it — not just heard it. But something... or someone... was close. And not just close but too close to him.
Closer than the breath on his neck.
He struggled to sit up, forcing his arm to move through invisible mud, panic rising.
That's when he saw him.
Ghaziwan.
Standing beside his bed, head slightly tilted, watching him with eyes too deep, too old.
Ayaan's breath was caught in his throat. Ghaziwan wasn't supposed to be here — not in his room, not now. Not like this.
His form shimmered slightly — not entirely solid. As if the light in the room refused to settle on him properly. His features were regal, almost human in sharpness, but surrounded by an eerie blur that made Ayaan's eyes strain when he tried to focus too long. Cloaked in layers of black that folded around him like smoke, Ghaziwan radiated a silence that pressed against the chest.
But something else stood behind him. Not to far and not to close.
Forms, barely seen.
Three of them, shadowed by the edge of the room, where the weak moonlight from the window couldn't touch.
Ayaan couldn't make out their faces — but their shapes were unmistakable.
One was impossibly tall, head nearly brushing the ceiling, arms too long to be natural, ending in claws that gently tapped the wooden doorframe — a rhythmic sound like nails on stone.
The second hunched, shoulders sharp like wings folded too tightly, the flicker of something twitching beneath its cloak making Ayaan's stomach lurch.
The third? It crouched low to the ground, unmoving, yet its head was turned toward him — he could feel it. Not see it. But feel it.
And though their features were hidden, their eyes burned faintly in the dark.
One pair glowed the color of faded embers.
Another blinked like smoldering coals under ash.
And one — just one — flashed open like a slit of lightning through a storm.
Ayaan couldn't breathe.
He wanted to look away, but something rooted him to the spot.
Then, slowly, the figures began to fade — like ink drawn back into a well.
The tapping stopped. The twitching ceased. The room brightened by a single shade.
And they were gone.
Only Ghaziwan remained.
Ayaan found the strength to sit up, shivering.
His voice cracked. "Ghaziwan... who were they?"
Ghaziwan didn't answer immediately. His eyes moved toward the space where the shadows had stood. His voice, when it came, was low and deliberate.
"Not enemies. But not safe either."
Ayaan's hands gripped the edge of his blanket. "They looked like... monsters."
"No," Ghaziwan said softly. "They looked like what they have become. Time is cruel tothose waiting behind veils."
"They knew me."
"They still do."
"Tell me their names."
Ghaziwan's face darkened slightly. "Names carry weight. You are not ready to bear them."
Ayaan's voice dropped. "Why were they in my room?"
"You brushed the edge. You saw a place meant to be hidden. You heard what most never do. They came to listen. They came to see."
"Were they jinn?"
Ghaziwan tilted his head again, slowly. "They were more than that. Once."
"But they stared at me. Like—like I woke them."
"They weren't asleep," Ghaziwan whispered. "They were waiting."
Ayaan's chest tightened. "Waiting for what?"
"For you."
The words dropped like stones.
Ayaan's breath caught. "Why?"
Ghaziwan's gaze hardened. "Because you are the one who remembers. Even when you forget."
Before Ayaan could respond, Ghaziwan took a step back, fading at the edges again.
"Do not seek them yet. Or they will come before it is time."
"Wait—"
But Ghaziwan was gone.
Only the lingering silence remained, and the ghost of whispers that hadn't fully vanished.
Ayaan looked toward the corner of the room again — where one of the shadows had crouched.
Still dark. Still quiet.
And then the faintest voice, not his own, echoed in his head:
"Tadhakkar... (Remember)
Fararta... (you ran away)
Adrikna...(Save us)"
The first call for Fajr echoed from the mosque down the street.
But Ayaan sat frozen.
Because now, more than ever — he feared that something had crossed through.
And it was not done with him. Not yet.
Ayaan sat still for a long while after the figures disappeared. The atmosphere of his room remained unnervingly heavy, as if the remnants of something unnatural still lingered. His breaths came shallow and uneven, sweat clinging to his skin despite the early morning chill that seeped in through the walls. His eyes burned, wide open yet refusing to believe they had truly seen what they had seen.
He rubbed his face with trembling hands, the phantom feeling of eyes watching him crawling like static across the back of his neck. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed darker than they had any right to be. As he slowly shifted to the edge of the bed, a soft creak echoed from the hallway.
Footsteps.
He froze, every muscle in his body tensing at once. Light, measured. Human enough to pass as a family member, but he lived alone. He knew this. He knew this. But his tired mind, still fractured from the vivid dream, didn't fight the logic. Instead, he simply stood and reached for the switch.
No power.
With a sigh, half-wearied and half-defensive, he got up and ignored the hallway. Maybe it was just the house creaking, he told himself. Houses did that. Even haunted ones.
Making his way toward the washroom, he turned on the tap and let the cold water run over his hands. The sound was grounding, a moment of reality in a world that had lost shape. He performed his wudu slowly, carefully — the cool water against his skin somehow calming. His lips moved almost automatically with the familiar supplications, their rhythm giving him some sense of control.
Once done, he laid out the prayer mat in his small prayer corner, lit only faintly by the grey light seeping through the curtains. His limbs moved mechanically, but with intention. Each posture in his Salah became a small anchor in the sea of dread still lapping at his senses. His forehead touched the prayer mat, and for the first time that morning, his breathing steadied.
After the final tasleem, he stayed seated. Beads of sweat still dotted his forehead, but his eyes had softened.
He reached for the tasbeeh and let the smooth beads roll between his fingers, whispering:
"SubhanAllah... Alhamdulillah... Allahu Akbar..."
Over and over, a rhythm, a lullaby against the chaos. The whispers from the dream — "Tadhakkar... (Remember) Fararta... (You ran away) Adrikna...(Save us)" — still echoed faintly in the back of his mind. But with each repetition of divine remembrance, they seemed to fade just a little.
Then he opened the Quran. Its pages smelled of paper and old memories. His eyes fell upon a verse, almost as if the book itself had chosen it for him:
"And We have certainly created man and We know what his soul whispers to him, and We are closer to him than [his] jugular vein." (Surah Qaf, 50:16)
A chill passed over him. Was it comfort or warning?
He read slowly, deliberately, allowing each verse to settle deep inside. The meanings hit harder in the early silence of dawn. He made du'a, hands lifted, heart aching with words he couldn't even fully form. He prayed for safety. For answers. For strength. For protection from what he didn't understand.
When he finally looked at the clock, it was nearly 8 a.m. He blinked, surprised at how much time had passed. The thought of going back to bed made his stomach churn. No, sleep wouldn't come now. Not with what he had seen. Not with the whispers still lingering in the walls.
He pushed himself up and began cleaning the house.
The floor creaked under his feet. He swept, wiped counters, dusted off forgotten shelves. In the other room, the sound of footsteps returned — faint but deliberate. This time, they didn't startle him. Instead they angered him.
"I'm not afraid of you," he muttered under his breath. "Not anymore."
Still, his hands trembled slightly as he cleaned the hallway. He kept catching glimpses of movement in the corner of his eye — black robes vanishing behind a doorframe, a shimmer in the mirror, a shadow slipping beneath the table.
But he ignored it. He had to.
After a long while, he returned to the kitchen. He cracked a few eggs into a pan, set the kettle to boil, and started preparing tea. He sliced some bread, spread honey on one slice, and arranged everything neatly on a tray. Despite everything, the routine was oddly comforting.
While he ate, he turned on a small radio nearby. The voice of a Qari reciting Surah Al-Baqarah echoed softly through the kitchen. The verses seemed to push against the stillness of the house like incense, driving away whatever unseen eyes lingered.
Then, he opened the windows.
Fresh, crisp morning air drifted in. The world outside was still normal. Trees swayed. Birds sang. A neighbor's child laughed somewhere beyond the wall. Ayaan stood there for a long moment, letting the sunlight hit his face.
The fear didn't vanish. But it eased. Slightly.
He walked around his home with a bottle of water he had recited Ayat-ul-Kursi over, sprinkling it lightly in every room. He whispered du'as, asking Allah to protect his house from the seen and unseen.
When he returned to the living room, he stood still for a moment.
The house was quiet again.
Really quiet.
He sat down and sipped his tea slowly and carefully. His hands still shook slightly, but the warmth helped.
There would be more to face. He knew it now. But for this one moment, he was in control. And that, for now, was enough.
The sunlight was now lazily creeping across the marble floor, warm in hue but pale in strength, casting slanted shadows from the edge of the curtain he hadn't yet drawn aside. The warmth of the tea in his cup did little to thaw the chill still clinging to his skin — a chill not from the morning breeze, but something deeper. Something that had followed him out of his nightmare and still lingered like a whisper at the nape of his neck.
He sat at the old wooden dining table, the one his parents had bought years ago, worn now but still strong. The rhythmic clinking of the teaspoon against the ceramic cup was the only sound in the room, aside from the occasional groan of the aging house. The silence, once peaceful, now felt sentient.
It had taken him longer than usual to finish his morning routine. Not because he was sluggish, but because of the constant awareness. The footsteps in the hallway, the way the bathroom mirror seemed to ripple in the corner of his eye, the weight of unseen eyes perched on his shoulders — it had all slowed him.
But he'd forced himself through it. Wudu. Prayer. Tasbeeh. The soft, echoing verses of the Qur'an had soothed his nerves, but only slightly. There was still an itch in the back of his mind.
Now, as he sat with his tea, the world finally seemed still. His breathing had evened out. His fingers no longer trembled on the cup. It was the first time in hours he let himself sit… and breathe.
He leaned back slightly, sipping slowly, eyes fixed on the steam curling up and vanishing like the memories that threatened to surface. But the calm didn't last long. Something inside tugged at him — an instinct that there was more to face, more to unearth.
With a sigh, Ayaan reached across the table for the leather-bound journal he always kept tucked beneath a stack of books. It was a gift from his father, given to him the year before their deaths — the one time his father had told him, "Write. Even if no one reads it. Words protect the soul."
The cover was worn now, softened with time and use, the edges curled like autumn leaves. He flipped it open to a blank page and took a deep breath, letting the pen rest in his fingers a moment before beginning to write.
April 29 — Tuesday Morning
"The footsteps haven't stopped. Not even once. I've prayed, I've recited, and still, they follow. Watching. Listening. Waiting."
He paused, staring at the words. Then struck a line through them and started again.
April 29 — Tuesday Morning
"It's almost 9:00 AM. I didn't go back to sleep after Fajr. I just couldn't.
There was a moment this morning — just before the adhan — where I wasn't sure if I was awake or still dreaming. The whispers hadn't stopped, not even when I opened my eyes. And then… I saw Ghaziwan. He stood there like he belonged in this world, but I knew better. His silence said more than anything. And those three behind him… I don't know why but they felt familiar to me. I only saw their outlines — tall, shadowy, barely shaped like men. But their eyes… Allah, their eyes. Like hot coals buried in ash. Watching. Burning. Not with anger. With something else. Pity?
He paused again.
Ghaziwan didn't speak of them. I didn't ask more. Maybe I should have.
But what keeps coming back to me is what I did hear — the whispers in the dream:"Tadhakkar… Fararta… Adrikna…"
"Remember… You ran away… Save us…"
But save who? From what?"
Ayaan shut his eyes tightly for a moment. It was like writing the words brought the whispers back. Faint. Fainter than a breath. Just barely brushing the edge of hearing.
He shook his head and moved on to a new paragraph, forcing his thoughts toward something normal. Something grounding. Something real.
"I'll be leaving in a few days. I need to. This house is too loud with silence now.
First stop — Lahore. Qassim's wedding. I can't believe he's finally getting married. He always said he wouldn't settle down before thirty. Guess we all grow up eventually. He deserves happiness.
But while I'm in Lahore, I need to visit the graves.
My parents… I haven't visited their graves since last year. I told myself I'd go on their death anniversary, but I didn't. The dream came back around then. I couldn't bring myself to face them.
They're buried side by side. Abbu always said, "Even in death, I want to be beside your Ammi." And so they are — in the quiet part of the city graveyard, beneath that old Neem tree. I remember the sound of the wind in its leaves.
Then, Dadi's grave. Also in Lahore, near the shrine. She used to take me there when I was little. She'd hold my hand and tell me jinn stories — always with a smile. I think she knew something. Something real.
Next, I'll head to the village. That long, dusty road I haven't taken in years. Nana's grave is there. I only met him a few times, but he always called me Ayaan baba. His voice was strong, like it belonged to the earth.
And before I leave, I'll stop by the town cemetery to visit my great-grandparents' graves. I don't remember them, but Ammi always spoke of them with reverence.
And then…
Faheem Chacha."
Ayaan's hand stopped moving for a moment. He stared at the name. It felt heavier than the rest.
"He's the only one left who might have answers. Answers to why they keep coming. Why I dream of places I've never seen but they still feel familiar to me. Why the whispers won't stop.
He was close to my father. Too close, sometimes. And after their deaths, he distanced himself. He said it was grief. But I wonder now…
I remember the way he looked at me at the funeral — like he knew something. Like he wanted to say it but couldn't. I was too young to ask then. But not now.
I need to know."
Ayaan set the pen down and closed the journal, his fingers lingering on the cover for a long moment. Outside, the wind had picked up slightly, rustling the tree branches against the windows, like fingernails across glass.
He looked toward the hallway. Silent now. But he still felt it — a presence, coiled in the corners of his home, watching and waiting.
But he wouldn't let it stop him.
He stood, picked up the empty teacup, and walked slowly toward the kitchen, the journal still open on the table. The last line catching the light of the morning sun:
"I need to know what was sealed… and why it's breaking open now."