Chapter 427

The village of Al-Ghayt lay nestled in the heart of Egypt's dry, barren desert. Surrounded by endless sand dunes, it was a place where life followed a slow, predictable rhythm. The air was thick with dust, the sun harsh and unforgiving, but it was home to those who lived there. For as long as anyone could remember, nothing unusual had ever disturbed the peace of this small, isolated village.

But that was before the noises began.

It started one night when the animals began to vanish. At first, it was just a few goats. Then, chickens. The farmers would wake up to find their pens empty, the gates swinging open, and not a trace of where the animals had gone. It wasn't just that they had run off or gotten lost; they had disappeared. There were no tracks, no signs of struggle, nothing that could explain their sudden disappearance.

Youssef, the village elder, was the first to notice the pattern. He had lived in Al-Ghayt all his life, and he knew the land better than anyone. The animals weren't just gone—they had been taken. But by what? The nights had become eerily silent. No sound of crickets. No wind. Just an uncomfortable, unnatural stillness.

The disappearance of the livestock didn't seem to alarm the villagers at first. Animals came and went, after all. But when the children began to vanish, one by one, panic began to set in.

Omar, Youssef's youngest son, was the first to disappear. One night, Youssef had tucked him into bed, kissed his forehead, and told him to sleep well. By morning, Omar was gone. His bed was empty, the room cold. Youssef called out to him, but there was no answer. His wife, Layla, searched the house, the yard, and even the nearby fields. But there was nothing. No trace of their son.

"I don't understand," Youssef muttered, his voice hoarse. "Where could he have gone?"

The villagers gathered in the square later that day, their faces drawn and pale with fear. Some spoke of a wandering band of thieves, others whispered of spirits from the desert. Youssef remained silent, his eyes scanning the horizon, but deep down, he knew it wasn't thieves or spirits. Something much worse was at play.

As the days passed, more children vanished. One by one, they were taken in the night. Parents would wake up to find empty rooms, the faintest trace of small footprints leading into the night. But nothing more. No sound. No scream.

Youssef could feel the tension growing. It wasn't just the children anymore. The animals were still disappearing, and now, adults were going missing too. Rahim, the blacksmith, was the first to vanish. His wife found the forge cold and empty, his tools scattered on the ground. No one had heard a thing. No one had seen a thing. It was as if Rahim had simply vanished into thin air.

"Youssef," Layla said one morning, her voice trembling. "We have to leave. There's something wrong here. We're not safe."

Youssef shook his head. "We can't run. Not yet. We need to find out what's happening."

He had no answers, but he couldn't leave. Not without understanding what had taken his son.

That night, Youssef stayed awake. His eyes were heavy, but he refused to close them. He sat by the window, listening to the wind and the occasional rustle of leaves. He could feel something... something out there. Watching. Waiting. His mind raced with thoughts of what could be causing this. Was it a curse? A punishment from the gods? Or something far worse?

Then, he heard it.

At first, it was a low, faint noise. Almost like a scraping sound, the kind of noise a stick might make as it dragged across the earth. Youssef's heart stopped. He strained his ears, listening harder. The sound grew louder, closer. Something was moving out there. Slowly, he rose from his seat and grabbed the lantern from the table. He moved silently through the house, careful not to wake his wife. The air felt different now, cold and heavy, like a storm was approaching.

When Youssef stepped outside, the scraping sound stopped. Everything was still. Too still.

His breath came in shallow gasps as he crept along the path toward the edge of the village. The lantern flickered in his hand, casting long, trembling shadows on the dirt. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, the only sound in the night.

Then, he saw it.

A figure stood at the far end of the village. A man, or something that looked like a man. Youssef's throat tightened. Was it Rahim? Had he returned?

"Rahim?" Youssef called out, his voice a strained whisper. "Is that you?"

The figure didn't respond. It just stood there, unmoving.

"Rahim!" Youssef shouted again, his voice rising in panic. "Answer me!"

The figure took a step forward, its feet dragging in the dirt. Then, another step. And another. Each movement slow, deliberate, as though it were savoring the fear it was causing.

Youssef's breath caught in his throat. There was something wrong with the way it moved, something unnatural. The figure was taller than any man Youssef had ever seen. Its face was obscured by shadow, but Youssef could see the outline of its body. It was thin, gaunt, its limbs long and spindly.

"Help me," the figure muttered, its voice soft but unmistakable. It was Omar's voice. Youssef's heart skipped a beat.

"No... no, this isn't you," Youssef whispered, shaking his head.

But the figure continued to move closer, its eyes glowing faintly in the dark. It wasn't Rahim. It wasn't Omar. It was something else.

"Help me," the figure repeated, its voice growing more desperate.

Youssef couldn't breathe. The lantern slipped from his hand, hitting the ground with a soft thud. The figure was so close now. He could see its eyes clearly—two burning embers in a hollow face.

And then, it spoke again. But this time, the voice was not Omar's. It was deeper. Older. Darker.

"You shouldn't have come," it hissed.

Before Youssef could react, the figure lunged at him.

In that moment, everything seemed to slow down. Youssef felt a cold hand wrap around his throat. The darkness closed in on him, and he gasped for air. His hands scrabbled at the figure's grip, but it was like trying to fight the wind. The figure's eyes were the last thing he saw before everything went black.

The next morning, when the villagers went looking for Youssef, they found nothing. His body was gone. There were no signs of struggle, no footprints leading away. The village had fallen silent once again, as though Youssef had never existed.

It wasn't just him. More villagers disappeared, one by one. The children were gone, the adults were gone. The village of Al-Ghayt, once a quiet, peaceful place, was now empty. The last remaining villagers could hear the same scraping sound in the night, but no one ever found the source.

The desert slowly reclaimed the village, its empty streets and buildings swallowed by the ever-shifting sands.

And somewhere, in the quiet darkness, the voices of the lost echoed through the wind.