A LETTER FROM THEM
The night was thick and oppressive, a suffocating blanket of darkness that seemed to breathe around the small house. Not even the wind dared to move the old tree that creaked outside Ayaan's bedroom window. The lights in the street had long flickered out, leaving only the dim yellow glow of a lantern that hung above the gate, casting strange shadows across the walls.
Ayaan sat on his prayer mat in the quiet of his room, a soft white cotton kurta falling gently over his legs. The world was silent, save for the slow tick of the clock above the door and the subtle rustle of his own breath. He had just finished Isha but couldn't sleep. There was a heaviness in his chest, a feeling that something unseen was just out of reach… waiting.
The clock ticked past 2:00 a.m.
And then something pulled him.
He didn't know why—only that the pull was there. Not like a voice or a whisper, but a silent tug, like the gravity of a memory long buried.
With no real explanation, he found himself rising from bed, walking to the bathroom to make wudu again—hands trembling slightly under the cool water. Each splash seemed to echo louder than it should have in the silence.
When he returned to the prayer mat, the lights flickered.
He froze, one foot on the mat, his eyes flicking to the corners of the room. His Quran lay untouched beside a glass of water. The lantern outside made a soft noise—tap… tap… tap—as though something brushed against it. Perhaps the wind.
He stood for tahajjud anyway.
And as he recited the first Allahu Akbar and raised his hands, the world changed.
A shift in the air. A pulse through the walls. An invisible breath across his neck.
But he didn't stop.
His voice was steady, reciting Surah Al-Fatiha with a calm that defied the storm creeping around him. Yet, behind him, the room no longer felt empty.
The shadows thickened.
From the edge of the mat—barely visible—something moved.
He bowed into ruku'.
Silence.
He stood straight, spine tall, shoulders relaxed.
Then… they came.
The air grew colder.
It wasn't a normal cold. It was ancient, heavy, and full of memory. The kind of cold that seeped into your bones and made your soul remember things you never lived.
A sound whispered through the room. Not from his ears, but from inside his mind.
A low, echoing hum.
"He remembers…"
He dropped into sujood, his forehead touching the ground, and the moment he did, the temperature dropped again.
His breath fogged before him.
And for the briefest second, he saw the edge of a foot beside his own. Bare. Dark-skinned. Not human.
He lifted his head—quickly—but there was nothing.
The room looked the same. Yet it didn't feel the same.
His prayer ended, but he didn't move. He just sat there, breathing hard, skin cold and clammy, eyes locked on the spot where that thing stood.
And then the lamp above the gate went out.
Total darkness swallowed the house.
Still seated, he reached out, grabbed his Quran, and pulled it to his chest.
That's when the whisper returned.
"You called us…"
His blood turned to ice.
He opened his mouth but no words came.
And then—
A knock.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
From the inside of his cupboard.
He stood slowly, knees shaking, and turned toward the wooden cabinet across the room.
It stood silent and innocent.
The Quran was still in his hand.
He took a step forward.
Another.
The air around him grew heavier with each breath. The room had become a pressure chamber, and his heartbeat thumped loud in his ears.
When he reached the cupboard, he whispered Bismillah and pulled the handle.
Nothing inside.
Just clothes. A spare kufi. His prayer beads.
And something else—tucked behind a row of shirts—an old, faded envelope sealed with wax.
He blinked.
That envelope hadn't been there before.
He stared at the envelope as if it might vanish if he blinked too long.
There was no name on it. No address. Just a symbol burned into the wax seal—a circle enclosing two crescent moons, back to back, with a single eye in the center.
His hand shook as he reached for it.
The moment his fingers touched the paper, a shiver shot down his spine. He snatched it out and stepped back, heart pounding. The room felt alive now. Watching. Waiting.
He didn't open it.
Not yet.
Instead, he tucked it into the pocket of his kurta and left the room without turning off the light. The hallway was darker than usual. The nightlight by the kitchen had gone out. The walls looked taller, the shadows longer, as if the house had stretched in his absence.
He moved to the living room, where a small bookshelf stood near the window. There, tucked between a thick tafsir and a collection of hadiths, was a smaller book: Asrar al-Makhluqat—The Secrets of Creation. It had belonged to his great-grandfather, a man known for strange things and long absences.
He remembered hearing whispered stories about him. How he had lived in a village where strange lights danced above the trees. How he had disappeared for seven nights once and returned with eyes that seemed older.
Ayaan had always dismissed those tales.
Until tonight.
He sat cross-legged on the carpet, opened the envelope with trembling hands, and pulled out a single sheet of paper. The handwriting was beautiful. Old, elegant Urdu.
> "When you stand in the silence, they will come.
When you bow in remembrance, they will remember.
But only the one who never forgot you will remain.
Beware the ones in chains."
Underneath it, in tiny Arabic script, was a verse from the Qur'an:
> "And there are among us those who submit, and among us those who deviate from the truth..."
(Surah Al-Jinn, 72:14)
Ayaan's hands tightened around the paper.
The house groaned softly—as though reacting to the letter.
Suddenly, from somewhere in the back room, the sound of something falling echoed through the walls.
He froze.
No one else was home.
The sound came again—this time closer.
He stood, Quran still clutched in one hand, the envelope in the other. He didn't move toward the sound. He didn't need to. Because now, something was moving toward him.
The lights dimmed.
A cold wind blew through the shut windows.
And then he heard it again—
The whisper.
This time clearer.
"You left… but we didn't."
He turned sharply.
In the reflection of the glass window, he saw something behind him.
Tall. Shadowed. Eyes like dim stars.
He spun around—but no one was there.
Yet the smell remained. The scent of frankincense and something older… something earthy, like the air inside a forgotten grave.
He ran to his room, locked the door, and dropped to the ground, placing the Quran before him.
He began to recite Ayat al-Kursi.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The cold faded.
The air grew still.
And then—a knock.
This time not from the cupboard.
But from inside his head.
Three slow taps, like a memory.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
And then a voice:
"We waited while you forgot. But he did not."
Ayaan fell forward in sujood, his tears soaking into the prayer mat.
In the silence of the night, surrounded by shadows and the flickering presences of something unseen, the truth long buried was stirring now.