The Mark
1136 Words
The following morning, sunlight spilled through the curtains of Alaya’s hotel suite, casting soft gold across the room. A gentle breeze made the white linen drapes sway, but nothing could calm the storm brewing inside her. She sat silently on her bed, clutching the sheets to her chest.
Her mind replayed the moment from the night before—the man in the mirror, the voice, the words: "Your body is mine."
Alaya's breath caught in her throat. She ran her hands along her waist where the figure had touched her. Nothing. No bruises. No marks. Just her skin. But deep down, something felt different.
A knock on the door startled her.
"Alaya, it's me," Rhea’s voice called gently. “Open up.”
Alaya hesitated, then slowly unlocked the door.
Rhea stepped in with a tray of breakfast—pancakes, fruit, and a cup of strong coffee. She froze when she saw the look on Alaya's face.
"Girl... what happened to you?"
Alaya sat back down, hugging her knees. “Rhea… I think I’m being haunted.”
“What?” Rhea placed the tray on the table and walked over to her. “What do you mean haunted?”
“I had another dream last night,” Alaya whispered. “But it didn’t feel like a dream. He was there again—the man from the mirror. He said he owns my body, my soul... he even said we’d have children together.”
Rhea’s playful smirk faded. “Okay, that’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking,” Alaya snapped. “I saw him. He touched me.”
Rhea paused, unsure of what to say. “Maybe it’s stress. You’ve been under a lot of pressure lately—the tour, the sudden fame, the contract with Adele and the others—"
“No, this isn’t stress,” Alaya interrupted. “It’s real. And last night, after I woke up… I checked the mirror again. He wasn’t there. But guess what I saw?”
“What?”
Alaya pulled down the collar of her shirt, revealing a faint, crimson symbol etched into her collarbone. It looked like a twisted infinity loop, pulsing slightly like a living thing.
Rhea gasped. “What the hell is that?”
“I don’t know. It was never there before.”
Rhea stepped back, shaken. “You need help.”
Alaya nodded. “But who do I go to? A doctor? A priest?”
“No,” Rhea said after a beat. “I think I know someone who might help.”
Two hours later, they pulled up to a small building in an old part of Dubai, far from the glitz of the concert venues and luxury hotels. A modest sign above the door read: “Auntie Zara - Spiritual Healer”.
“She helped my cousin once,” Rhea explained as they stepped in. “He was seeing weird stuff in his dreams too. Let’s just try, okay?”
Inside, the room smelled of incense and dried herbs. A dark-skinned woman with long gray braids sat behind a low table, her eyes focused on Alaya the moment she entered.
“You brought her,” Auntie Zara said to Rhea without being told a thing. “The girl marked by the shadow.”
Alaya froze. “You know?”
“I’ve seen you in my dreams,” Auntie Zara said calmly. “Sit.”
Alaya sat.
“Your music… it carries a power. Not just talent, but something older. You opened a door, child. And something stepped through.”
Alaya blinked. “What kind of door?”
“A spiritual one. When your song went viral—when it reached so many people, your energy was amplified. It’s how fame works in the spirit world too. Light draws shadows.”
Alaya swallowed hard. “So… he’s real?”
Auntie Zara nodded. “Yes. A being bound to the old deals of fame, fortune, and influence. Some call him the Fame Devil. Others know him by names lost to time. But once you make contact—intentionally or not—he marks you.”
Alaya clutched the mark on her collarbone.
“Can I get rid of it?” she asked. “Can I unmark myself?”
Auntie Zara narrowed her eyes. “There is a way, but it won’t be easy. You must confront the being in his realm. That requires a ritual… and courage.”
Rhea spoke up. “She’s already brave. Tell us what to do.”
That night, back at the hotel, they prepared the ritual in secret. Auntie Zara had given them instructions, candles, rare herbs, and a vial of black salt. Alaya sat in the center of a circle, her voice low as she recited the incantations.
As midnight struck, the lights flickered. The room darkened.
The air shifted.
Then silence.
Suddenly, Alaya gasped as her body went limp and her vision blurred. She wasn’t in the room anymore.
She was standing on a black glass platform, suspended in a space without sky. Stars spun violently in the distance. Before her stood the man.
The Fame Devil.
He was tall, draped in a robe made of shadow and music notes. His face shimmered like a mirage—never still, never clear.
“You came,” he said, his voice smooth like silk and thunder. “I’m pleased.”
“I didn’t agree to any of this,” Alaya said, standing firm. “Let me go.”
“You did agree,” he said. “When you begged for success. When you whispered ‘I’ll do anything’ in your loneliness. That was the pact. You called me. I came.”
Alaya’s chest tightened. She remembered. She had been crying alone in her room two months ago. Her songs weren’t charting. Labels rejected her. She had whispered those exact words.
“I didn’t mean it,” she said.
“But I did,” the man replied. “And I made you what you are. Now, I want what is mine.”
“No!” she shouted. “You can’t have me!”
He reached forward. “You don’t get to choose now.”
But then—a flash of light erupted in the air. Rhea’s voice echoed through the void, shouting the counter-spell Auntie Zara had taught her.
The black glass began to crack beneath Alaya’s feet.
“No!” the man screamed. “You’ll regret this, Amira Lekini!”
Alaya was pulled backward into a tunnel of fire and wind—
And then she woke up, gasping on the hotel floor, Rhea kneeling beside her.
“You did it!” Rhea cried. “You’re back!”
Alaya sat up, trembling. The mark on her collarbone was gone.
But deep down, she knew the fight wasn’t over.
- Writer
