The Dark Singer

The Return To Auntie Zara

The air was heavy with dread. Alaya hadn't spoken much since the shadow returned. Even Rhea, who usually cracked jokes and tried to lighten the mood, was silent as they sat in the backseat of the black SUV, speeding toward the outskirts of the city.

A third person sat with them—Kemi, Rhea’s cousin, a woman in her late twenties who had once dabbled in spiritual healing. She had insisted on joining them after Rhea told her what was happening. Her presence was comforting in a strange way—like she knew what was coming.

“We’re almost there,” Kemi said softly, glancing out the window as the tall trees gave way to cracked dirt roads. “Do you remember what she told you, Alaya? Auntie Zara warned that the spirit wouldn’t leave unless it was truly finished.”

“I thought it was,” Alaya muttered, voice low. “Three months of peace... I really believed it was over.”

They pulled up to the small compound where Auntie Zara lived. The house was quiet, surrounded by thick bushes and vines, like it had been swallowed by the forest itself. As they stepped out, a cold gust of wind brushed past them, making Alaya shiver.

Auntie Zara stood at the doorway, waiting. Her long scarf trailed down her side, and her eyes were deeper than Alaya remembered—like she’d been watching something far older than the world.

“You came back,” Zara said. “Good. It never really left you.”

Alaya’s knees weakened slightly, but she stood firm. “Then what did you remove?”

“I pulled out what I could. What was outside your body. But the bond… it was forged long before I ever touched you.”

Rhea stepped forward. “So what do we do now? It’s getting worse. She sees it. Feels it.”

Zara looked at them each in turn. “Then we fight.”

The living room had been turned into a spiritual battleground. Candles were placed in every corner. The scent of burning herbs filled the room. Strange symbols were drawn in chalk across the wooden floor, and Alaya sat at the center of it all.

“Whatever you see, you do not leave the circle,” Zara warned. “And no matter what it tells you—do not agree.”

Kemi and Rhea stood outside the ring, holding hands as they chanted softly. Zara’s voice grew stronger, louder, each word pulling at something invisible in the air.

Suddenly, the flames from the candles flared up. The room darkened.

And then—it arrived.

The temperature dropped instantly. The shadows along the walls began to move, twisting and shifting until they formed the shape of a man. Tall. Broad. With curling black hair and eyes like smoke.

“You called me,” it whispered, its voice dripping with sweetness and rot.

“No,” Zara said firmly. “You were never invited.”

“But she did invite me. When she took the stage. When she looked in the mirror. When she let me in—over and over.”

The figure walked toward the edge of the circle, but could not cross it. Still, its presence was overwhelming. Alaya trembled. Her head filled with voices—echoes of her own desires, her fears, her music, all distorted.

“Remember the shower, Alaya?” it purred. “That moment. That bliss. You didn’t fight it then.”

“Shut up!” Alaya screamed.

The flames dimmed. The room shook. Zara pressed her hands to the floor and began shouting in a different tongue—one ancient, full of force. The shadow reeled, screeching, its form flickering like smoke caught in a storm.

“I gave you fame!” it wailed. “I gave you love! All I ask is your soul!”

The circle pulsed. The symbols on the floor burned with light.

Kemi and Rhea’s chanting intensified. Alaya clutched her head, screaming as a horrible pain ripped through her skull, like something was being pulled from deep inside.

“Now!” Zara shouted. “Say it!”

“I reject you!” Alaya screamed. “You don’t own me!”

The spirit let out one final howl—long and high, like glass shattering in the air—and then it vanished. The candles went out at once, plunging the room into silence.

Alaya collapsed into Rhea’s arms, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Zara stood slowly, her voice hoarse. “It’s weaker now. But this isn’t over.”

Alaya looked up, dazed. “Then when will it be?”

Zara didn’t answer. She only whispered, “The end always begins in silence.”