The Marid pact

The Mark

Morning sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, casting a gentle glow across the sisters’ bedroom. Sarah stirred first, stretching and yawning, feeling the pleasant ache of a day spent celebrating. She glanced at Aliyah, who sat hunched on the edge of her bed, her back to the room, shoulders rigid with tension.

“Aliyah?” Sarah’s voice was still thick with sleep. “Are you alright?”

Aliyah didn’t answer immediately. She seemed lost in thought, her fingers nervously tracing the edge of her nightdress. When she finally turned, Sarah saw the dark circles under her sister’s eyes, the pallor of her skin. It was as if the night had drained all colour from her.

“I didn’t sleep well,” Aliyah murmured, avoiding Sarah’s gaze. “Strange dreams, that’s all.”

Sarah frowned, unconvinced. She reached out to touch Aliyah’s shoulder, but her sister flinched, pulling away. “Let me see,” Sarah insisted gently, “Did you hurt yourself?”

Reluctantly, Aliyah turned and lifted the back of her nightdress. Sarah gasped. Angry, red marks snaked across Aliyah’s back—raised, almost as if scratched from the inside out. The pattern was unfamiliar, twisting and curling in ways that made Sarah’s skin crawl.

“Aliyah, what happened?” Sarah’s voice trembled. “Did you do this to yourself?”

Aliyah shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “I don’t know. I just woke up like this. It burns, Sarah. It feels like something’s crawling under my skin.”

Sarah’s mind raced. She remembered stories whispered by the elders—of spirits and marks, of things that could not be explained. She wanted to dismiss them, to tell herself it was just a rash, an allergic reaction, anything but what her heart feared.

“We need to tell Mum and Dad,” Sarah said, trying to sound braver than she felt.

But Aliyah gripped her hand, desperation in her eyes. “No, please. They’ll just worry. Maybe it will go away.”

Sarah hesitated, torn between her sister’s plea and her own growing fear. In the end, she nodded, though the unease lingered.

The day passed in a blur. Aliyah moved through the house like a shadow, flinching from every touch, every question. Mariam noticed her daughter’s silence, her pale face, but Aliyah brushed off her concern, blaming exhaustion from the party. Sameer, too, seemed distracted, his mind elsewhere, as if he too sensed the storm gathering.

That night, as Sarah lay in bed, she watched Aliyah toss and turn, her sleep restless, punctuated by soft whimpers. Sarah’s heart ached for her sister, but she felt helpless—locked out of a nightmare she could not share.

In the darkness, Aliyah felt the marks on her back throb and burn. She heard the whispers again, softer now, coaxing and cajoling. “You cannot hide,” they seemed to say. “You are mine.”

She pressed her pillow over her ears, but the voices only grew clearer. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she realised that whatever had begun on her eighteenth birthday was far from over.

In the quiet of the house, the marid watched and waited, its ancient patience undisturbed. The mark was only the beginning.