The Marid pact

The Call Home

The morning after the horrifying events by the river, Sarah could barely focus. She watched Aliyah closely as they packed up their tent, her hands trembling as she rolled her sleeping bag. Aliyah moved listlessly, her eyes shadowed and her face pale, as if she had not slept at all. The memory of last night—Aliyah crouched over the dead dog, her mouth stained, her eyes wild—haunted Sarah with every heartbeat.

The teachers called the group together for a final headcount before departure. Most students were eager to return home, chattering about the trek and the stories they would tell. But Sarah felt as if she were moving through water, every sound muffled, every movement heavy.

As the bus rumbled away from Chandnighat, Sarah sat beside Aliyah, who stared out of the window in silence. The countryside flashed past, but neither sister spoke. Sarah’s mind raced with questions, fear, and guilt. She knew she could not keep this secret any longer.

When they finally reached home, Mariam and Sameer were waiting at the gate, their faces etched with worry. Mariam hugged both daughters tightly, her relief palpable. But as she pulled back, her eyes lingered on Aliyah’s face, searching for signs of the shadow she had sensed before the trip.

That evening, after dinner, Sarah found her mother alone in the kitchen. She hesitated only a moment before blurting out everything—the nightmares, the marks on Aliyah’s back, the strange behaviour at camp, and the unspeakable scene by the river. Mariam listened in stunned silence, her hands trembling as she gripped the edge of the table.

When Sarah finished, Mariam’s face was ashen. She called Sameer, and together they listened as Sarah repeated her story. The weight of the truth settled over the family like a shroud.

“We have to do something,” Sarah pleaded. “She’s not safe. She’s not… herself.”

Sameer nodded grimly. “We’ll get help. We’ll do whatever it takes.”

That night, the house was filled with a tension so thick it was almost suffocating. Mariam sat by Aliyah’s bedside, stroking her hair, whispering prayers and promises. Sameer paced the hallway, making frantic calls to relatives, religious scholars, and anyone who might know what to do.

Aliyah lay still, her eyes closed, but her breathing was shallow and uneven. Occasionally, she would mutter in her sleep, strange words in a language no one understood. Sarah sat at the foot of the bed, watching her sister with a mixture of love, fear, and helplessness.

In the early hours, a local Maulvi arrived, summoned by Sameer’s desperate call. He entered the room quietly, his presence calm and steady. He listened to the family’s story, nodding gravely, then knelt beside Aliyah, reciting verses from the Quran in a low, rhythmic voice. He sprinkled holy water around the room and tied a protective amulet around Aliyah’s wrist.

“Keep her close,” he instructed. “Do not leave her alone. The thing that haunts her is old and powerful, but faith and family are strong shields. I will return tomorrow.”

As dawn broke, the family huddled together, exhausted but united. For the first time, Sarah felt a glimmer of hope. They were not alone in this fight. Whatever darkness had claimed Aliyah, they would face it together.

But outside, in the growing light, the shadows lingered. And somewhere, not far away, the marid waited—patient, ancient, and hungry.