The Marid pact

Whispers of the night

The house was unusually quiet after the party. The laughter and music had faded, replaced by the familiar ticking of the old clock in the hallway and the distant hum of the city outside. Mariam and Sameer, exhausted but relieved, retired to their room, whispering prayers of gratitude. For the first time in years, they allowed themselves to believe that the worst might truly be behind them.

Aliyah and Sarah lay together in their shared room, the faint glow of the moon casting silver patterns on the walls. Sarah drifted off to sleep quickly, her breathing deep and even. But Aliyah remained awake, her mind restless. She stared at the ceiling, replaying the events of the day, trying to convince herself that everything was normal. Yet, a strange unease gnawed at her—an inexplicable sense that something was not right.

As the night deepened, the silence grew heavier. Aliyah closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep. That was when she heard it—a faint, almost imperceptible whisper, like the rustling of dry leaves. At first, she thought it was her imagination, a remnant of her anxious thoughts. But the whisper grew clearer, winding its way into her mind.

“Aliyah…”

She bolted upright, her heart pounding. The room was empty, Sarah still asleep beside her. Aliyah strained to listen, her breath caught in her throat.

“Aliyah… come to me…”

The voice was neither male nor female—just a chilling, echoing sound that seemed to seep from the very walls. Aliyah pressed her hands to her ears, but the whisper only grew louder, curling around her like a cold mist.

She tried to wake Sarah, shaking her gently. “Sarah, wake up,” she whispered, her voice trembling. But Sarah only mumbled in her sleep and turned away.

Aliyah’s eyes darted around the room. Shadows seemed to gather in the corners, growing darker and deeper. She felt a prickling sensation on her skin, as if invisible fingers were tracing strange symbols across her back. She pulled her blanket tighter, but the cold seeped through.

The whispers continued, now joined by a low, guttural chant. Aliyah squeezed her eyes shut, tears streaming down her face. She wanted to scream, to run, but her body felt heavy, pinned to the bed by an unseen force.

Suddenly, the whispers stopped. The room was silent once more. Aliyah gasped for breath, her body shaking. She glanced at the clock—3:07 AM. The house was still, the only sound her own ragged breathing.

She lay awake until dawn, afraid to close her eyes. When the first light of morning crept through the window, she finally dared to move. As she sat up, a sharp pain shot through her back. She reached behind her and felt something strange—raised, raw marks, as if scratched into her skin.

Sarah woke to find Aliyah sitting on the edge of the bed, pale and trembling. “What happened?” she asked, concern etched on her face.

Aliyah hesitated, then shook her head. “Just a bad dream,” she lied, forcing a smile.

But as she dressed for the day, Aliyah caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The marks on her back formed a pattern she did not recognise—twisting, ancient symbols that seemed to pulse with a life of their own.

And somewhere, deep in the shadows, the marid watched and waited, its promise drawing ever closer to fulfilment.