Beyond the barbie door

Writer:Mustafa Ahmed Introduction: Welcome to the world of my imagination, where words weave tales of gentle romance and profound morals. As a 20 years old writer from Pakistan, I embark on my first journey into English storytelling, carrying with me the essence of Urdu literature that has shaped my voice. With two Urdu novels to my name, I now venture into new realms, crafting narratives that aspire to inspire and transform. Here, you won't find the shadows of dark romance; instead, I offer you stories that touch the heart and k****e the spirit. If you seek a tale that not only entertains but also imparts wisdom, then join me in this adventure of soft romance and life-altering messages. Welcome, dear reader, to a novel experience. ...... For my Pakistani readers who have a penchant for Urdu literature, I present to you my previous works: "Hub-al-Mamnoo" حُب الممنوع (The foridden love) and "Dukhtaran-e-Maqsood." دختران مقصود (Daughter's of maqsood) These novels are readily available on Google for your reading pleasure. Dive into the depths of my Urdu storytelling and enjoy the narratives that have paved the way for my English novel writing journey. Enigmas of the Arcane: Unraveling the Labyrinthine Mysterie ••°•• Night enveloped everything, and the cacophony of insects filled the air. Leaves rustled in the gentle breeze, and the moon’s glow bathed the world in a silvery light. Despite the haze that shrouded the surroundings, there was an undeniable presence felt—cries, wails, and a sinister laugh that cut through the stillness. Suddenly, blood splattered, followed by that same malevolent laughter echoing from behind, then a sound of something—or someone—falling. A door creaked open, accompanied by a pained whisper, “Go back, don’t come here again… cross this threshold,” Before an explosion of light erupted… She woke up abruptly from her sleep; her room was dimly lit, casting eerie shadows across her face, now slick with sweat. To her right was a large window framing the majestic mountains of Hunza, Pakistan, glistening under the moonlight and dotted with twinkling fireflies. A gentle breeze wafted through the room. She lay on the top bunk bed; below her slept her friend Geeti, and another friend on a bed beneath. Her eyes scanned the room—those unusual amethyst eyes that held a trace of fear. She breathed rapidly, wiping the sweat from her face with long, slender fingers ending in tapered white nails. She ran her tongue over her slightly parted roseate lips. Her visage was a perfect heart-shaped canvas, crowned with a cascade of raven-black hair that fell in soft waves. Her nose was delicate, a subtle sculpture amidst the striking features. Framing her extraordinary dark purple eyes were thick lashes, which fluttered like the delicate wings of a butterfly, casting enigmatic shadows that danced in the moonlight. These eyes, a rare shade akin to amethysts found deep within the earth, held a depth that was both captivating and disconcerting—a window to a soul that had witnessed wonders and horrors alike. Descending from her bed, she approached the large table by the window where a jug sat. She poured water into a glass with grace, set the jug down, and brought the glass to her soft, rose-like lips. As she drank, the moonlight caught in her extraordinary amethyst eyes, making them sparkle with an otherworldly light. Her cheeks were naturally flushed, as was her nose, accentuating her unique beauty that seemed not of this world. Standing there, her stature became clear—over six feet tall, with a presence that was both commanding and delicate. Adorned in a modest yet elegant black frock, the garment draped gracefully over her form, extending to her feet. The long sleeves, embellished with intricate handcrafted embroidery, hugged her arms gently. On her finger sparkled a ring, set with lustrous black beads that caught the light, whispering of understated sophistication. Her hair cascaded down past her waist, dark as the night itself. Around her ankles jingled anklets, common in Pakistan, adding a delicate charm to her movements. After setting the glass down, she took a deep breath and murmured to herself, “What are these dreams? What does it all mean? These visions have haunted me since childhood; what is their reality?” … She caressed her face with her hand and whispered a prayer for guidance. “oh Allah! Help me I need your Guidance “. Wrapping a shawl around herself, she walked towards the door, opening it gently so as not to disturb anyone’s sleep. With light steps, she ventured outside into the unknown… °°°°° Mountains encircled her, standing as silent sentinels in the night. Directly before her loomed a colossal peak, its summit crowned with snow that glistened under the moon’s caress like silver. A solitary cloud spun in a lazy orbit around the mountain, adding to the mystique of the scene. The field she traversed was an expanse of openness, carpeted with a layer of soft grass that whispered under her steps. Trees dotted the landscape, their silhouettes etched against the dark sky. With each measured step she took, the grass bent gently, and her thoughts wandered freely. Fireflies flickered all around, their bioluminescent glow casting an ethereal light that danced with the shadows. She had now gathered her hair into a high ponytail, allowing the cool breeze to caress her neck. The delicate chime of her anklets accompanied her movements, a subtle soundtrack to her solitary journey. …. Lost in her reverie, she was strolling through the serene night when a melodious voice beckoned her from behind. It was Geeti’s voice, as soothing as ever. Turning around, she saw Geeti approaching with a gentle gait. Medium in stature, Geeti’s long chestnut hair cascaded down her shoulders, complementing her porcelain complexion. Her fox eyes, framed by long lashes and focused icy gaze, were the color of hazelnut. “Ayla, is everything alright?” Geeti asked with a soft concern, placing her hand on Ayla’s shoulder. Ayla took a deep breath, the weight of her thoughts evident in the slight furrow of her brow. She reached out to rest her hand on Geeti’s shoulder, seeking solace in the familiar touch. “Nothing is right, Geeti,” Ayla confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s that same dream again—the one that has haunted me since childhood. It returned.” Her gaze drifted to the luminous full moon peeking from behind the mountains—a celestial witness to her turmoil. “Whenever the full moon graces the sky, that dream visits me. It’s no coincidence to have the same dream repeatedly,” she murmured. Geeti clasped Ayla’s hand in hers, offering silent support as they walked towards a nearby bench. They sat down, the tranquil canal flowing behind them and the dense forest standing guard beyond it. “I don’t understand it either,” Geeti admitted, sharing a look of empathy. “Indeed, the persistent return of a dream is no mere chance.” Ayla’s voice was tinged with melancholy as she continued, “Ever since I can remember, I’ve found myself here—in this orphanage. I know nothing of my parents… nothing at all. I’ve been here since my childhood, imprisoned by questions.” Overwhelmed by emotions she could no longer contain, Ayla let her face fall into the cradle of her hands—a silent plea for answers she feared would never come. Geeti tenderly slid her hand beneath Ayla’s chin, gently coaxing her face upward. The moonlight revealed Ayla’s eyes, glistening with unshed tears. With an air of solemnity, Geeti spoke, “The deluge of questions will soon cease; only answers shall reign supreme—victory is nigh.” Ayla regarded her with a quizzical expression, her voice laced with confusion. “I don’t understand… what are you saying?” A smile played upon Geeti’s lips as she reminisced. “Do you recall the dream you once had? The one with the crystal locket? You painted it and showed me.” Recognition dawned on Ayla’s face. “Yes,” she whispered. With a flourish, Geeti produced an image—a snapshot in time—depicting a six-year-old Ayla, innocence personified, with the very locket adorning her neck. Ayla’s eyes widened in astonishment as she took in the photograph, then turned to Geeti with sudden urgency. “Where did you find this?” she demanded. Geeti’s smile held a hint of cunning. “Swifter than a fox is my pursuit,” she boasted playfully. “Ever since you confided your dream to me, I’ve been consumed by thoughts of you—searching for details by any means necessary.” She leaned closer as if sharing a secret. “I ventured into the depths of the orphanage records room where every soul’s tale is chronicled. There I found your file—pages of doctor’s appointments and fragments of your past—including this picture.” She tapped the photograph lightly. “It was no easy feat to extract it from its archival slumber,” Geeti confessed with a glint in her eye. “But for me… such endeavors are but trifles.” Taking a deep breath, Ayla spoke, her gaze lingering on the photograph and the locket it showcased—a piece so peculiar it seemed not of this world. Its inner glow was a fusion of turquoise and sapphire, a celestial luminescence. “So my dreams are reality? The door that beckons me to open, and the figure that urges me to cross its threshold—they exist?” She pondered aloud, her voice tinged with a mix of wonder and trepidation. “But what is this door, and what of the venomous laughter, that sinister cackle—what does it all mean?” . Her voice crescendoed with an intensity born of confusion. Ayla’s brow furrowed in contemplation. “But where could this locket be now?” she inquired, her hands clenching in her lap. Geeti offered a knowing smile, “It lies with the one who brought you here—the keeper of all answers,” she declared confidently. Ayla’s eyes widened in realization. “Miss Fernandez David,” she uttered, the name rolling off her tongue like a clue waiting to be deciphered. Geeti nodded affirmatively, her expression resolute. “Indeed, it must be so. That elderly lady surely knows where the locket resides. Tomorrow we shall visit her abode and unearth the truth,”. She addressed the elderly woman not with affection but with a venomous blend of hatred and rage, her teeth clenched in a silent snarl of ‘why’. She proclaimed, “Then every question that plagues your mind will find its answer; your tomorrow holds everything.”… Geeti placed her hand atop Ayla’s, pressing it gently yet firmly, “We can do this; we will,” She asserted with unwavering resolve. Ayla embraced her in a heartfelt gesture of gratitude. “Thank you, Geeti. You always simplify my troubles,” she whispered. Geeti’s smile was a beacon of warmth. “Because you are my friend, my sister, my sunshine,” she professed, punctuating her declaration with a playful wink before rising to her feet. “Come now, let us seek rest.” Ayla returned the smile and stood alongside her. “Let’s go,” she agreed. Together they walked away, their figures receding into the distance. At that moment, a mysterious light flickered within the jungle’s depths—a harbinger of unseen horrors—as droplets of blood suddenly stained the river’s surface. Simultaneously, a deer’s severed head came to rest upon the bank—a silent testament to the night’s unseen terrors………… ••••°•••• Geeti and Ayla, bound by the kindred spirits of childhood, had been inseparable since their earliest days within the orphanage walls. When Ayla first arrived, it was only three months later that Geeti joined her, and from then on, their lives became intertwined. They shared a deep bond, one that grew stronger as they watched other children come and go—often the younger ones, the newborns, were chosen for adoption. It wasn’t that only the infants were selected; other children their age found new homes too, but somehow, Geeti and Ayla remained. As time passed and they matured, they were sent to school and later to college, receiving an education that many in their situation might not have. Upon completing their education, they returned to the very place that had nurtured them—the orphanage—and its adjoining old house, now a residence for the elderly, where they began serving as employees. Now at the age of twenty, Geeti and Ayla continue to work at this sanctuary of their youth, their lives as interwoven with the orphanage’s legacy as with each other’s.