The Last Flame Bearer

his shawl tighter around his shoulders and glanced at the fading horizon. The sun was nothing but a blood-red scar in the distance, swallowed by the jagged outline of ancient hills. “Another hour,” muttered the tonga driver, urging the horse forward. “If Allah wills, we’ll reach the haveli before night fully falls.” Saif’s lips curved into a faint smile. He was not an ordinary traveler. To outsiders, he appeared as a university researcher, carrying books, ink pens, and an innocent curiosity for folklore. In reality, his mission was far darker. Rumors had reached the city of Lahore that a forgotten haveli in the village of Darbarpur was cursed—haunted by jinn, ruled by shadows, avoided even by birds. People spoke of screams in the night, mysterious fires, and disappearances. Saif had come to find the truth. The horse snorted uneasily as the road narrowed between towering banyan trees. Their branches clawed at the sky like skeletal hands, heavy with hanging roots that resembled ropes dangling from gallows. An icy wind blew despite the summer heat. Saif noticed the driver trembling. “Old man,” Saif asked, “you’ve lived here your whole life. Why does everyone fear this haveli?” The driver crossed himself, muttering under his breath. “Sahib, please. Don’t ask such questions. Evil has ears. That haveli is cursed. No man who goes inside returns the same. They say the walls bleed at night. They say a woman in white walks the corridors, weeping. And they say…” He fell silent, whipping the horse harder. “They say what?” Saif pressed. The driver glanced nervously at the looming shadows. “They say the master of the haveli was not entirely human. His blood mixed with something unholy. His descendants were… jin zada.” The word echoed in Saif’s mind like a drumbeat. Born of jinn. The main doors of the haveli stood ajar. Saif hesitated only a moment before stepping inside. The corridor stretched long and dark, lined with portraits of stern-faced men and veiled women. Their painted eyes seemed to follow him. Dust coated everything, yet the air felt heavy, as though the house had been breathing for centuries. A sudden gust slammed the door shut behind him. The sound echoed like a gunshot. Saif turned sharply, heart racing. That was when he saw her. At the far end of the corridor stood a figure. A woman dressed in white, her face hidden behind a veil, her hands were white as bone. She did not walk—she glided, her feet soundless on the cracked tiles. “Who’s there?” Saif demanded, though his voice betrayed a tremor. The woman stopped. Slowly, she lifted her hand and pointed at him. The veil shifted, revealing nothing but darkness beneath. And then, without a sound, she vanished. Saif’s notebook slipped from his fingers. His logical mind screamed “hallucination”. But deep inside, an ancient terror whispered otherwise. The Chamber of Echoes Determined not to lose control, Saif lit a lantern from his bag and explored further. The haveli seemed endless—rooms opening into more rooms, staircases twisting like mazes. In one chamber, he found broken furniture arranged in a circle, as if used for rituals. Symbols were carved into the floor, blackened with what looked like dried blood. The lantern flickered. The air grew cold. From the corners of the room, whispers rose again—dozens of voices overlapping, chanting in a tongue older than time. Saif clutched his lantern tightly. The whispers grew louder, pressing into his skull. He felt dizzy, his vision blurring. For a moment, he thought he saw faces in the shadows—distorted, monstrous, eyes glowing like embers. And then silence. The lantern steadied. The room was empty. Only Saif remained, panting, his shirt damp with sweat. He picked up a fragment of bone from the floor, examining it under the lantern’s light. Human. Undoubtedly human. “Not folklore,” he whispered to himself. “Something real is here.” A Warning in Blood As he turned to leave, he noticed writing appearing slowly on the wall. No hand held a brush, no ink dripped—yet the letters formed in crimson strokes, glistening as though wet. Go back. Or die. Saif staggered back, eyes wide. The words dripped down like fresh blood. For the first time, the mask of calm logic cracked. He could not explain this with science. But then he steadied himself, whispering fiercely: “I did not come this far to run.” He scribbled one last note in his book: Confirmed manifestation. Intelligent entity present. Possible jin zada lineage. Further exploration required. He blew out his lantern, plunging the room into darkness. From the blackness, a single pair of eyes glowed back at him—watching. The silence after the glowing eyes was unbearable. Saif’s heartbeat thundered in his ears, louder than any whisper. For a moment, he considered relighting the lantern. But instinct told him the darkness was watching—breathing with him, mocking his fear. He took a step back. The floorboards creaked under his boots. The eyes blinked once, then vanished. “Control yourself,” Saif muttered, forcing logic into his tone. “Fear feeds them.” He crouched to retrieve his notebook. His trembling hand scrawled across the page: Manifestation includes visual anomaly (pair of glowing eyes). Likely non-human. Intelligent presence confirmed. But the air was different now. It pressed down on him, thick as tar. Every corner of the haveli seemed alive, and the silence was no longer empty—it was expectant, as if hundreds of unseen beings waited for him to make his next mistake. The Sound of Anklets Saif forced himself deeper into the haveli. The corridor ahead sloped downward, lined with decayed wooden doors. He chose one at random, pushing it open. A gust of stale air rushed out, carrying the scent of burned incense and rotting fabric. Inside was a room filled with collapsed bookshelves, scrolls eaten by termites, and shattered glass lanterns. As he searched, a faint sound reached his ears. Chhan… chhan… chhan… The delicate jingle of anklets. He froze, his body stiffening. The sound grew closer, rhythmic, as though a woman were walking barefoot just outside the door. His throat went dry. He dared not breathe. The anklets stopped. And then, directly behind him, a voice whispered: “Why are you here?” Saif spun, swinging his lantern. Nothing. Only broken shelves and torn fabric. The voice had been so close he could almost feel the breath against his ear. He wrote shakily: Auditory manifestation. Female voice. Direct address. Entity aware of presence. But deep inside, a voice—his own survival instinct—screamed at him to leave.