MRS. KHAN

*MRS. KHAN - Chapter 1: The First Night* It was June in Karachi. The heat was brutal. The air didn’t move. At the end of Gali Number 7 in Liaquatabad stood an old house. The white paint was peeling. A heavy iron lock hung from the wooden door. Mrs. Khan lived in that house. Her name was Ayesha Khan. She was 42. Half her hair had turned white. Her eyes were deep. The kind of deep that made you feel like you were falling in. She lived alone. Her husband died in an accident 8 years ago. After that, she stopped talking to anyone. The whole neighborhood feared her. They said that after 12 AM, someone walked on her roof. You could hear footsteps. But Mrs. Khan never came out. The curtains stayed closed all day. Only at 5 PM she opened the door for the milkman. She took the milk, paid him, and never said a word. A new boy had moved into the street. His name was Zain. He was 24. He was doing his MA in Urdu at Karachi University. The rent was cheap, so he took the room right across from her house. The landlord had warned him, “Son, stay away from the house across. Mrs. Khan lives there.” Zain had laughed. “She’s just an aunty. What will she do?” The first week was normal. University in the day. Books at night. But on the 8th night, things changed. It was 12 AM. The electricity was gone. He was sweating on the rooftop charpai. He had just closed his eyes when he heard it. Tak... tak... tak... Bare feet. Walking. The sound came from right across. From Mrs. Khan’s roof. Zain opened his eyes. The moon was out. On the other roof stood a shadow. A woman in white. Hair open. She stood still, staring straight at him. His throat went dry. He called out, “Aunty?” She didn’t move. She just kept watching. He got scared. He ran downstairs and bolted his door. His heart was pounding. He told himself, “It was just the wind.” The next night it happened again. At 12 AM sharp. Tak... tak... tak... This time the sound was closer. Like someone was standing on the other side of the wall. On the third night, Zain gathered courage. He took a torch to the roof. The other roof was empty. No one there. But on the floor were wet footprints. Fresh. As if someone had just left. The prints led straight to him. They stopped at the edge of the wall. Zain’s sweat turned cold. He didn’t sleep that night. On the fourth night he asked Ustaad Rasheed, his 70-year-old neighbor. The old man had lived in that gali for 40 years. Ustaad sipped his tea and closed his eyes. “Son, don’t talk to Mrs. Khan. Don’t look at her house. Forget what happened 8 years ago.” “What happened, Ustaad?” The old man shut his door. “You’re new. Mind your own business.” Zain got angry. He was a writer. Fear was just a word to him, not a reality. He decided to find the truth. On the fifth night, at 11:55 PM, he stood in front of Mrs. Khan’s house. The old iron gate creaked open with a light push. Inside was darkness. It smelled of old earth and incense. “Aunty?” he whispered. No answer. He stepped into the courtyard. There was a dry well in the middle. Rooms all around with closed doors. A staircase led upstairs. Suddenly, he heard a soft laugh from above. He looked up. Mrs. Khan stood at the top of the stairs. White shalwar kameez. Hair open. She held an old photo album. She didn’t speak. She just opened the album and showed it to him. Page one: A young couple. Mrs. Khan in her bridal dress. Next to her, a smiling man. Written below: “Ayesha & Kamran. 2016.” Page two: The same man. Covered in blood. A car crash. Page three was blank. But a photo fell out of the album onto the floor. Zain picked it up. It was him. Taken yesterday outside his university. Someone had taken it secretly. His hands started shaking. Mrs. Khan’s voice came from above. The first time in 8 years. Very low. Broken. “Did you come to watch the show, Zain?” Zain’s breath caught. How did she know his name? She started coming down the stairs. One… two… three… With every step, a bulb in the courtyard burst. Darkness grew. She stopped on the last step. Now he could see her face. No tears. Just fire in her eyes. “Say it,” she said. “Who pushed my Kamran off the road? You know, don’t you?” Zain stepped back. “I… I don’t know, Aunty.” “Yes, you do,” she laughed again. But it wasn’t a laugh. It was a sob. “Your father pushed him. For the land. To take this house.” Zain’s blood ran cold. His father had died 8 years ago. But it was true. Once, drunk, his father had said, “I got a house cheap in Liaquatabad. The owner died.” Mrs. Khan closed the album. “Now we settle the score.” She reached out her hand. Ice-cold air came from her palm. The courtyard wind stopped. Zain tried to run. But his feet were stuck to the floor. Like someone was holding them. The last thing he heard was Mrs. Khan’s whisper, right next to his ear: “Meet me on the roof. 12 AM.” Then everything went black. The next morning, Ustaad Rasheed called the police. Zain’s room was locked from the inside. They broke it open. The room was empty. The charpai was untouched. His books were closed. The window was open. Only one wet footprint was on the table. Next to it lay Mrs. Khan’s old album, open. On the last blank page, red ink now read: “Zain. Chapter 1 ends.” Even today, people in the gali say that after 12 AM, two shadows appear on Mrs. Khan’s roof. One old. One new.