The Dark Spell

The Dark Spell

By Sehar Rana

Black magic, evil charms, and spiritual manipulation — things we often dismiss as superstition — have become a silent disease spreading through our society. People fall prey to so-called spiritual healers, destroying lives and families.

In our home, there was never a concept of charms, amulets, or black magic. We were a modern, practical family. We believed in hard work, prayer, and compassion. But the storm that hit our family changed everything I had ever believed in.

Our home once felt like a piece of heaven — full of laughter, peace, and love. But slowly, that heaven turned into a house of grief. It all began when my mother’s brothers — whom she loved more than her own daughters — stepped into our lives with darkness hidden behind smiles.

My mother loved her brothers’ daughters like her own. She gave them love, gifts, and respect beyond measure. But the same people she cared for became the reason for her death.

It’s a long story — a painful one — but I will tell it briefly, not to make you cry, but to share what blind trust can cost.

My parents got my uncles married, and since we sisters were much younger, we helped our parents in every way we could. When our sisters-in-law came, we treated them like queens. Every wish of theirs was fulfilled. My parents taught us to obey them, even when they were wrong. If they shouted, we stayed quiet. If they complained, my parents scolded us instead.

When the first brother got married, happiness filled our home — until, a week later, my mother fell sick. She never recovered fully after that.

We didn’t know anything about “black magic.” We thought it was a myth. But neighbors who came to visit whispered, “Someone has done something to your mother.” We didn’t believe them. We trusted doctors instead. For five long years, we took her from one clinic to another. She would get better for a while, then fall sick again — especially after her brothers visited.

Then, one day, my uncle forced my mother to fix a marriage between my brother and his daughter. From that day, her health collapsed completely. She could barely walk. Still, we kept denying the rumors about magic.

Our mother stopped eating, stopped smiling. She cried in pain every day. For years, we fed her only porridge because she couldn’t digest anything else.

Then, one by one, my sisters and I also fell ill. Strange, unexplainable sicknesses that no doctor could diagnose. The same whispers echoed again: “Someone is doing black magic on your family.”

But we kept silent. We were taught to be patient, to never accuse anyone.

Our brothers, influenced by others, began fighting with us. The same brothers we loved and served started believing that we were hiding things from them — that we were taking their share. They shouted, they cursed, and our house echoed with arguments for years. My mother’s health worsened every time there was a fight.

For ten years, we stayed silent — out of respect, out of fear, out of love.

Then one day, something even worse happened. My father became seriously ill. Later, we found out that charms and spells had been used against him too. But God saved him. My uncle and his wife weren’t so lucky — the same curse took their lives; my uncle died, and my aunt was left paralyzed.

After three more years, the same darkness came for my mother again. She developed a mysterious disease. The doctors couldn’t find the cause. She screamed in pain at night, saying something was burning her from the inside. We could do nothing but watch helplessly as her body weakened day by day.

And one morning, our home fell completely silent. My mother was gone.

She left this world after years of suffering — not because she did wrong, but because she loved the wrong people too deeply.

I wrote this story briefly because if I describe every moment, I would cry while writing — and you would cry while reading. There are things too painful to relive.

All I ask is one thing:
Pray for my mother. Pray that her soul rests in peace. Pray that her grave is filled with light and that she is granted a place in Jannat-ul-Firdous.

Sometimes I still feel her presence — calm, gentle, forgiving — as if she’s whispering, “It’s all right, my daughter. Be patient. God sees everything.”

And that’s what keeps me alive.