Married to a Jinn: My Daughter’s Secret Union – Truth or Delusion?

Married to a Jinn: My Daughter’s Secret Union – Truth or Delusion?

It started with a whisper. Not in my ear, but in the air. Whispers that lingered long after midnight, curling like smoke under my daughter’s bedroom door.

My name is Fawad. I am a simple man — a tailor by trade, living in a sleepy town in Punjab, Pakistan. Life was slow, predictable, and I was content with that. Until my daughter, Zainab, turned eighteen.

She was always a quiet child. A little too quiet, perhaps. She spoke to the wind, wrote letters she never posted, and often stared into empty corners with a look that chilled me. I dismissed it as imagination. Young girls dream strange things, I told myself. But dreams do not lock doors from the inside. Dreams don’t speak in languages forgotten by time.

One night, I woke up to the sound of drums. Faint, rhythmic. Like a wedding procession far in the distance. But there was no wedding that night in our neighborhood. I checked the clock — 2:37 a.m.

I rose from bed, heart thumping, and walked toward Zainab’s room. The door was shut, but I could hear muffled chanting inside. My fingers trembled as I turned the knob — locked.

I knocked once. Twice. No answer.

“Zainab?” I called softly.

Silence.

Then, a whisper. Clear, female, but not hers: “She belongs to us now.”

I froze.

When she finally opened the door that morning, she looked different. Her eyes glowed faintly in the dark room, and her voice had a strange echo to it.

“I’m married now, Abba,” she said.

I blinked. “To whom?”

She smiled. “He is not from this world.”

I laughed nervously. “What kind of joke is this, Zainab?”

Her face remained calm. “It’s not a joke. He is a jinn. He came to me three years ago. We are bonded.”

I slapped her.

I’m not proud of it. But what father wouldn’t?

She didn’t flinch. Just stared at me with pity — as if I was the one who couldn’t understand love.

That day marked the beginning of my torment. Objects began to move in our house. Mirrors cracked on their own. Guests complained of feeling “watched.” Once, I found a burned ring of ash under her pillow — shaped like a wedding band.

I sought help. Maulvis. Scholars. Even a psychologist.

They said: delusion.

They said: possession.

They said: lies.

But one night, I saw him.

I had been pretending to sleep when I heard her whispering. I crept to her door, which was slightly ajar. Through the crack, I saw… a shadow. Tall, with glowing eyes, hovering beside her bed. They were speaking in a tongue I could not place.

I screamed.

The shadow vanished.

Zainab cried, not from fear, but from pain — as if I had torn her husband away.

Weeks passed. I tried to be strong. I tried to bring her back. But she faded more and more each day — physically, emotionally, spiritually.

Until one day, she disappeared.

No signs of forced entry. No windows broken. Just a note on her bed:

“Do not search for me. He has taken me to his world — where fathers do not judge, and love is not bound by flesh.”

Years have passed. Some say she ran away. Others whisper insanity. But I know what I saw. I know what she believed.

Was she married to a jinn?

Or did I lose her to madness?

Either way, the whispers still return — at 2:37 a.m.

Every night.