Do Jinns Really Exist? A Mysterious Tale from My Village

Growing up in a quiet village nestled between fields and forests in rural Pakistan, I often heard stories about supernatural beings. My grandmother used to speak of “jinns” with a mix of fear and respect. “They live among us,” she would whisper while lighting an oil lamp, “especially near the old shrine after sunset.” Like most children, I was both curious and skeptical. That changed one summer night.

It was the summer of 2007. Electricity was unreliable, and nights were usually lit by lanterns and the soft glow of the moon. My cousin Bilal and I were staying over at our aunt’s home on the far edge of the village. Her house was close to an abandoned well and an old, neglected shrine—both places villagers avoided after dark.

That evening, we decided to go for a walk after dinner. It was unusually humid, and the air felt heavy, almost unnatural. As we walked along the dusty path, Bilal dared me to take a shortcut through the field behind the shrine. It was the path the elders always warned us about, claiming strange voices were often heard there.

I laughed it off. “We’re grown up now. These are just stories to scare kids,” I said confidently. Bilal grinned, and we took the path.

At first, it was quiet—almost too quiet. The sound of crickets had disappeared. The wind had stilled. The trees stood like statues, motionless and observing. As we walked further, I felt a strange chill, even though it was a hot summer night.

Then, it happened.

We both heard it at the same time—a whisper. Faint, broken, almost like someone calling out from a distance, “Aaao…”
We froze.
"Did you hear that?" I whispered.
"Yes," Bilal replied, his voice trembling.

We looked around. No one was there. No footprints, no rustling, nothing. Just the sound again—closer now, more clear—"Aaao… mere paas..."

My legs stiffened. I grabbed Bilal’s arm, and we turned around. That’s when we saw it.

By the old tree near the shrine, stood a tall, shadowy figure. Its body seemed to flicker like smoke, and it had no face—just two glowing eyes. It wasn’t walking—it was gliding. Slowly. Toward us.

I couldn't speak. My body wouldn't move.

Bilal finally shouted, "RUN!" and we took off, stumbling, falling, and getting back up. We didn’t look back. We ran until we saw the lights of our aunt’s home and burst inside, panting and terrified.

Our aunt looked at us, concerned. “You two went near the shrine, didn’t you?” she asked firmly. We nodded, shaking.

She made us sit, gave us water, and whispered a prayer. Then she said something I still remember vividly:

“Never doubt what you don’t understand. Some things are not meant to be seen, and some paths are not meant to be walked.”

That night, I didn’t sleep. For weeks, Bilal and I avoided that part of the village. The figure we saw—whether real or imagined—haunted us. And we were not the only ones. Later, we discovered that others had seen it too. Some villagers believed it was a guardian jinn of the shrine. Others claimed it was a cursed soul trapped between worlds.

Years have passed, and I now live in the city. But every time I visit my village and walk by that old shrine, I feel that same heaviness in the air. The same silence. The same chill.

And I wonder…
Was it a jinn?
Was it fear playing tricks on young minds?
Or was it something beyond explanation?

I no longer laugh at the old stories. I listen. And I remember.

Because in our village, even today, when night falls and the wind stops, the whisper still returns:
"Aaao… mere paas..."