The Body Exchange Ritual

At night, the only light leaking from the windows of Mr. Bedri’s mansion was the dim lamp of his study. He felt the weight of his ninety-five years in his bones, in the muscles that had softened like rotting apples. The reflection in the mirror was repulsive: sunken cheeks, sagging skin, cloudy eyes.

When the secret compartment behind the bookshelf slid open, the warmth of the room dropped instantly. Candles lit themselves. Shadows curled on the walls at unnatural angles.

“Have you decided?”

The voice sounded as if it came from inside his skull. The air reeked of copper and decayed leaves.

With trembling hands, Bedri pulled a photograph from his jacket’s inner pocket. Selim. Twenty-seven years old. A gym trainer. No family. A plain life. Bedri had watched him for six months—his smile over morning coffee, the tension of his muscles as he trained, the way the wind tousled his hair on the street.

“This is the body I want.”

The parchment already looked ancient, its surface yellowed, the symbols written in dark red. Fresh blood. Bedri pricked the tip of his finger with a prepared silver needle. The first drop that fell onto the parchment was absorbed like ink. As he wrote his name, each letter felt as though it burned.

“The pact is this,” the entity said, now taking the shape of a dense mass of darkness in the room. “On the darkest night of the year, at three o’clock, the veil between dimensions thins. Your soul will pass into the body you chose. His soul will be trapped in yours. A sacrifice is required. An innocent life. One to whet the appetite of those beyond.”

The children were already prepared. Three young immigrant kids from the slums. No one would look for them. Bedri had tricked them easily with his façade of a charitable businessman.

“And his soul?” Bedri whispered.

“It belongs to the body,” the shadow replied. “Its memories, habits, weaknesses… all will travel with you. But his soul will awaken in your rotten shell. Pray he does not lose his mind.”

Selim read the message on his phone twice.

“Bedri Erdem. Private training session. Time: 03:00. Fee: ₺45,000. One session.”

Three in the morning? Strange. But the amount made his chest tighten. Nearly a month’s salary. The client might be old and weird—rich people usually were. And for someone living alone in a rented apartment, debts piling up, this was a chance.

At midnight, the old mansion on the hill seemed to wink. The streetlights here were dim; the shadows of the trees looked as if they were moving. He rang the bell. The sound echoed like it traveled through a vast emptiness.

The door opened silently. The man standing there resembled a skeleton wrapped in an expensive but worn robe.

“Come in, my boy,” Bedri said, his voice like dry leaves rustling.

As Selim stepped inside, the door closed on its own. The hall was dark and heavy. The air smelled odd: old books, soil, and something sweet and rotten.

“Drink?” Bedri asked, holding out a crystal glass filled with a dark red liquid.

Selim refused politely.

“Then let us begin,” the old man said. “My private studio is downstairs.”

As they descended the stairs, Selim glanced at the paintings on the walls. All were dark, gloomy landscapes. One seemed to depict a group of children lost in a forest. Their eyes followed him.

The door opened into a room far larger than expected. But it wasn’t a gym. Wooden floors covered in strange carvings. Candles on the walls, their flickering light illuminating sigils that seemed to breathe.

“What is—” he began, before a sudden blow struck his head. Everything went black.

When he woke, a throbbing pain pulsed in his skull. Cold wood pressed against his back. His hands and feet were shackled to the floor. He was naked.

“Wake up, my sacrifice,” a voice whispered.

He forced his vision to focus. Bedri stood a few meters away, dressed in a strange robe, holding a knife. The room was no longer empty. Not with people, but with shapes. Humanlike shadows twitching in the corners.

The candles flared into tall, blue flames. At the center of the room, the air tore open. A rift. A void. Something moved within it.

Selim tried to scream, but no sound came out.

Bedri stabbed the blade into his own palm, letting his blood drip onto the carvings. The symbols awakened, glowing with a dark, pulsing light.

“I accept!” the old man shouted. “I offer their lives! My body is yours! Let my soul enter this fresh vessel!”

Shadows swept in from every corner. The blood on the floor flowed on its own, forming intricate patterns that stretched toward Selim’s head.

Then the pain came.

It felt as if every cell in his body was being torn apart. He saw his own body—Selim’s body—hovering near the ceiling. And below, from the perspective of the wooden floor, he saw Bedri’s decrepit form lying motionless.

Something pulled him. A vortex. His soul was being dragged toward the old body.

No, he thought. NO!

But it was too late. Something snapped inside him. With a silent explosion, everything fell back into place.

Bedri—now in Selim’s body—lay on the floor, gasping. He moved his fingers. Young, strong, firm fingers. He touched his chest. A vibrant heartbeat. He stood up and looked into a nearby mirror.

Selim’s face stared back. But the eyes… the eyes were his. Ancient, greedy, knowing.

Behind him, his old body writhed on the floor, eyes wide with terror. The new-Selim leaned down.

“Welcome,” he whispered. “My life now. Yours… is a cell.”

The old body groaned, producing meaningless sounds. The new-Selim left him shackled there and exited the room. The plan had worked flawlessly.

The next two weeks were like a dream. Using Selim’s identity and the documents Bedri had prepared, he obtained a new passport, license, bank accounts. His entire fortune had been transferred to “Selim Kara” through offshore accounts. The mansion sold. No one would ever know about the hidden room, the remains of the children. The old body? Confined to a psychiatric hospital. “His mute, demented uncle.”

The new-Selim rented a luxury apartment. He enjoyed life—youth, strength, wealth. Nightclubs, admiring glances from women. But something felt… strange. The body sometimes reacted on its own. The smell of certain coffee made his heart race. A particular song made him sad.

Muscle memory, he told himself. It would fade.

On the day of his flight, while packing his suitcase, his phone vibrated. “Dr. Alper.” Voice message.

A doctor? Selim’s friend, maybe? Perhaps he wanted to say goodbye. He had to maintain the role. He played the message.

“Hi Selim,” said the voice, tired and serious. “I haven’t been able to reach you. I’m struggling to give you the bad news. But… as you expected. It spread from Oğuz. The tests came back positive. He’s in bad shape. And he’s disappeared. You need to get tested and start treatment immediately. Call me. Before it’s too late.”

The new-Selim stared at the phone.

What was he talking about? Who was Oğuz? What tests?

Hands shaking, he opened their message history. Dozens of messages between Selim and Dr. Alper over the past month.

At the top:

“Alper, Oğuz is really bad. Fever, weight loss. Waiting for his result. I’m scared.”

Below:

“Selim, don’t panic. Maybe it’s nothing. You should come for a check-up too.”

Further down, two months ago:

“You said you had unprotected contact with Oğuz. Are you not sure about your partner’s status?”

And four months earlier:

“Selim, with another anonymous guy again? Please be careful. Your condition is delicate. You must take your meds regularly. Being HIV-positive isn’t the end of the world, but you need treatment.”

The new-Selim’s world collapsed. The phone slipped from his hand.

He ran to the mirror. That beautiful, perfect face stared back.

This body… was sick?

On medication?

Why hadn’t he checked Selim’s medical history? Because he had only looked at the exterior. Not the records. Not the past.

He tore through the suitcase. In a small pocket of the gym bag, he found a purple box. Medicine blister packs. Latin names. A quick internet search confirmed it.

Antiretroviral drugs. HIV treatment.

He sank to the floor, shaking. Then he started laughing—a hysterical, agonized laugh.

The pact had been perfect!

The body’s memories, habits, weaknesses had come with him.

But not just muscle memory. Not just expressions.

The virus.

The daily medications.

The fear of intimacy.

The prejudice.

The burden of a secret life.

He had become rich. Young. Strong.

But the body was a prison.

Perhaps it was divine justice.

Perhaps the souls of the innocent children had cursed him.

Or perhaps the dark entity had simply omitted the fine print:

“The body comes with all its conditions.”

Outside, the sun was shining. His new life, his new body, waited. But he remained on the bedroom floor, laughing and crying at once.

And far away, in a remote cell of a psychiatric hospital, the old body suddenly opened its eyes. In them was a terrifying calm, an ancient wisdom. At the corner of its mouth, a barely perceptible twitch appeared.

Almost… a smile.