The Jinn Who Waited Beneath My Bed for Years

I was twelve when we moved into my grandfather’s crumbling mansion on the outskirts of a forgotten village. The house, older than memory, breathed with secrets. The locals called it Bayt Al-Ghaib — “The House of the Unseen.”

My grandmother had one rule: "Never enter the upstairs room at the end of the hallway. Never."
I was a boy. Boys are fools.

The room was always locked. Its wooden door scarred by deep claw marks. I’d ask questions—who stayed there? Why did it smell like burnt incense? But my questions were met with fearful glances and trembling lips.

One stormy night, lightning cracked the sky. I heard the door creak open on its own.

Curiosity overpowered fear.

Inside, dust floated like ghosts in the stale air. The room was bare—just a bed with ancient carvings, a cracked mirror, and a broken oil lamp. As I stepped in, the temperature plummeted. The floor groaned like it hated me.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

At 3:03 AM, I felt the mattress sink beneath me. Something was crawling under the bed. Breathing.

Caption: Shadows That Breathe

Then came the voice—smooth and sharp, like silk slicing flesh.

"You came willingly. You are brave. Or stupid. Either way... you’ve awakened me."

I jumped, turned on the light—but nothing. Empty room. No footprints, no figure. But under the bed... darkness that seemed alive.

I ran to my grandmother. She slapped me before I could speak.
"Did he speak?" she asked, eyes wide with terror.

"Who?" I whispered.

"The one who waits beneath. He doesn’t kill. He makes you choose."

I never entered that room again. But the whispers began. In mirrors. In dreams. In static on the TV. A name I could never repeat, yet it echoed inside my bones.

Years passed. I moved to the city. Grew up. Became a man of reason. Left ghosts behind.

Or so I thought.

On my 25th birthday, I found something strange under my pillow: the old room’s iron key. Cold. Heavy. Familiar.

I hadn't told anyone about it in over a decade. I lived alone.

That night, I dreamed of the house. Of footsteps pacing the hallway. Of a whisper: "Ten years. As promised."

Caption: Bargain of Blood and Silence

I returned to the village. The mansion was now abandoned. Rotting. Eaten by vines. But the upstairs door stood pristine—untouched by time.

Inside, he was waiting.

No longer beneath the bed. He now towered beside it. His form was smoke stitched together by eyes. Dozens of eyes. Watching.

"You returned," he said, voice layered like a choir of screams.

"I never agreed," I whispered.

"But you listened. That is enough."

He offered me two choices.

1. Accept his mark. Become his vessel. His voice in the human world. No more pain. No more fear. Immortality, but never peace.

2. Leave. But never be alone again. He would live within my shadow. See through my eyes. Whisper through my thoughts.

I chose the second. I ran again.

But I didn’t run alone.

Since that day, my reflection lags half a second behind me. I see him in puddles. Feel him in my bones. Hear him when I think I’m alone.

I avoid sleep. Because in dreams, I wake up in that room again. And he’s closer every time.

Caption: Reflections Are Liars

I tried everything—prayer, fire, exorcists. They all said the same thing: “He’s bound to your choice. He didn’t enter. You invited him.”

Then I met Rafiq, a blind Sufi who had once battled such a being. He touched my forehead and recoiled in horror.

"Yours is no ordinary jinn," he said. "He is from the Harith. The old ones. He feeds not on flesh, but on fear and memory."

"Can he be removed?" I begged.

"Only if you return what was taken."

But I took nothing. Or so I thought.

Rafiq explained: I had taken his word. When I entered the room and heard his voice, I heard his true name. That name bound us.

There was only one way to end it.

Return to the room. Speak his name backward. In total darkness. With no fear in my heart.

Easier said than done.

I returned once more. The house pulsed with anticipation. The room welcomed me like an open grave.

He waited, silent now. Testing my courage.

I closed the door, shut off the flashlight, and let darkness swallow me.

I spoke the name—every syllable backward, each one scraping my throat like broken glass.

Nothing happened.

Then the floor cracked. The walls bled. A wind like screams in reverse filled the room.

He screamed—not in rage, but in loss. I had broken the bond.

Or so I believed.

Caption: Freedom Has a Price

That night, I slept for the first time in years.

But the next morning, the mirror in my room had something carved on it—from the inside of the glass:

“I’m not beneath your bed anymore.”