The Jinn Whose Shadow Visited My Roof Every Night

It started with footsteps—soft, steady, and unmistakably human.

Every night, around 2:30 a.m., I would hear them walking slowly across the roof of our house. One step at a time. Then a pause. Then another. It sounded like someone was pacing—back and forth, back and forth.

At first, I thought it was a thief.

I live in a small town, where homes are built close together. Most have flat rooftops and staircases leading to them. Teenagers sometimes climb up to stargaze or sneak a cigarette. But this felt different.

The footsteps didn’t sound like wandering youth.

They were too… heavy.

Too intentional.

One night, I decided to confront whoever it was.

I climbed the stairs quietly and peeked out onto the rooftop—but it was empty. I even used a flashlight to scan the whole area.

Nothing.

The moment I stepped back inside, the footsteps resumed.

I froze.

That was the moment I realized—whatever it was... didn’t want me to see it.

Days passed. Nights grew heavier.

My younger sister started having nightmares.

“There’s someone outside,” she whispered one morning. “He watches me from the ceiling.”

I didn’t tell her what I had heard. I didn’t want to scare her. But her words sent a chill down my spine.

I began sleeping with Quranic recitation playing on my phone. Surah Baqarah. Surah Al-Falaq. Surah An-Naas. But nothing stopped the footsteps.

They continued every night—without fail.

Then came the first shadow.

One night, I turned off the lights and noticed a silhouette on my bedroom ceiling. It was faint, like a dark smudge—but it moved.

Not like a reflection.

It shifted... as if it were alive.

I rushed to the window. The street was empty. The neighbors’ rooftops were dark. No one outside.

But the shadow remained.

My grandmother, a deeply religious woman, noticed something was wrong. One morning, she sat me down.

“You’ve brought something home,” she said softly. “Was there a place you visited recently? A graveyard? A ruin?”

I remembered.

Two weeks before the footsteps began, I had entered an abandoned shrine with a few friends—just out of curiosity. We had laughed, taken pictures, and even joked about the spirits.

That night, I felt a strange chill when leaving. But I ignored it.

“Apologize,” she said. “Ask for protection.”

I took her advice.

That evening, I prayed like never before. I asked Allah for forgiveness. I recited every dua I could remember.

The footsteps stopped.

For three nights, there was silence.

I thought it was over.

But on the fourth night... he came closer.

This time, I didn’t hear him on the roof.

I heard him on the stairs.

Slow. Deliberate. One step at a time.

I couldn’t move.

I lay in bed, clutching my blanket, paralyzed by fear. I felt something heavy in the air, like pressure on my chest. Like the room had shrunk and I was the only one who didn’t belong.

I didn’t see him.

But I knew—he was there.

The next morning, the wall above my bed had a black handprint. Burnt into the paint. Too large to be human. Too high to be reached.

I showed no one.

What could I say?

I didn’t want my family to panic.

I decided to leave for a few days.

I went to stay with a friend in another town. I didn’t hear the footsteps. I didn’t see the shadow.

I finally slept in peace.

When I returned home a week later, my little sister greeted me with a trembling voice.

“He was angry,” she said. “He kept walking louder when you were gone.”

Now I knew.

It wasn’t the house. It was me.

He was attached.

I sought help from a respected scholar.

He told me about certain jinn—those that aren’t immediately harmful, but drawn to specific people due to aura, behavior, or even a single act of disrespect.

“You must change your pattern,” he said. “Pray with sincerity. Speak kindly. Stay clean. Burn lobaan. Do not sleep alone.”

I followed every instruction.

I cleaned my room. Removed mirrors facing my bed. Kept the Quran near my pillow. Performed wudu every night.

The presence began to fade.

The footsteps grew distant. The shadow blurred. Eventually, everything stopped.

Years later, I sometimes still wonder:

Why didn’t he harm me?

What did he want?

Was he protecting? Watching? Waiting?

All I know is... the roof is quiet now.

But I still don’t go up there after dark.

Because some visitors don’t leave.

They just grow silent.

And silence can be louder than footsteps.