The Whisper of the Jinn

The Whisper of the Jinn

The first time Adeel heard the whisper, it was just past midnight. He had returned from his night shift at the hospital, tired, his shoes coated with the smell of antiseptic and sweat. His village home in Swat stood quiet under the pale moon, the wind rustling through the pines like restless hands.

He thought it was only fatigue when he heard it: a soft murmur behind his ear, though no one was there. “Adeel…” The voice was neither male nor female, neither young nor old—it was like smoke curling through his skull.

He turned sharply, scanning the empty room. Nothing. Only the creak of old wood.

By the second night, the whisper grew bolder. When he opened the window for air, he saw shadows moving against the wall, though no light shone to cast them. The whisper followed him into his dreams, repeating his name, sometimes laughing, sometimes weeping. Sleep became impossible.

On the third night, he awoke to the sound of claws scraping on the wooden floor. His heart thudded. He reached for his phone to use the torch, but the screen flickered and died. The scraping continued—closer, nearer—until it stopped right beside his bed. He could feel the weight of something crouching in the darkness.

Then came the smell: burned hair and rotting earth.

Terrified, he recited every prayer he could remember, his tongue stumbling, his lips dry. For a moment, silence returned. But then the voice came again—this time louder, colder:

“Do not call on Him. You called on me first.”

Adeel’s blood froze. His memory rushed back. Weeks ago, in the abandoned madrasa at the edge of the village, he had dared with his friends to try an old ritual they found written in a crumbling notebook. They had laughed, mocking the warning scribbled at the bottom: “Never read these lines aloud.”

But Adeel had read them, his voice echoing through the broken walls, his friends shivering with fake fear. That night they heard a crash in the rafters, and bats fled into the sky. They had laughed it off and gone home. Only Adeel stayed behind, whispering the final verse out of curiosity.

He realized now—he had opened a door.

By the fifth night, the thing revealed itself. At first, it was only glimpses in mirrors: a figure with hollow eyes, its body twisted like smoke. Its arms too long, its teeth sharp as broken glass. When he blinked, it was gone. But its laughter remained, rattling in his chest.

His family began to notice. His mother said he muttered in his sleep. His younger brother claimed he saw someone standing at Adeel’s door at dawn, though Adeel was still in bed. The house itself seemed poisoned—milk curdled, food spoiled, and birds avoided the roof.

Desperate, Adeel went to the village elder, an old imam known for his knowledge of unseen things. The imam listened in silence, his brow furrowed. At last, he said, “My son, you have awoken a jinn. Not all are evil, but those bound by forbidden words cannot be dismissed easily. You have given it permission. It will not leave until it has taken something in return.”

That night, Adeel prepared. He kept the Qur’an beside his bed, the imam’s words heavy in his mind. At midnight, the air grew heavy. The walls seemed to bend inward. And then, it came—crawling from the corner of the ceiling, its form dripping like oil, eyes burning white.

It spoke, every word cutting into his bones: “I was asleep. You woke me. Now one of us must stay awake forever.”

Adeel clutched the Qur’an, whispering verses, his body trembling. The creature screamed, the walls shaking, glass shattering. His family rushed to his room, but the door slammed shut, trapping him inside.

No one knows what truly happened that night. When his parents finally broke the door at dawn, the room was empty. The Qur’an lay open on the floor, its pages fluttering though there was no wind.

Adeel was never seen again.

But villagers say, if you walk past the abandoned madrasa at night, you will hear his voice—sometimes calling for help, sometimes laughing with something that is not human. And if you dare answer back… the jinn will know your name too.