The Whispering Shadows: Jinn in the Attic

It all began when Arman received a letter from a lawyer in a distant town, informing him of an inheritance. His grandfather's house—abandoned, ancient, and standing on the edge of the forest—was now his. Curious and financially unstable, Arman wasted no time and traveled to the countryside.

The house was a structure of mystery. Old wooden panels, faded wallpaper peeling like dried skin, and an attic that loomed silently above the rest. The villagers avoided eye contact when he mentioned the house. One elderly man muttered, “Don’t go to the attic after dusk. That place listens.”

Brushing it off as superstition, Arman moved in.

The first night was uneventful, though the silence felt unnatural. The second night, however, was different. As the wind howled through the trees, a faint whisper echoed from the attic above.

He sat up in bed.

There it was again—a dragging sound, like nails scraping across wood.

He grabbed a flashlight and climbed the narrow staircase that led to the attic. The wooden door creaked open. Dust floated in the air like ash. Boxes were scattered, old furniture draped in white sheets stood like ghosts in the moonlight. Nothing moved.

He turned to leave.

Whisper...

He froze. It wasn’t the wind.

“Who’s there?” he asked, voice trembling.

Silence.

The following days, things escalated. Shadows moved in the corners of his vision. Objects shifted positions. Doors creaked open on their own. And the whispering grew louder, more deliberate, more... familiar.

One night, unable to take it anymore, Arman set up a camera in the attic.

When he checked the footage the next morning, his blood ran cold.

At 3:07 AM, the attic door opened by itself. Something dark—no, not quite visible—crawled across the floor. Its limbs were disjointed, its face a blur, like a smudge on glass. But the most chilling part? It paused by the camera and whispered:

“You shouldn’t have come back.”

Terrified, Arman went to the village elder who had warned him. The man, shaking, revealed the truth.

“Your grandfather was a raat ka ilm practitioner. He summoned a jinn... to protect the house. But the bond broke when he died. Now the jinn is free, trapped between protection and vengeance.”

“Can it be removed?” Arman asked.

The elder nodded. “Only by fulfilling its promise... or destroying what binds it.”

Arman returned home with a talisman, some Quranic verses written on parchment, and a candle made of special oils.

That night, he entered the attic again.

The moment the candle lit, the shadows deepened. A low growl emerged from behind the boxes. The temperature dropped.

Then it appeared.

Not like before—not blurred, but clear. Tall, thin, eyes glowing a deep, hateful red. Its body flickered like smoke but held shape like flesh. It didn’t move, but it breathed. Loudly.

Arman held up the talisman. “You were bound to serve this house, not harm it. Your oath is broken. Leave, or be cast away.”

The jinn tilted its head, curious. Then it screamed—a deafening, bone-shattering wail that extinguished the candle and knocked Arman back.

He recited the verses as loud as he could. The creature lunged, but each word slowed it, burned it.

Finally, it stopped. And then... it laughed.

“You think words can undo blood?”

Suddenly, Arman remembered something. In the basement was a chest—a box his grandfather told him never to open. Running downstairs, he opened it with trembling hands.

Inside was a journal, a piece of cloth with strange symbols, and... a fingernail.

The journal revealed it all: His grandfather hadn’t just summoned the jinn. He had offered something to control it—his own blood, his lineage. Arman was part of the pact.

The jinn wasn’t just haunting the house.

It was haunting him.

He burned the cloth, recited every verse he knew, and sealed the nail inside a jar of salt and sacred oil.

That night, the whispers stopped.

The next morning, sunlight poured into the house like never before. The attic door stayed shut.

Arman didn’t stay long after that.

He sold the house, left the village, and changed his name. But every now and then, he wakes up at 3:07 AM...

...to the sound of whispering.