When the Jinn Came to the Imam’s House

When the Jinn Came to the Imam’s House

In the quiet village of Khot, the mosque stood at the heart of life. Five times a day, the air vibrated with prayer, and peace was something people could touch with their hands.

Imam Khalid was not just the prayer leader — he was the soul of the village. Young, sincere, and deeply respected, he lived in a simple house just behind the mosque with his wife and two young sons.

But peace, as they learned, is not always permanent.

It started one evening after Maghrib.


---

Khalid returned home. The food was warm, the children were laughing, and everything felt normal.

Until midnight.

He awoke suddenly. The room was cold — far too cold for spring. His wife was asleep. But the lamp on the table was flickering… even though it wasn’t turned on.

He reached for it. As his fingers touched the metal, he heard a whisper:

> “You see them. But they see you more.”



He froze.

The room was empty. The windows were shut. The door locked.

The lamp stopped flickering.


---

He tried to sleep again but couldn’t.

The next night, after Isha, he sat in his small study reciting Qur'an.

As he reached Surah Al-Jinn, the air shifted. A smell — thick and sweet like burning roses — filled the room.

And then came the knock.

Not on the front door.

On the roof.

He rushed outside. Nothing. No birds, no branches, no cats. Only a stillness that didn’t belong.


---

Over the next few days, odd things followed.

A pot boiling on its own.

His wife waking up with scratches on her back.

The azan clock ringing exactly six minutes before Fajr — every single day.

The baby crying only when Surah Baqarah was played.


Khalid was a man of faith. He didn’t panic. He increased his worship, cleaned the house with zamzam and sidr, and recited ruqyah.

But the thing that had entered his home… was not afraid of prayers.


---

One night, while his wife read Quran in bed, the pages turned by themselves — rapidly — and stopped at a verse.

> “And indeed, there are men among mankind who seek refuge in men among the jinn…” (Surah Al-Jinn, 6)



Her hands trembled. She called Khalid.

He read over her, calmed her, and put the Quran away.

But that night, she saw a dream:

A tall black figure, face covered in smoke, standing beside their younger son’s crib. Whispering.

> “You brought light into my path. Now I will walk with you.”




---

The dream repeated for three nights.

The same figure.

Same child.

Same words.

Khalid now believed — the presence wasn’t random.

It was attached. Targeted.

He spoke to a respected elder from a nearby town — a man known for his spiritual knowledge.

The man listened, then said:

> “You’ve disturbed something. Perhaps in your prayer, or unknowingly — you’ve recited something where they were near, and they heard it as a call.”



> “But I was only reading the Qur’an!” Khalid replied.



> “That is sometimes enough. You see, some jinn are drawn to light. Not out of evil… but out of loss.”




---

Khalid returned home confused but determined.

He continued his prayers — but now with caution. He began leaving one room in the house untouched by Qur'an or incense — a “neutral” space.

And slowly… the activity reduced.

Until it stopped.

No scratches. No whispers. No dreams.

Peace returned.

But then — a week later — someone knocked on his door after Asr.

An old man. Eyes pale. Skin rough like bark.

He didn’t introduce himself.

He simply said:

> “You returned the light to him. He returns the silence to you. But remember — silence is not absence. It is patience.”



And then he walked away.


---

Khalid ran to the gate — but the man had vanished down the street that had no turns.

That night, nothing happened.

That week, the house was calm.

But one evening, as Khalid was finishing his sermon after Maghrib, a child walked into the mosque and sat in the last row.

Unknown face. Dusty clothes. Head bowed.

After prayer, he had disappeared.

Khalid returned home — to find a small white feather on his pillow.

He doesn’t keep birds.

And no windows were open.


---

Years have passed.

Nothing extreme has happened since.

But sometimes, during heavy rain, a light flickers without power. A cold wind slips through a locked door. Or the azan clock rings six minutes early again.

And Khalid whispers the only thing he can:

> “You are not forgotten. But you are not feared.”



And somewhere, the silence answers.