The Open Window: The Adhan No One Heard

Aayan Khan had always detested traveling to see distant family members, particularly those who lived in rural areas. He liked the bustle of the city, the honking automobiles, the neon-lit streets, and the constant commotion of people. He was not used to the quiet of the countryside. He was forced by his mother to travel a long, dusty road to the ancestral home of his great-aunt Mariam, a dilapidated colonial estate on the outskirts of a small Pakistani village.

Aayan paused as his Uber driver arrived, then got out. With its elaborate Mughal-style windows and dark wooden beams, the mansion loomed before him, whispering tales of a bygone era. The windows stared at him like empty eyes, the paint had peeled away, and vines wrapped about the balconies.

“Strange place,” the driver, a man in his late fifties, said to himself as he looked at the house. It is said to be cursed.

Aayan stifled a laugh. “Uncle, superstitions.”

Aayan stood alone in front of the rusting iron gate as the driver simply shook his head and drove away.

His great-aunt Mariam welcomed him inside. Her hands were wrinkled and her hair was gray, but there was a disturbing sharpness in her eyes. Behind her stood a sixteen-year-old girl who was amusedly observing him.

“This is my granddaughter, Sana,” Mariam said. “She’ll give you a tour.”

Through the dimly lighted hallways of the mansion, Aayan trailed behind Sana. There was a subtle metallic smell in the air, along with the smell of aged wood. The walls were crumbling, the chandeliers were covered with dust, and the carpets were ragged.

mumbled Aayan, “Feels abandoned.”

Sana grinned. Sometimes it is. Occasionally, it isn’t.

Aayan scowled. “What is meant by that?”

Sana paused in the living room, where a big window was ajar. Outside, the fields went on forever, and in the distance, the outline of an old mosque could be seen.

She whispered softly, “My great-uncle and his two sons went missing ten years ago.” “They departed for prayers at Maghrib. and never came back.

A chill went through Aayan’s body. “No sign?”

“None,” Sana answered. They made their way to the mosque. However, something wasn’t right that evening.

Aayan turned to face her, anticipating a chuckle and a response that she was kidding. But she had a gloomy expression.

She added, “That night, nobody in the village heard the Adhan.” Not one individual. It seemed as though the darkness itself had sucked the call to prayer. Then they disappeared.

Aayan took a swallow. “What about the window?”

Sana’s face grew serious. Every night, my aunt leaves it open. She thinks they will come back.

The First Night

Staring at the ceiling, Aayan lay awake in bed. There was something heavy and unsaid in the air.

Then he heard it.

The call to prayer in the distance. Floating through the quiet night was the Adhan.

However, there was a problem.

The voice had a distorted sound. distorted. Like a record played too slowly, stretched.

The hair stood up on his arms.

Then there was silence.

Not even a cricket. Not a leaf rustling. The wind was dead, too.

Then there was the creak of the window opening.

Aayan gasped for air. His heart thumping against his ribs, he slowly sat up.

Steps.

The sound of bare feet on a wooden floor, unhurried and deliberate.

However, they weren’t emanating from the house itself.

They had just arrived from the field.

Gathering all his bravery, he slipped over to the window and looked out.

At the field’s edge stood three figures.

Tall and still.

observing.

In the moonlight, shadows stretched unusually long, their outlines scarcely discernible. Aayan knew, even though their faces were hidden.

His skin became icy.

They were standing precisely where Sana claimed his relatives and great-uncle had vanished.

Among them, one stepped forward.

A faraway, raspy voice echoed through the atmosphere.

“Come, Aayan.”

The earth underneath him appeared to move. His head whirled and his eyesight became blurry. The night warped at the edges, twisting.

Then there was darkness.

The Second Night

The covers were knotted around Aayan’s limbs as he woke up, soaked in sweat. As though he had just surfaced from drowning, he gasped, his lungs scorching.

Was that a dream?

He walked over to the window. It was shut down.

He dressed and went downstairs, trembling. Mariam’s face was unreadable as she made chai. Eyes sleepy but awake, Sana sat at the table.

“I noticed them,” Aayan muttered. “The trio of figures.”

Mariam’s hands became motionless. The room stiffened.

Sana was the first to speak. “Did they not call your name?”

Aayan gave a slow nod.

Mariam put her cup down. “Then you have to depart before tonight’s Maghrib.”

Aayan gave a blink. “What?”

Mariam looked directly into his eyes. “They don’t call random people.”

Sana’s voice had become softer. “They call those who are theirs.”

The blood in Aayan ran cold.

The Third Night

Aayan chose to remain. He required clarification.

Mariam begged Maghrib to go as he drew closer, but he refused.

He said, “I must know what happened to them.”

Mariam’s expression grew gloomy. “Knowing won’t keep you alive.”

The air changed when the sun sank below the horizon. Aayan sat with his back to the open window in the living room. In the distance, the mosque was silent.

Then the Adhan started.

However, it was incorrect.

The voice shook and stretched strangely. It reverberated in inappropriate ways. The sound seemed to be absorbed by the walls, distorting reality.

Then there was silence.

The wind ceased. The house let out a moan.

The figures then emerged.

This time, closer.

They had the wrong body. Too long. They bowed their limbs at strange angles. Their heads twitched and tilted in strange ways.

Aayan gasped for air. He was immobile.

Among them, one entered the house.

The temperature fell. It felt like the walls were closing in.

Before him, the figure came to a halt. Aayan caught sight of its face.

He was the one.

A twisted, perfect reflection.

It grinned. “You never went away.”

Aayan’s vision become hazy. Everything around him fell apart.

Then he found himself standing in the field. observing.

Inside the house sat a new figure.

Aayan held up a hand.

In the house, a figure turned to face him.

Aayan grinned.

“Come, Aayan.”

There was a creak in the window.

Then there was stillness.