Following Shah Saab's strict instructions, I wrapped the eggplant—still dripping with that thick, unnatural blood—into a heavy black cloth. My hands were trembling uncontrollably. Outside, the sky had transformed into a swirling vortex of dark clouds, as if an ancient grudge was finally descending to settle its score. The usually bustling streets of Karachi felt alien to me tonight. Every passing face seemed like a silent question, and every gust of wind felt like a sinister whisper brushing against my skin.
I climbed into the car and set off toward the desolate wasteland where I was meant to bury this "abomination." But as soon as my hands gripped the steering wheel, a thick, psychic fog began to cloud my mind. The road ahead blurred, and my consciousness was violently yanked back in time, dragging me into the cursed evening of 2018...
2018: The Fatal Mistake
I remember it vividly. Our new house had just been completed. The air was still thick with the scent of fresh paint and wet cement. We were all so consumed by joy, but that happiness was a facade—built like a monument over a hidden grave. My mother, Mrs. Yousuf, had a simple, innocent wish: to distribute sweets in celebration. Little did we know how that small gesture would shatter our lives and rob us of our peace forever.
It was the hour of Maghrib. The sky was a battlefield where hues of orange and jet-black fought for dominance. My mother had prepared a large pot of Kheer. The sweet, creamy aroma filled every corner of the house. But why did she choose that specific empty back room to let it cool? Perhaps time itself was pulling her toward her destiny.
I saw her through the doorway as she lit incense sticks in that shadowed room. The space was pitch black, save for the tiny, flickering ember of the incense dancing in the smoke. Her words still echo in my ears like a hammer striking an anvil:
"To whoever resides in this house, come and partake of this sweet. This is for everyone."
Those weren't just words; they were a Formal Invitation. A summons to a creature that had been famished for centuries, a being that thirsted for human suffering. I watched as she spoke, and the temperature in the room plummeted instantly. The smoke from the incense, which should have risen upward, suddenly swerved toward the pot of Kheer, as if an invisible mouth was greedily inhaling it.
The Beginning of Terror
That very night, while the household slept, I lay awake in my room. Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream from my mother ripped through the silence. When we rushed to her, she was drenched in a cold sweat. Her eyes held a look of terror that I have never seen in another human being since.
"There... someone was there," she whispered, her trembling finger pointing toward the corner of her bed frame.
We saw nothing, but in that moment, I felt a heavy, ragged breath right against my ear. It was a breath that smelled of centuries-old soil and decaying flesh.
My mother told us she had seen a Black Shadow. It didn't move like a human. It was on all fours, its limbs contorted at impossible angles, resembling a predatory beast ready to pounce. Its color was so intensely dark that the surrounding shadows looked bright in comparison
Chapter 18: The Haunting Echo - Part 2
The headlights of my car sliced through the oppressive silence of the deserted road, but inside my mind, a horrifying film from 2018 was playing on a loop. I could vividly recall the exact moment my mother's health began to deteriorate. It wasn't just a physical ailment; it was a grand deception—a cruel game played by a creature that existed far beyond our understanding of biological life.
The Deception of Medical Science
We took my mother to the most renowned doctors in Karachi. Specialists with decades of experience conducted every test imaginable. Her blood pressure was a chaotic riddle—normal one moment, and so dangerously high the next that it left the doctors baffled. Her sugar reports came back perfectly clear, showing no signs of any underlying condition. The doctors, unable to find a physical cause, eventually dismissed it with a shrug. "It's just stress," they would say. "Let her rest."
But they didn't know that the source of this "stress" wasn't located in her mind; it was rooted in that empty room where she had placed the Kheer.
I still remember the chilling pattern: whenever we took her to the hospital, the moment she stepped inside the sterile, brightly lit hallways, she would miraculously recover. She would laugh, chat with us, and insist, "See? I'm perfectly fine. Let's just go home." But as soon as our car turned into the narrow alleyway of our street, the color would drain from her face. Her breathing would turn heavy and ragged, and a violent tremor would seize her body. It was as if something embedded within the very walls of our house was pulling her back, claiming its property.
The Ritual and the First Explosion
When my mother's cousin suggested burning "Bajra" (millet) as a spiritual remedy, we clung to it as our last shred of hope. For three days, we performed the ritual faithfully. But on the evening of the third day... I witnessed a scene that remains etched in my soul like a scar.
As the final wisps of smoke filled the room, my mother's body began to contort with violent jolts. It didn't look like a human seizure; it looked as if something inside her was trying to break out, snapping her bones from the interior to make more room for itself.
When she finally opened her eyes after losing consciousness, the woman standing before us was not my mother. The whites of her eyes had vanished entirely, replaced by a void of pure, abyssal black. They were like two black holes, sucking the light and hope out of the room. When she spoke, the sound didn't come from her throat—it was a deep, masculine, and ancient rumble that seemed to vibrate from the depths of her stomach.
The Secret of "Gaggo Darwi"
"I am not your mother..." the voice boomed, sending a paralyzing chill through the room. "I am Gaggo Darwi. I am 386 years old!"
Today, in 2024, as I drive to bury that eggplant, that same question haunts my every thought: 386 years? What was a creature of such antiquity doing in our newly built home? Was our house constructed over an ancient, forgotten graveyard? Or had that innocent invitation of sweets accidentally liberated a prisoner who had been shackled for centuries?
I realize now that the ritual Shah Saab performed in Chapter 17—the hanging of the eggplant—was merely a "cut," a temporary wound. A being like Gaggo Darwi, who has survived four centuries, does not let go so easily. The black shadow I first saw crawling on all fours in 2018... I can feel it now, staring at me through the rearview mirror. It's as if it is sitting right there in the backseat, filling the car with the stench of ancient soil and the sound of heavy, rhythmic breathing.
Chapter 18: The Haunting Echo - Part 3
The wasteland was utterly desolate. The humid air of Karachi felt unusually heavy tonight, thick with a lingering sense of dread. As I stepped out of the car, I surveyed my surroundings; there was nothing but wild bushes, their rustling leaves sounding like muffled footsteps stealthily approaching me in the dark. In my hand, I gripped the black cloth containing the eggplant Shah Saab had prepared. It was still unnervingly warm, pulsating faintly as if a miniature heart were beating inside it.
The Groan of the Earth
I began to dig a hole beneath the gnarled roots of an ancient, twisted tree. Each time my shovel struck the earth, a jolt went through me; it didn't feel like I was digging into soil, but rather like I was carving into cold, unyielding flesh. Suddenly, a whisper sliced through the silence, right into my ear.
"Hassan... stop..."
My blood turned to ice. It was that voice. Deep, mysterious, and ancient. Gaggo Darwi! That 386-year-old demon was addressing me once again. In 2018, when it screamed its name through my mother's possessed body, I was just a terrified child. But today, I am a man, a writer documenting my own tragedy. Yet, I realized in that moment that there is no defense against true, primal terror.
I forced myself to look down. A thin, ghostly wisp of smoke was rising from the depths of the pit. The pungent scent of burning millet—the same scent that had choked our home in 2018—now wrapped itself around me in this barren field. It felt as though time had folded in on itself, dragging me back to the start of the nightmare.
Memories of 2018 and the Present Truth
A chilling memory resurfaced. When my mother's eyes had turned abyssal black, she hadn't just announced her name. She had hissed, "We didn't see your new house; we saw your 'feast'." My mind felt like it was going to explode with the realization. Was that sweet offering (Kheer) just a one-time meal? No! Once a 386-year-old entity finds a doorway, it paves the path for its entire Clan. The ritual Shah Saab performed in Chapter 17 was meant to sever the connection to my mother, but what mistake was I making now?
I felt something from beneath the earth pushing upward, a frantic force trying to break free. It was as if a buried secret was desperate to be exhaled. Panicked, I threw the eggplant into the pit and began shoveling dirt over it. But no matter how much earth I piled on, it seemed to sink, swallowed by the insatiable ground.
Suddenly, at the edge of the field, I saw it—the Black Shadow. It was on all fours, its limbs grotesquely elongated. This was the same entity that had sat by my mother's bed in 2018, and now it stood before me. It tilted its neck at an impossible angle, and the sound of its bones cracking echoed through the silent wasteland like gunshots.
The Manifestation of the Clan
"Did you really think burying an eggplant would end the 'Fatal Mistake'?"
It wasn't just one voice; dozens of voices spoke in a haunting, discordant unison. It felt as if someone—or something—was perched behind every bush and atop every withered branch. This wasn't just Gaggo Darwi anymore. This was the entire Clan of Djinns that had been accidentally invited in 2018. Having tasted human sorrow and sweet offerings, they had developed a hunger that couldn't be satisfied.
My breath hitched in my throat. I remembered Shah Saab's final, desperate warning: "Don't look back, Hassan! No matter what you hear, do not look back!"
I threw the last heap of soil into the pit and bolted toward the car. But a laugh followed me—a sound that was not human. It was the sound of 386 years of starvation finally catching up to its prey. I fumbled with the keys, started the engine, and sped away from that cursed place. But as I glanced at the dashboard mirror, my heart stopped. Sitting in the backseat was the black shadow, perched on all fours, its void-like eyes staring directly into mine through the glass.
Chapter 18: The Haunting Echo — Part 4
The speedometer climbed past 100 km/h, but I felt as though I were frozen in time, suspended in a nightmare. In the backseat, that black shadow remained, exhaling an icy, rhythmic breath against the back of my neck. Summoning every ounce of courage, I adjusted the rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of its face, but I saw only a void—a darkness so dense that even the streetlights passing by could not pierce it.
Return to the Threshold
As I turned into the alleyway of my home, the atmosphere shifted. In 2018, when this house was new, the walls seemed to radiate joy. But today, in 2024, those same walls looked sickly, jaundiced, and ancient. The neighborhood dogs were howling in unison—a mournful, high-pitched wail they only reserve for when death is hovering nearby.
I slammed the brakes and bolted inside. The moment I crossed the threshold, the scent of Kheer hit me—the same scent from that ill-fated evening in 2018. But this time, the sweetness was tainted by the nauseating stench of decaying flesh.
"Ammi! Shah Saab!" I screamed, my voice cracking with desperation.
My mother was sitting in her room, her face as white as a shroud. She looked at me, and I saw it—the return of that "Gaggo Darwi" terror in her eyes. She whispered, her voice barely audible, "Hassan... did you bury it? Or did you bring it back with you?"
The True Price of the Fatal Mistake
My heart sank. I searched for Shah Saab and found him collapsed on his prayer mat (musalla). He was unconscious, his hands and feet turned a bruised, sickly blue. It was as if that 386-year-old entity had bypassed all rituals and struck directly at Shah Saab's soul.
I realized my hands were still caked with the soil from that desolate field. I rushed to the bathroom to wash them, but as I looked up, I saw a message scrawled across the mirror in thick, fresh blood:
"The Feast Is Not Over Yet."
A horrifying realization dawned on me. In 2018, when my mother distributed that Kheer, she didn't just give it to us; she shared it with the entire neighborhood. The "Invitation" wasn't confined to our four walls. That entire Clan of Djinns was now hunting every single person who had partaken in that "Feast." I, the writer of this account, finally understood that everything up to Chapter 17 was merely a prologue. The real war was only just beginning.
A New Beginning
I opened my laptop, my fingers trembling so violently I could hardly type. But I had to write. Shah Saab once told me, "Hassan, there are only two ways to fight the Djinn—through sacred knowledge, or by exposing their secrets to the world."
At the end of Chapter 18, I typed my name: Muhammad Hassan.
I was no longer just a son trying to save his mother. I was a witness, a chronicler standing defiant against Gaggo Darwi and its ancient, bloodthirsty clan.
From outside, I heard the sound—the unmistakable scuttle of something moving on all fours. Something was sprinting across the roof. Long, jagged claws scraped against the windowpane, leaving deep gouges in the glass. A heavy, guttural voice vibrated through the room:
"Hassan... we liked the sweets... but now, we crave 'salt' (blood)."
I closed my eyes and began planning the next chapter. If I am to take this story to 50 chapters, I must find every person who tasted that kheer in 2018. This is my story, and I will not let it end—not until the last Djinn is driven back into its centuries-old grave