I never believed in black magic. Not in the whispers of the villages, not in stories that parents tell their children to keep them inside at night. I laughed at them. I thought they were nothing but old myths.
Until last year.
My cousin, Fahim, met her.
Nobody knew exactly who she was or where she came from. He called her Shahana, but refused to show us pictures. He refused to let anyone meet her. He became secretive overnight. The light in his eyes dimmed, and a coldness took over his usual warmth.
A month passed, and he stopped going out. He stopped returning calls. He became pale, quiet, and sometimes muttered in a language none of us recognized.
One night, I went to his house.
His mother answered the door, pale and shaking. She pulled me in and whispered, "Don't ask anything. Don't look for answers."
I didn't understand.
I went to his room.
The first thing that hit me was the smell.
Something like burnt oil mixed with iron, thick and choking.
Candles were scattered across the floor, wax hardened into shapes that looked like twisted hands. A small red cloth lay in the center, folded carefully. On top of it, a red thread tied around something—something that looked like a lock of hair.
Fahim sat on the floor. His eyes were hollow. Not the tiredness of someone sleepless, but empty, like the world had left him.
"Bro… what is this?" I said nervously. "Is this… some kind of joke?"
He turned slowly toward me.
And smiled.
But it wasn't his smile.
It was her smile. Cold, sharp, and hungry.
"She said if I ever remove it…" he whispered, "…I will die."
I laughed, nervously. "Don't be stupid. Threads and candles can't kill anyone."
He didn't respond.
Over the next few weeks, Fahim deteriorated. He lost weight rapidly. His voice changed. Sometimes, I could hear him whispering to someone late at night. Not to us, but to someone unseen.
Then the first incident happened.
I got a call at 3:12 AM.
It was him.
I answered.
Silence.
Heavy, wet breathing. Then a whisper.
Not Fahim. A woman's voice. Cold, calm.
"Don't interfere."
The line went dead.
I panicked.
I went over immediately. His mother's face was pale, dark circles under her eyes.
"He doesn't eat. He barely sleeps. And he… talks to her. In his sleep. But she's not him."
I watched him. He sat cross-legged on the red cloth. The thread around his wrist glowed faintly, like embers under ash.
The candles, unlit, flickered anyway. The small lock of hair on the cloth trembled.
At exactly 3:12 AM, Fahim stiffened. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
And then I saw it.
A shadow detach itself from the corner of the room.
Slowly, almost floating. Not human, but shaped like one. Thin, unnaturally tall, limbs bending in impossible angles. Its eyes glowed faintly red, locked onto Fahim.
The air became thick. I couldn't breathe. My chest tightened.
It whispered through him:
"She is mine. And now… so are you."
The red thread tightened around his wrist, cutting into his skin. He cried out silently, eyes wide, body convulsing. I tried to grab him. My hand went through him like smoke.
Then she moved. The shadow. Slowly, deliberately, toward me. I stumbled back.
The candles ignited themselves, flames black and blue, melting wax dripping onto the floor in patterns—symbols that made my head spin.
Her voice filled the room now, not through him, but through my mind.
"You see what you are not meant to see. You hear what you are not meant to hear. You live because I allow it."
I screamed. The sound didn't come out. My tongue felt heavy. My lungs burned.
The shadow bent over me. Its fingers, long and blackened, reached toward my face. I felt the air thicken as if it was pressing on my chest.
Suddenly, I collapsed to the floor.
The next thing I remember, it was dawn. The red cloth and thread were gone. Fahim lay on the floor, pale, but alive.
His eyes were normal.
The room was quiet.
I laughed shakily, relief flooding me.
But the mirror reflected something that wasn't there.
A faint figure in the corner, smiling. The red thread glinting faintly around its wrist.
I didn't sleep that day. I didn't sleep the next night.
And then the nightmares started.
Every night, I saw her. Not in dreams, but awake. Standing at the foot of my bed, on the ceiling, leaning outside my window.
Sometimes, I would wake up to find a thin red thread lying across my pillow. Not tied around anything, just… there.
I tried burning it. It never fully burned. I tried cutting it. The thread snapped, but pieces remained, curling like snakes, glowing faintly red.
I went to Fahim's house weeks later. He was fine now, apparently. But his mother whispered to me, "She will never leave. Once bound, she never does."
And then I realized… it wasn't just Fahim.
The red thread had touched me.
I could feel it now, under my skin, tightening slightly every night, pulsing like a heartbeat.
And the last time I looked into my mirror—
I swear I saw her, standing behind me. The shadow of a smile creeping across her face, her eyes glowing red.
The thread glinted faintly in the reflection.
And for a split second… I saw my own wrist tied to it.
I haven't slept alone since.
I haven't looked into any mirror.
Sometimes I hear her whisper in the wind outside my window:
"You belong to me now. And one day… the thread will pull you completely."
I can feel it.
Tightening.
Slowly.
Every night.
Waiting.
Watching.
And I know… the day she comes for me, no one will be able to stop her.