An Unspeakable Covenant

Jamal was at his desk, seated snug on his chair, playing Valorant: his favourite video game. He was an avid gamer plus streamer. He would lose hours in these video games, his headset latched to his head, his keyboard clacking mechanically non-stop: an observer might say he was addicted to it. This resulted in his declining performance at school, as well as the usual banter he would hear from his parents and all the repercussions he would face later on. On a certain day, Jamal, as per his customary behaviour, hands clasped on the keyboard and mouse, aggressively clicking things, glaring at his computer screen. It was raining outside, and to make it worse, his report card had been handed in today. He had played for a couple of hours and decided to take a break. Jamal was so attached to screens that even his break meant surfing on the internet: occasionally checking his Gmail or some other social media junk. He was scrolling through his email when he caught something interesting: “ONE TIME OPPORTUNITY: GET FREE 1M SUBS.” Of course, he knew this was some sort of scam, but it didn't fail to pique his interest. Contemplating all the possibilities where this could be bad for him, he brushed them aside and convulsively clicked on the link as if he were obliged to do so. The loading screen circled, and then, he was redirected to a tab. This tab was utmost peculiar. It was unlike other scam sites he’d seen throughout; it was clean, yes, it was clean, having zero ads. Straight to the point, there was posed on the exact center of the site, its singularity impelled a closer scrutiny. The message, written in grotesque font, said “DO YOU AGREE TO MAKE THE DEAL?” That’s all it said. It was pertinent to the email, Jamal thought. But this whole masquerade of simplicity and zero ads on this whole website signified only one thing, and that was a mere fact: this website has to be real, Jamal shivered. He broke out of his reverie. Someone was calling him. He faced his phone; it was his Valorant friend. He declined the call, to that his friend started texting him, but Jamal laid aside his phone. The right side of his head was throbbing. He felt as if this was a battle between good and evil, conveniently going on inside his head: one side advising him to abstain from this link, and the other telling him to go for it, don’t be scared. Not thinking a second time, he clicked on the link. And there he sat, a scrawny boy of around sixteen snugly tucked in his chair, drinking his favourite energy drink, when the curtains closed on him. Or it seemed the curtains closed in on him. Strangely, it was dark in the room when it was only midday. The lights overhead seemed to be flailing at this moment, as if something had sucked out the life from them, in another world perhaps you could hear them crying and wailing. Jamal was transfixed on his chair. He cursed, frustrated, the spoiled boy thought it was a power cut. But there was a presence he could feel, undeniable. So, in all his stupidity, he bellowed, “Who dares speak to me?” half laughing. Silence, except for his sister practicing her violin far off. Then, there passed a gust of wind against his face as if he were on the coast on a windy day. It was warm. Suddenly, his computer turned on in the pitch-dark room. On his computer, a strange notepad was open. Jamal’s eyes hardly adjusted to this dazzlingly bright screen, and on it he read, “YOU HAVE 500K, HALF OF WHAT YOU SIGNED FOR. NOW DO AS WE BID, DEAR, AND YOU SHALL GET THE REMAINING.” He looked hard at this, out of wonder if this was even real. He decided his computer had been hacked; he went to the YouTube channel just to make sure nothing had changed, but it had in front of his eyes, the numbers went up, up, and up. “Guess you guys do mean business, huh?” With that, he frantically took to the notepad. It was called the Death Note; he hadn’t named it. He wrote, asking what the next step was. Indubitably, he felt dumb texting someone on a notepad, although he felt that something was at the other end of this notepad. He shot a glance behind him, near the cupboard, and for a strange second, he thought he saw a tall shadow peering at him. He went outside, thankfully, the door hadn't been locked. Upon opening his door, he found the room to be nice and bright as before, all the darkness escaping. On the sidewalk, he walked, and he couldn’t ignore how people gaped at him. Later, he understood when people out of the random reached out to him to get his autograph or picture: he was famous now, and that 500k subs leap had made him a sort of local celebrity. Hungry at this, he returned to this matte black desk, where he would spend hours a day. He found a message saying, “Order this book.” Next to it was a link which led Jamal to a book written in what Jamal recognised to be Arabic. He completed his second task, and in a frenzy, he was prowling for more tasks. He never took a school assignment as seriously as he took these. It was past midnight, and he had already done four now. His hair was prickling up, and his face seemed to be entirely devoid of sleep, his eyes larger than normal and twitching, his mouth open. He was constantly kicking with his left foot now, at the tables. He looked hysterical and at the same time paranoid by a constant presence near him. As if something had been appointed to him. Some sort of companion. Though it was not malevolent, he decided. His hand was bruised now, he had pricked it and had let some blood pour out accordingly to the task of the assignment. Jamal had school the day after, so he crept into his bed. Amid the night, he would hear occasional clanging sounds in his bathroom, as if someone were knocking the knocks around. And once or twice he heard the bathroom door slightly open then close, pehaps it was the wind but, all thorugh this time Jamal whisperedto himself “but in the end it’s only a passing thing, this shadow; even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the brighter,“ but Samwise Gamgee in his favourite book "Lord of The Rings” had great companions but over here in Burnley Street house 502 he was alone. He had bad dreams that night, and in the morning, he was tremulous. Later at school, in class, he would abruptly phase out, and he would stop hearing the teacher’s lecture and see his class as grotesque figures with scornful faces laughing at him and ridiculing him. Jamal wanted