The Silence Between Walls

This account was shared with me by my two aunts—both sisters of my late mother—and is based on actual events that occurred in Hyderabad Province, Sindh, Pakistan. The narrative describes the experiences of my mother's family as they sought a new residence. During this period, discussions at family gatherings often referenced an atmosphere marked by anticipation and the practical challenges of accommodating a growing household.wait for long.

In the days that followed, the house seemed to grow quieter, yet the silence bore an edge that none of us could ignore. Meals were eaten in the soft glow of lanterns, voices lowered as if any sudden sound might summon back the dread from that night. Each evening, the setting sun bled orange across the faded walls, and our eyes were drawn to the corners where darkness gathered, almost as if waiting for another opportunity to assert its presence.

Yet, there was resilience woven into our routines.

The elders would recite prayers over steaming cups of tea, and we found comfort in each other's company. At times, laughter would break through the tension, reminding us that we were a family shaped by more than fear—by love, by perseverance, by the desire to forge a home where uncertainty could be met with hope.

Still, the house itself remained enigmatic. Doors sometimes creaked open without cause, and the wind whispered through the hallways with a voice we could never quite decipher. Afshan, ever curious despite her fright, began documenting small oddities: a misplaced object, a sudden chill, the persistent feeling that we were being watched. Her journal soon became a chronicle of our daily existence, marked by equal parts trepidation and the stubborn will to adapt.

It was during one such evening, after a tense discussion about whether to remain or find new lodgings, that my youngest cousin suggested inviting a local elder—someone with knowledge of the land and its histories—to help us make sense of what lingered in the house. The proposal was met with hesitant agreement; perhaps, we thought, such wisdom could offer clarity, or at least a different perspective.

The following week, an elderly man arrived, stooped but sharp-eyed, his presence commanding respect. He moved through each room, pausing, murmuring words we did not recognize, listening to the house as if it might answer him. His verdict, soft but unwavering, was that the house bore memories not just of our family, but of all those who had come before—traces of heartache, hope, and perhaps unfinished stories seeking rest.

That realization did not dispel our apprehension entirely, but it offered a form of peace. We were not the first to stand uncertain within those walls, and we would not be the last. Life, we came to understand, was as much about embracing the unknown as it was about seeking comfort.

And so, with each passing day, the house became less an adversary and more a reluctant companion. We continued on, attuned to its moods, learning to coexist with its silence and its secrets. The fabric of our family life stretched and shifted, woven through with threads of courage and caution, until the memories of those tumultuous first weeks became part of our collective folklore—stories to be shared in years to come, beneath the gentle light of new beginnings.

Upon the recommendation of a property dealer, the family was introduced to a house located in Latifabad. The prospect of acquiring this property generated considerable enthusiasm, not merely due to its physical attributes, but because it represented an opportunity to establish a more suitable living environment. On the day of the visit, the family arrived at the address with expectations of improvement. While the exterior required maintenance, the interior revealed well-designed features, including elegant staircases and a spacious upper floor with a balcony and large washroom.

During the inspection, several questions arose regarding the status and history of the property, particularly concerning its abandonment and the absence of nearby neighbors. The price was noted as below the average market rate, with ownership attributed to individuals residing abroad.

A significant incident occurred when one of my aunts ascended to the roof with her daughter. As dusk approached, she encountered an unexplained phenomenon involving smoke and a red flame, which appeared to communicate a message in a manner that prompted immediate concern and retreat. Subsequent investigation by the family revealed no evidence of the occurrence; however, the event became central to family recollections, with possible explanations ranging from psychological responses to environmental factors.

Following this episode, the family proceeded with the purchase and relocation plans. The narrative then transitions to subsequent familial developments, including marriages and relocations associated with employment in Karachi and later KSA. The family's business activities in Hyderabad contributed to their search for increasingly suitable accommodations.

Post-move, the household experienced a persistent sense of unease, exacerbated by additional incidents and the temporary absence of a family member due to urgent legal matters. In response, members engaged in religious practices and heightened vigilance, particularly in areas of the house associated with previous disturbances.

Throughout these events, the combination of environmental factors, family dynamics, and local context contributed to a series of memorable experiences that continue to inform family history and folklore.

That evening, as the shadows deepened and an uneasy calm settled over us, I sat beside my mother-in-law, weighed down by anxiety about the house. The memory of the roof incident was too heavy to keep to myself, and so I told her, watching with growing concern as fear and anger flashed across her face. “Why bring this up now?” she demanded, upset by the timing. I tried to explain, but everyone had seemed so joyful earlier that I hadn’t wanted to disturb the mood. Afshan, my aunt’s daughter, arrived in the midst of our conversation, sensing the tension that clung to the room.

As we were talking. My husband, Who left the house for an important business meeting, Who left the house a day ago and promise to come back tomorrow afternoon, came out of nowhere, with his wet hair, holding a comb in his hands. He passed us with a demonic smile on his face. As he passed us, he started speaking and combing his hair. We have been living in this neighbourhood for over 1000 years and consider as a threat. Leave this place at once, or you will be begging for your lives, as he said this he turned into a red smokeless fireball and vanished.

It was then, in the thick of our unease, that the house seemed to turn against us. The lights flickered and died, plunging us into a chilling darkness. A low, haunting moan rose from the depths of the building, echoing through the rooms and stirring up a terror that gripped us all. My mother-in-law clutched her prayer beads, Afshan pressed close, and fear surged in my chest.

Without another thought, we gathered everyone and rushed out of the house, hearts pounding and breaths ragged. The night air felt sharp and alive as we spilled into the street, leaving behind the oppressive silence and the mysteries that the old house was determined to keep. That moment—the fear, the flight, the sense of something lurking just beyond sight—would stay with me always. The house kept its secrets, but we were no longer willing to face them within its walls.

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