Miraj Al-Ghaib
Date: June 2, 2019
Thomas stood in the grand foyer of Miraj Al-Ghaib Estate, his eyes vacant and unseeing. The walls around him seemed to breathe, pulsing with a life of their own. Shadows danced and flickered, their shapes twisting into grotesque forms that whispered secrets and promises.
He could feel them—Hassan Al-Farouq and the other patriarchs—surrounding him, their presence oppressive and suffocating. Their voices, a cacophony of disappointment and disdain, filled his mind.
"You have failed us," Hassan's voice echoed, a cold, accusing tone that cut through the haze of Thomas's thoughts.
"We entrusted you with our legacy," another voice hissed, filled with contempt. "And you squandered it."
Thomas's heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He tried to speak, to defend himself, but his voice caught in his throat. The walls around him seemed to close in, the space shrinking and warping, trapping him in a nightmarish cage.
The air grew thick and heavy, a tangible sense of malevolence pressing down on him. He stumbled through the halls, his hands clutching at his head as the whispers grew louder, more insistent. The portraits of the patriarchs on the walls seemed to come alive, their eyes following him with expressions of disdain and anger.
"You were supposed to bind them to us," Hassan's voice was a venomous hiss. "But they escaped. They defied us."
Thomas stumbled into the library, the room distorting around him. The books on the shelves writhed and twisted, the words on their spines forming mocking phrases that danced before his eyes. The floor beneath him seemed to undulate, like the surface of a restless sea.
The whispers grew louder, merging with the cries of the spirits of the former victims. Their voices were filled with anger and pain, a relentless chorus that pounded against his sanity.
"You are weak," a voice snarled. "Unworthy of this house."
Thomas fell to his knees, his hands clawing at the floor. The wood splintered under his fingers, the sharp edges cutting into his skin. Blood dripped onto the floor, the crimson drops spreading outwards, forming patterns that seemed to move and shift before his eyes.
The walls of the library began to warp and twist, the shelves bending and curving in impossible ways. The ceiling seemed to stretch upwards, the chandelier swaying violently as if caught in a tempest. The very fabric of the house was unraveling, reality itself bending under the weight of Khayal's power.
"You think you can escape us?" Hassan's voice was a roar, filling the room with its fury. "You will never be free."
Thomas's vision blurred, the world around him dissolving into a swirling maelstrom of colors and shapes. The faces of the spirits appeared before him, their features twisted in anger and despair. Their hands reached out, clawing at him, their touch cold and clammy.
He tried to run, to escape the grasping hands, but the floor seemed to give way beneath him. He fell into darkness, his body tumbling through an endless void. The voices followed him, a relentless tide that crashed over him, drowning him in their fury.
"You are nothing," a voice spat, filled with venom. "You will die like the rest."
The darkness around him shifted and changed, forming into the familiar shapes of the estate. He was back in the grand foyer, the walls pulsing and breathing with a life of their own. The chandelier above him swayed ominously, casting distorted shadows that writhed on the walls.
Thomas stood, his body trembling. He could see the faces of the spirits in the shadows, their eyes burning with a malevolent light. The air around him was thick with their presence, a suffocating miasma that pressed down on him, crushing his spirit.
"You are unworthy," Hassan's voice was a whisper now, a cold, insidious presence that wormed its way into his mind. "You will die here, as you deserve."
The room began to spin, the walls closing in around him. Thomas clutched at his head, his mind fracturing under the pressure. The faces of the spirits swirled around him, their voices merging into a deafening roar that filled his mind.
He stumbled towards the staircase, his legs weak and unsteady. The steps seemed to stretch out before him, an endless ascent that led to nowhere. The air grew colder, the shadows darker, as he climbed, each step a monumental effort.
At the top of the stairs, he found himself in his bedroom. The room was dark and cold, the air heavy with the scent of decay. The bed loomed before him, a monolithic presence that seemed to pulse with a life of its own.
Thomas approached the bed, his body moving as if in a trance. The whispers grew louder, the voices merging into a single, overwhelming presence that filled his mind.
"You will die here," the voice whispered, its tone soft and menacing. "This is your fate."
He fell to his knees beside the bed, his hands clutching at the covers. The room around him began to warp and twist, the walls closing in, the ceiling descending towards him. The air grew colder, the darkness more oppressive.
Thomas's mind shattered under the pressure, his sanity slipping away like sand through his fingers. He reached for the drawer beside the bed, his hands trembling as he pulled it open. Inside, a glint of metal caught his eye.
The whispers grew louder, a relentless tide that crashed over him, drowning him in their fury. His fingers closed around the cold, hard object, his mind consumed by the cacophony of voices.
"You will die here," the voice whispered again, its tone final and absolute.
Thomas lifted the knife, the blade glinting in the dim light. The faces of the spirits swirled around him, their eyes burning with a malevolent light. The air was thick with their presence, a suffocating miasma that pressed down on him, crushing his spirit.
With a final, desperate cry, Thomas plunged the knife into his chest. The pain was sharp and immediate, a white-hot fire that seared through his body. The voices grew louder, a deafening roar that filled his mind, drowning out all thought.
As his vision darkened, he could see the faces of the spirits, their expressions twisted in triumph and satisfaction. The last of his sanity slipped away, his mind consumed by the darkness.
Thomas's body fell to the floor, the knife still clutched in his hand. The room around him seemed to breathe, the walls pulsing with a life of their own. The faces of the spirits faded into the shadows, their whispers dying away, leaving the house in an oppressive silence.
The estate was still, the air heavy with the weight of the past. Thomas was gone, another victim of Miraj Al-Ghaib, his soul consumed by the darkness that had haunted the house for generations.
The house stood silent and empty, a monument to the madness that had claimed so many lives. The shadows of the past lingered in the halls, a constant reminder of the darkness that lay within. Miraj Al-Ghaib had claimed another soul, its hunger sated for now.
But the house would wait, as it always had, for the next unwary soul to fall into its grasp. The cycle would continue, the darkness ever-present, waiting to devour those who dared to enter.
And so, the story of Miraj Al-Ghaib continued, its legacy of madness and despair etched into the very walls of the estate. The house stood as a testament to the darkness within, a place where sanity and hope went to die.
The end.
Comments