Novel : The Psycho

Writer : Maria Aamir

The gusts of wind whispered through the cracks of the window. The room was dimly lit. The
yellow light of the bulb seemed to be glowing, yet the shadows stretched across the walls,
slithering like snakes. Hira sat huddled at the edge of her bed. Dark circles framed her eyes,
her face was pale, lips dry, and her eyes carried a fear as if the ground could open up and
swallow her at any moment.

In the silence of the room, everything could be heard: the faint sound of her breathing, the
beating of her heart, and occasionally, the whispers that emerged from nowhere. These
whispers always grew louder in the third watch of the night. Sometimes it was the cackling
laughter of a woman, sometimes the thunderous voice of a man, and sometimes a
cacophony of countless voices speaking at once, incomprehensible. Hira pressed her
hands over her ears, buried her face in her pillow, yet the sounds grew sharper.

“You are nothing…” the voices said.

“You are a burden… you will never see the light…”

It seemed to her as though these voices were not only coming from outside, but rising from
within her own mind, as if her own brain had become her enemy.

For Hira, darkness was a living presence. The shadows that moved in the night, the breath
she felt from the corners of the room, the eyes that sometimes flickered on the closed
window glass and disappeared—she knew they were illusions, but the line between illusion
and reality had long vanished.

Even her own body felt alien. Sometimes she felt she was not a girl, sometimes that this
body did not match the identity within her. She would stand before a mirror, staring. One
day, it seemed as if the Hira in the mirror was separate—smiling while tears streamed from
her own eyes. When she stepped back, the reflection closed its eyes with a smile. In that
moment, she felt as though she had lost herself, trapped outside of her own being.

Sometimes, in the darkness of night, she would see a shadow near her bed. The shadow
would stand silently. Sometimes it would bend down, breathing on her face; sometimes it
would go to the other corner of the room, head bowed. Once, the shadow came so close
that she felt the chill of lips near her ear. Then came the whisper:

“You are alone. No one will understand you. You are with me.”

She screamed and fell off the bed. Her knee hit the wall, injured, but the fear was so
overwhelming that she did not feel the pain.

Her mother’s voice called from outside the door: “Hira! Had another dream?”

She shouted, “These are not dreams! They are real! People are in my room!”

But her mother only told her to read the Qur’an and then became silent.

Hira knew no one would believe her. At school, friends began calling her mad. They mocked
her clothes and her mannerisms. She would say, “I am not what you think. I am something
else…” but her tongue would tire, and she would fall silent. Her silence only became fodder
for their mockery.

Sometimes she would not speak for days, just sitting by the window, staring at the sky.
Sometimes a thought would cross her mind: “I wish I could sleep and never wake.” But
even sleep was an enemy, for it brought dreams far more terrifying than darkness itself.

Once, in a dream, she found herself in a graveyard. Voices arose from every grave:

“We are all like you… come to us…”

She ran, but the graves opened, bones chasing her. She woke with a scream, seeing bony
hands reaching from under her bed. Sweating and trembling, she began reciting the Kalima
loudly, though her tongue faltered.

Such nights became routine.

One day, she rose for ablution. The water was cold. She splashed her face and looked in
the mirror. There stood a stranger, like her, but with hollow eyes, blue lips, and a smile as if
a grave were opening. Hira screamed inwardly, but the voice got stuck in her throat. She
stepped back, but the reflection remained.

Time passed, and her condition worsened. Sometimes she wouldn’t eat for days,
sometimes she would sit on the floor for hours, staring at the ground. Her mind repeated a
single question: “Why did Allah make me like this? This illness, this fear, this loneliness—is
it all a punishment?”

Then, one night, something changed.

She was sitting on the floor, crying. The voices rose again. Shadows crawled on the walls.
Breath caught in her throat. Exhausted, she bowed her head and cried out:

“O Allah, if You exist, save me. If You are real, take me under Your care.”

In that moment, an unusual silence descended. The voices ceased. The shadows froze.
The darkness of the room seemed to recede. A soft whisper reached her ears:

“I am near you… closer than your own veins…”

Hira could not stop crying. But this time, the tears were not of fear—they were tears of
relief. It felt as if someone had laid a hand upon her heart. For the first time, she felt a ray of
light in the darkness.

Morning light entered through the window, softening the room. The light did not stay long,
as if even the sun feared the darkness of this room and wanted to flee quickly. Hira sat on
the bed, the fatigue of the night pressing upon her like a burden. Yet in a corner of her heart,
a faint wave stirred, as if a fragment of light had seeped into her veins.
She went quietly to the window. Birds chirped outside. The sight would bring joy to ordinary
eyes, yet for Hira, everything felt alien. She asked herself, “Will this light stay with me
forever? Or is it just a fleeting illusion?”

Days passed. At school, she was still seen as strange. Children laughed at her silence,
mocked her clothes. “She’s mad. Sometimes she cries, sometimes laughs, sometimes
talks to the walls…” She pressed her hands to her ears, but their words pierced her heart.
By evening, she surrendered herself once again to the darkness.

Sometimes, staring at her bedroom walls, she thought, “These walls know my secrets. They
hear everything I never speak aloud. But even these walls mock me. At night, when I cry,
they whisper too.”

One night, lying on her bed, eyes wide open, shadows swayed on the ceiling. The yellow
light of the bulb flickered, as if the electricity itself were fading. Suddenly, the bulb went
out. The room plunged into darkness.

Her body went rigid. Breath caught in her throat. She pulled the sheet over her head, but
the darkness penetrated. And then the voice again:

“You cannot escape… you will always be with me.”

She tried to scream, but no sound came. Red eyes lit up in the corner of the room,
advancing. The sound of nails scraping against walls filled the room, like some beast
sharpening its claws.

Terrified, she got up. Trying to open the Qur’an, her hands shook, flipping the pages. Words
blurred before her eyes. Yet her heart whispered: “Read… just read…” and stammering, she
began reciting Surah Al-Falaq.

A momentary silence fell. The eyes seemed to retreat. The shadow shrank into the wall. Her
breath returned, her heart pounded, feeling as if her ribs might break.
She sat back on the floor, head in hands, tears streaming. Over and over, she repeated, “I
am not mad… I am not mad… this is all real…”

The next day, her mother asked, “Did you see illusions again last night?”

She remained silent, knowing no one would believe her.

Sometimes she wished someone could hear the voices inside her, see that these shadows
were not mere illusions—they were alive. But she knew the world would see it all as illness.

Days went by. Hira’s connection to the world weakened. She spent most of her time in her
room, sometimes standing hours before the mirror, asking her reflection, “Who are you?
Are you like me? Are you trapped in the dark too?” And sometimes the reflection
answered—a cold smile, a fleeting movement, as if the mirror itself were alive.

One stormy night, the window rattled violently, objects moved, and Hira saw words forming
on the wall. Finger-like marks appeared on their own:

“You will always be alone.”

She stepped back. Her heart screamed, lips silent. Suddenly, the words vanished, and the
wall was clean.

This broke her further. But one night, the same light returned to her heart. She silently
prayed, “O Allah, if You are watching, do not abandon me.”

Suddenly, the air stilled. A strange softness filled the room, as if an unseen hand rested on
her shoulder, whispering, “I have not left you alone.”
It was like a lamp lighting up amidst a storm. Hira cried, but this time the tears were not of
fear—they were of hope.

Shadows still lingered. Voices still came. But she began standing with newfound strength.
She thought, “Perhaps this will never end. Perhaps it will stay with me forever. But if Allah
exists, even the deepest darkness can be overcome by a single ray of light.”

In the stillness of the night, everything in Hira’s room seemed alive. Curtains fluttered in the
breeze, as if touched by invisible fingers. Hira sat, legs hugged, eyes closed, trying to
regulate her breath. Every heartbeat felt louder. Sometimes she felt a presence moving
around her—a small shadow that followed her motions—but whenever she turned, nothing
was there.

Her life felt like a walk through a street of continuous fear. School, home, room—all
seemed the same. Every corner, every shadow, a threat. She sometimes looked at the
ceiling, sometimes the walls, sometimes her own hands. Her hands moved not at all, yet
she felt detached from herself.

One night, lying awake, she noticed a faint red light flickering in the darkness. It was tiny,
barely noticeable, yet she sensed it was no ordinary light. It reflected the inner turmoil of
her heart—a sign that something was changing.

“Is this just a dream?” she whispered.

No answer came. Only the flicker of light and darkness.

Then the voices echoed in her mind, voices that had always scared her. A dozen voices
spoke together:

“You are alone. You are nothing. You belong to our world…”
Hira covered her ears and began to cry uncontrollably. Tears filled her eyes, lips trembling.
But this time something shifted. She whispered in her heart, “I will not be afraid. If this is
real, I will face the truth.”

It became a new beginning. She still felt fear, but she realized fear did not mean weakness.
Sometimes fear allows one to discover strength. Hira repeated this to herself and vowed to
confront the voices.

Her schizophrenia attacked again that night. Something moved in the corner. The shadow
grew and grew, then suddenly everything fell silent. She breathed, yet her heart raced. She
began loudly reciting Qur’an. With every word, a fragment of peace entered her heart.

In the darkness of her room, she realized for the first time that light existed not only outside,
but within her. In her soul, in the depths of her heart, a small ray had awakened. She felt it
could lift her from the fear of darkness.

Days passed. At school, children still laughed, mocked, but a new resolve grew inside Hira.
She still felt fear, yet her heart had grown stronger. She sometimes sat in her room without
a lamp, sometimes stood in the garden bathed in sunlight, repeating prayers silently.

Several months passed. Light sometimes dimmed, sometimes grew. Voices sometimes
roared, sometimes fell silent. Every night, she strengthened her soul, battled fear, and
gradually shadows could not overpower her.

One night, during a storm, curtains whipped around, shadows danced on walls, and Hira
felt someone close. A whisper reached her ears:

“I am with you. You are not alone…”

She cried, yet this time her tears were of relief and faith. She thought, “Allah has never
abandoned me. These are tests, and I am growing stronger through them.”
From then on, every day became a small victory. Darkness still crept, voices still came,
shadows still approached, but her heart held a light of hope.

The room remained dark, curtains moved with the wind, the bulb flickered, yet she sat with
the Qur’an, repeating its words. Lips moved, eyes closed, heart beating with each verse.
She understood this practice was not mere prayer but a shield, strengthening her against
every shadow and fear.

One night, when the wind roared, the bulb dimmed, and shadows danced, she felt a
presence near her. She did not flinch, did not scream. She stood tall, heart filled with
prayer, and heard the whisper:

“You have endured fear, you have cried, you have strengthened yourself. I am with you.”

These words brought her peace. Tears fell, not of fear, but of relief and faith. Hira silently
said, “Allah, I believe in You. Whatever You decide is best for me.”

From that day, every night grew easier. Voices weakened, shadows receded, and her soul
found calm. She no longer saw her illness as an enemy, but a teacher, imparting patience
and faith.

Sometimes she would speak to herself:

“This is real, and this is temporary. Darkness will come, fear will come, but I can overcome
it.”

This thought gave her courage. Each day she took another step forward. Sometimes sitting
without a lamp, sometimes standing in the garden in the sunlight, always repeating prayers
in her heart.
One day, as the storm clouds cleared and the morning light illuminated everything, Hira
realized she had truly changed. She no longer feared her illness, no longer trembled in fear,
and no shadow could intimidate her. She said in her heart, “Allah has strengthened me
through all this. Whatever happened was best for me. Now, I trust Him completely.”

This light, this faith, this peace entered Hira’s heart. For the first time, she felt whole.
Darkness remained, shadows remained, yet she crossed them without fear.

Hira became more active even at school. She moved through life with calm strength, not
shying from laughter or mockery. A new light shone in her eyes, previously unseen.

At night, sitting in her room, darkness lingered, yet she regarded it as a companion.
Shadows moved, voices came, but her heart was strong. She prayed, reaffirmed her faith,
and overcame every fear.

One night, as raindrops struck the window and wind gusted, she felt shadows gathering
around her. For the first time, she was unafraid. She said in her heart, “Allah, I believe in
You. These are Your tests, and I will succeed.”

The shadows paused for a moment, then slowly vanished. Deep inside, she felt a peace
never felt before. For the first time, she could step firmly toward Allah despite her illness,
fear, and darkness.

Raindrops pelted the glass, wind whipped the curtains, the bulb flickered. Hira sat on the
floor reading the Qur’an, every word bringing calm. Voices came occasionally, shadows
moved, yet she did not shrink back.

A newfound strength had arisen in her heart, keeping her firm despite darkness and fear.
She understood that voices, shadows, and fear were temporary, and the truth was hidden
in Allah’s light.
For a moment, the room fell completely silent. Hira whispered in her heart:

“O Allah, I believe in You. Whatever Your decision is, it is best for me.”

The shadows suddenly stopped, the voices fell silent, and a gentle light awakened in her
heart. For the first time, she truly felt that Allah was near, and that every fear, every pain,
was part of her journey of faith.

Days passed, and Hira felt a change within herself. She now walked through school without
fear. The children still laughed and mocked, but she did not flinch. A light burned in her
heart, and every night she recited the words of the Qur’an In her mind, prayed, and
overcame every shadow and fear.

One night, when the wind was blowing fiercely and raindrops pelted down, Hira felt the
shadows gathering around her. But this time, she was not afraid. She said in her heart:

“Allah, I believe in You. These are Your tests, and I will succeed in them.”

Writer : Maria Aamir