The stench hit Sarah like a brick wall as she descended the basement stairs—thick, putrid, and impossible to ignore. It reminded her of the smell of raw meat left out in the sun, magnified a hundredfold and mingled with a metallic tang that made her stomach churn. She pressed her scarf over her nose, but the fabric wasn’t enough to keep out the rancid odour. As her flashlight trembled in her shaky hands, the beam revealed scattered shadows.

Hesitant, she moved forward, muttering to herself: “Is something dead down here?”

Her husband, Ahmed, had sworn earlier that there must be a dead rat somewhere, but even though he had searched theoretically every nook and cranny from the attic to the backyard, he found nothing. Sarah had suggested the basement, but Ahmed had dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “It’s probably nothing. And we don’t even open the basement door for anything to make its way there.”

Now, standing in the dim light of the dusty storage space, Sarah wasn’t so sure. The smell was worse here, unbearable. She traced it to an old trunk pushed against the far wall, its faded wood covered in cobwebs. Something about the trunk unnerved her, and her instincts whispered that it should remain closed.

But curiosity won, and with trembling fingers, she unlatched the rusted lock and lifted the lid.

The scream that tore through her throat brought Ahmed rushing down the stairs.

“What is it?” he shouted, skidding to a halt beside her.

Sarah couldn’t speak. Her voice was strangled in her chest as she pointed to the trunk’s contents. Inside was a small, decomposing animal—a bird, maybe, though it was hard to tell. Its feathers were matted with something dark and sticky, and its wings were twisted unnaturally. Surrounding it were bundles of dried herbs, a handful of blackened candles, and a cracked ceramic doll with its eyes gouged out.

Ahmed cursed under his breath, “What the hell is this?”

“I don’t know,” Sarah whispered, stepping back as if the trunk might lunge at her. “Who would do this?”

Sarah and Ahmed’s household was an unremarkable one: they were a devout couple, living modestly in their small suburban home with their seven-year-old daughter, Ghania. They prayed five times a day, attended the mosque regularly, and maintained good relations with family and neighbours alike. Nothing about their lives was unusual, at least not until the incidents began.

It started with the nightmares. Ghania would wake up screaming in the middle of the night, clutching at her chest and babbling incoherently. Sarah would rush to her bedside, rocking her gently until her cries subsided.

“What did you see, sweetie?” Sarah would ask.

“They’re watching me,” Ghania would whisper, her wide, tear-filled eyes darting around the room as if looking for someone or something. “They’re in the corners.”

The shadows. That’s what Ghania always spoke of—the shadows that crept closer to her bed, whispering her name.

Sarah and Ahmed brushed it off as a phase, perhaps fueled by too many scary stories at school. But soon, the strange occurrences became harder to ignore. Doors would slam shut on their own; the kitchen lights flickered erratically; and the smell—the awful, rotting smell—lingered no matter how many times Sarah scrubbed the house.

One evening, Ahmed’s older sister, Salma—a widow in her late forties known for her sharp tongue yet pious nature—came to visit. Although she was quite religious in her conduct, the resentment in her personality clung to her like a second skin.

As Salma sipped her tea, her eyes lingered on Ghania, playing on a rug in the living room.

“God bless her! How she has grown,” Salma remarked with a tone that sounded of forced politeness and a clear lack of warmth.

“She has,” Sarah said, smiling. “She’s our little blessing.”

Salma’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It must be nice,” she said after a pause, “to have such a perfect little family.”

Something about her words sent a chill down Sarah’s spine, though she couldn’t say why.

That night, the events escalated. Sarah woke to the sound of Ghania screaming again, but this time it was different. The scream was insane, almost inhuman. When Sarah and Ahmed burst into her room, they found Ghania thrashing on the bed, her small body contorted unnaturally.

“Sarah, call someone!” Ahmed shouted, holding Ghania down to keep her from hurting herself.

Sarah grabbed her phone with shaking hands and somehow dialled the imam’s number, and the elderly man arrived just under an hour. As he surveyed the scene, his face grew grave.

“This is not natural. There is something else at work here, something dark and sinister,” he said after examining Ghania.

“Wha- what do you mean?” Sarah’s voice trembled while asking.

“Black magic,” the imam said plainly. “It means that someone has definitely cursed your family, my child.”

The revelation was a dagger to Sarah’s heart. She couldn’t even imagine anybody doing this to her family. They neither had any enemies nor grudges, at least nothing in her knowledge.

The imam advised them to burn the trunk they had found

 in the basement and gave them specific prayers to recite daily. But the strange occurrences didn’t stop. If anything, they intensified.

It wasn’t until Sarah stumbled upon an old family photo album that the pieces began to fall into place.

She had been seeking comfort in the old happy times when she spotted something odd: every photo that Ghania was a part of had Salma gazing at the child in an unreadable expression.

So Sarah confronted Salma the next day, for she was unable to ignore the growing suspicion gnawing at her.

Despite her anger, she kept her voice steady. “Salma,” she began, “do you know anything about what’s happening to us?”

Salma didn’t respond at first and merely sipped her tea, gazing in the distance. Then, carefully putting her cup on the table, she said: “I suppose there’s no point in denying it. Yes, I did it. I had someone place a curse.” Her tone was icy.

Sarah’s blood ran cold. “Wh- why would you do that!?”

“Do you know what it’s like to watch someone else have everything you wanted? A husband. A child. Happiness.” Salma’s voice cracked, and for a moment, Sarah saw the pain behind her bitterness. “It was supposed to destroy you all. One by one. Starting with the girl.”

Sarah was too stunned to speak.

“But I didn’t know,” Salma continued, her voice trembling now. “I didn’t know she wasn’t your blood.”

“What are you talking about?”

Salma’s eyes gleamed with something that might have been triumph or regret. “Ghania isn’t your daughter by birth. She’s adopted, isn’t she? The curse was meant for blood relatives.”

The words hit Sarah like a slap. It was indeed the truth, for they had adopted Ghania as a newborn. It was a quiet decision, though; the couple had shared it with no one.

Realization dawned on Salma’s face, and her expression twisted into one of horror, and before Sarah could say anything, Salma clutched her chest, gasping for air. Her body convulsed, and her eyes rolled back as she collapsed to the floor.

The two rushed Salma to the hospital, where the doctor said it was a sudden and lethal heart attack.

But Sarah couldn’t shake the feeling that it was something more—a grim consequence of the curse backfiring on the one who had initiated it.

In the days that followed, the house grew quieter. The smell disappeared, and there were no shadows lingering in the corners. Even Ghania had started sleeping peacefully after weeks.

Sarah watched her daughter play in the garden, enjoying her laughter that filled the air and Sarah’s life. and as she stood there, she wondered if it was over or was there a chance of another strike.

There was no way to know for sure, but she knew she had the power of prayer in her hands. Maybe that is what saved them this time as well.