Trembling With Fear 07/01/2018

Djinn

My mother emerged from her basement lab midday. She brushed her fingers over the spines of dusty tomes on the living room bookshelf. She selected two leather-bound texts, set them on the coffee table for our daily reading, and flagged the chapters with silky black ribbons.

“Mother,” Marissa implored. “I wish to go to the high school in the fall.”

Mother wrapped herself in a shadowy cloak. “I will teach you and your sister.”

“Normal people do not learn this.” Marissa scowled at the towering bookcase. “I want to make friends.”

“Your sister is your friend.” She smiled at me.

Marissa sneered.

“Samira is your truest friend.” Mother took us each by the hand. “The two of you must continue your father’s hunt, together.”

Marissa wrenched her hand free, crossed her arms. “Father is gone.”

Mother’s face darkened. She strapped a crossbow over her shoulders. “Do not open the door while I search. Not for anyone. I will learn what happened to your father.”

She slipped out the back door and faded into the misty woods behind our home.

Marissa shoved her daily reading to the floor. The book landed spine up, tissue-thin pages crumpled against carpet. She retrieved her tablet from its hiding place—the purple suitcase under her bed—and began to message far-off friends.

Hours passed. The shadows of the neighbors’ homes stretched into the street. I wondered about the people who lived in those houses, neighbors whom we had watched come and go, but never greeted in the eight weeks we had been there.

My eyes grew heavy over yellowed pages. I re-read the same passage several times, but I could not understand it.

A knock echoed at the door. Marissa set her tablet down. She checked the peep hole. I crept to the living room window and peeked behind the lace curtain.

A boy around Marissa’s age, fourteen or fifteen, waited on the front stoop. A cut on the boy’s forehead trickled blood. His hair curled like golden leaves. His irises glowed bright blue.

“I’ve been in an accident,” the boy said. “I need to charge my phone and call my father.”

Marissa glanced at me with eyes both imploring and demanding. You didn’t tell Mother about the tablet, Samira, she had to be thinking. You’ll let me have this too, won’t you?

I shook my head. “We can call the police, and they will help him.”

“He’s just a kid.” Marissa whispered, “He’s cute.”

“Don’t call the cops,” the boy said. “It will make my father angry.”

“Mother said no,” I insisted.

“Mother would have us make no friends at all.”

I studied this boy from the window. His clothes were an odd earthen brown. A cloud of dust seeped from his pant cuffs.

His left wrist made a complete rotation, until the thumb wound back to its original position like the hands of a clock.

The blue eyes strobed.

“Marissa!” I warned. “Don’t!”

The chain unfurled. The lock unlatched.

What entered was not a boy, but a rush of wind, sand, and lightning. Metal hinges snapped, and the door knocked Marissa to the floor. A shape—like a man made of dust and electricity—loomed over my sister. A rushing sound, like jet engines, swallowed our screams.

The thing spread its hands above Marissa. Sparks crept up its spindly fingers. Marissa vanished inside the sandstorm of its legs. Its face flashed in my direction. I turned to flee, and a sucking force made the air thick as oil. I choked on sour fog. Sand scraped my arms and legs.

Ceiling plaster cracked and crumbled. Family photos shattered. Books tore from the library shelves, and their pages shredded in midair.

And then a hush sucked up the torrent of noise, like a giant’s gasp. And I heard my sister plead: “Samira, help . . . .”

But every fiber of myself fought in the opposite direction. It’s not her, I assured myself. Marissa would tell you to run! It’s the trick of the djinn!

And as I fled through a storm of debris, the djinn laughed. A chill, mechanical laugh.

I squeezed my eyes shut, covered my face with one arm. I struggled to the basement door, yanked it open, tugged against the grain of that desert storm; and at last, I managed to lock it behind me.

I raced down the steps. It battered the door. Wood splintered. The ceiling rattled to the timbre of insectile cackles. With trembling fingers, I lit a bowl of sage on Mother’s work table and huddled in the cold concrete corner.

I recited prayers.

Prayers for my safety.

Prayers for my sister.

Prayers to beg forgiveness, for cowardice had made me abandon her. And I was no longer sure if it had been Marissa or the djinn calling.

Blue fire danced over the table. Fragrant smoke swirled the air.

Mother had gone looking for it.

Mother had wanted to find it. This evil thing.

And I could not understand why.

* * *

By the time I emerged from the basement, night had blanketed the world. Marissa was gone. Scraps of our parents’ books—books on spirits, demons, and djinn—were strewn everywhere. Spider web cracks splattered the screen of her tablet.

I burst into tears when I saw Mother returning from the woods. Her crossbow and demon hunter’s pack were missing; her black cloak billowed in the wind.

I screamed that Marissa was gone.

That she and my father should never have searched for this one.

That it took my sister.

But Mother’s face remained blank. “My sweet girl.” She pulled back her cloak.

The breath fled from my chest.

Mother’s heart was gone, replaced by a charred hole. “I felt it happen.”