The Following Morning, at Eight O’Clock

The insistent ring of Aelten’s mobile pierced the stillness. Groggy, he fumbled for it, lying on the floor where he had fallen, and answered, “Hello…”

The voice on the line trembled, heavy with distress and sorrow, “Hello… Aelten, forgive me for waking you at dawn—we have a burial ceremony at noon. That’s why I called.”

As if cold water had dashed upon him, Aelten sat upright, anxiety gripping him, “What? What ceremony? For whom, Duman? Nothing’s happened to your family, has it?”

“No, my family is safe,” Duman replied. “My cousin and his friends perished last night on the mountain—their burial is today. If you can come, it would mean a lot to me. You could help, but I won’t trouble you if you’re busy.”

Rising from his bed and heading to wash his face, Aelten said, “Where are you now? I want to join you.”

“We’re at the police station—Social Security Square. We’re about to claim the body and take it to the mortuary,” Duman answered.

“Alright, I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Aelten promised.

“I’ll wait for you,” Duman confirmed.

Hanging up, Aelten quickly washed his face and dressed in haste, grabbing an apple from the fridge to eat on the way. He reached the police station, where Ali’s father, Reza, sat weeping outside. Approaching, Aelten offered, “Uncle Reza, may God grant you patience! May this be your final sorrow!”

Reza, a man of fifty, lifted his tear-streaked face, sobbing, “What patience can He grant?! My only treasure in this world—my son—is gone. What grief could sting worse after this?!”

Deeply moved, Aelten knew Ali was Reza’s sole child, born after a decade of struggle. Stepping away, he sought Duman, finding him with his father in the station yard. Greeting them, Aelten noticed Duman’s father was distracted. Duman returned the greeting, “Sorry, Aelten—I’ve troubled you too. They’re bringing the bodies for us to take.”

“What happened? What’s going on?” Aelten asked.

“Last night, they went for a picnic in the mountains. It seems lightning struck their car, setting it ablaze—Ali and Hadi burned, and Aydin fell off the mountain and died,” Duman explained.

“Who told you? How did you find out?” Aelten pressed.

“Mountaineers found their bodies this morning and alerted the police. They discovered partially burned documents in the dashboard and informed my uncle,” Duman said.

As Duman spoke, an officer emerged, “You may claim your sons.” Aelten, Duman, and Duman’s father entered, retrieving Ali’s body, wrapped in plastic. Seeing it, Reza rushed forward, tearing the shroud, collapsing on his son and wailing. All, moved by the scene, wept. Aelten, gazing at the corpse, marveled—Ali’s hair, lashes, and brows bore no scorch, an oddity. He wondered, “How, if burned, could his hair remain intact?” Approaching, he touched Ali’s hair, a chilling dread seizing him. It was as if his eyes locked with the sable entity’s gaze, watching him. A strange, deafening hum assailed his ears. Aelten withdrew swiftly, his face paling like chalk, stepping back from the body. Last night’s events partly unveiled themselves, but he dared not speak or dwell on what he’d seen. They carried the body from the station, placing it in a hearse bound for the cemetery.

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Throughout the journey, Aelten brooded solely on his revelation, his chest heavy, a headache brewing. Lost in thought, he barely noticed the passage, until Duman called, “Aelten…! Where are you? What are you thinking?” Flustered, Aelten stammered, “Nothing—I slept late, so I’m a bit dazed.”

They unloaded Ali’s body at the mortuary. Aelten and Duman entered; the washer approached, with Aelten nearby. All others, including Duman, unable to bear it, withdrew. As the washer chanted prayers and poured water over Ali’s charred form, the burns washed away, revealing fresh, vibrant skin as before. The washer, horrified, cried, “What’s happening?”

Fleeing in terror, Aelten stopped him, “Don’t be afraid—the body isn’t burned; just ash mixed with sweat clung to it—nothing more.”

Initially skeptical, the washer, seeing Aelten’s calm, reluctantly accepted and resumed, chanting and pouring. They cleansed Ali fully; before anyone entered, Aelten, with the washer’s help, shrouded him. Calling Duman, he said, “The body’s ready for burial.” Duman summoned the others; they placed it in a coffin, bearing it to the grave. Aelten stayed close, ensuring no one unveiled it, lest the mystery worsen. Uncertain of his actions or this secrecy, as if guided by some force, he entered the grave during burial. All marveled, assuming it stemmed from friendship. After the interment, they left the cemetery, heading to the mosque for the memorial service.

The rite ended by nightfall. After midnight, strange events began. In the kitchen, washing dishes, Aelten felt plates tremble, some falling from shelves, as if an unseen hand shook them. Fear crept in—he sensed a presence, an unease growing.

Finishing, Aelten bid Duman farewell and returned home. Midway, his unease doubled—he thought someone followed, glancing back repeatedly, yet saw nothing. Terror mounted, taking twenty-five minutes to reach his house. Unlocking the gate, he entered the yard. His parents and sister had gone to Tabriz, his uncle’s house, for days—no one was home. In the darkness, he beheld an unbelievable sight—the same sable entity from his vision loomed before him. Stunned, he stared, sweat beading his brow from fear. Noticing his terror, it grinned diabolically. Aelten thought to flee, but as the notion struck, it struck his right chest, hurling him from the gate to the yard’s end, rendering him unconscious. The sable being neared, rousing him for sport. Stirred by its shaking, Aelten awoke, held aloft in one hand, as it laughed horrifically, “Thou art the first to plead not. Moments ago, the washer wet himself, begging I spare him—I reduced him, like another usurper, to ash.”

Drawing Aelten’s face near, it boasted, “Beg to live—let me possess thee, bend to my will, and I’ll grant powers undreamed. Thou hast the makings of a sorcerer. Thy boldness pleases me—ask of me. Plead, and I’ll spare thee. I need human thralls—make haste.”

A force restrained Aelten, as if an inner voice commanded, controlling him to reply, “Nay—never!”

Furious, the entity cast him through the window, shattering glass upon the hall floor. Aelten, spent, could not open his eyes. Looming above, it sighed, “Pity—thou might have lived, gaining vast might.” Lifting him, it drew his face close, draining his spirit. As Aelten’s essence waned, a singular light appeared in the heavens. Startled, the creature released him, seeking to vanish, yet was bound. Some unseen force held it fast. As the celestial radiance intensified, it erupted from belly and breast, tearing apart, loosing frightful shrieks. Aelten, unable to endure the sound, covered his ears. Within a minute, it burned to ash, scattering skyward. The light, like an angelic presence, saved Aelten. Fading into unconsciousness, a white-green radiance appeared before his eyes, its warmth soothing him like rain. From its midst emerged a man, near fifty, with white-and-black beard. Aelten’s scorched, tormented chest, struck by the entity, eased at his advent. The man approached, laying a hand upon it, murmuring softly, then bade, “Seek me out.”

Turning, he re-entered the light, which dimmed, leaving Aelten insensate upon the floor.