The Fortieth Night | Chapter 1: The Covenant
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Chapter 1: The Covenant
In a forgotten village on the edge of the sea, surrounded by mountains from every direction, fifteen-year-old "Yara" lives with her father, in a quietness that hides secrets older than the village itself. Since her mother's death, nights no longer pass peacefully... suffocating nightmares, approaching shadows, and dreams that turn into warnings. A mysterious will, an unbreakable vow, and a girl meant to be kept away from love and marriage, not out of fear for her... but out of fear of what might happen if the vow is broken. Between elders who know more than they say, rituals that do not resemble washing, and a sea that begins to show its wrath, threads of an ancient curse unfold, having slept for long and waking up now. When fish die for no reason, and when water itself becomes frightening, we realize that evil is no longer hiding... and that "The Fortieth Night" is not just a time, but an inevitable date. "The Fortieth Night" is a mysterious horror novel, mixing myth with folklore, where love is a sin, silence is temporary salvation, and truth... is more dangerous than death.
Once upon a time, there was a beautiful fifteen-year-old girl named Yara. She had soft, shiny black hair, black eyes, and a graceful figure. She lived with her father, just the two of them, in their home in a distant village by the sea, surrounded by towering mountains on all four sides, called Umm Al-Huwaitat. Since the death of Yara's mother nearly ten years ago, she had been deeply attached to the elders, the Dhikr gatherings, and always fortified herself. She always said that the religious rituals she practiced warmed her heart and kept her company in her loneliness, customs inherited from her ancestors. Her father always prayed the dawn prayer on time, and although Yara tried hard to mend the pain of losing her mother, every night her sleep would be disrupted, and the reason was...
— What happened, Yara, is it the same nightmare again?
Yara looks at her father while sweating profusely and then says:
— Yes, but this time she choked me, she grabbed me with all her might by my neck until she almost tore it off, Father. I don't know why? What did I do to her? Was I a disobedient daughter?
Her father hugged her between his ribs and said in a calm tone, patting her head:
— You were the best daughter to her and you were always her support during her illness. You never abandoned her, my daughter, and I know she loves you. Seek refuge in God, for He is the best protector, and go to sleep.
He would receive her muffled scream and tears, his heart tearing apart while he was at a loss, not knowing the source of these constant nightmares. So, he decided to ask the village sheikh tomorrow about this matter. At the time of the dawn prayer, he headed to the mosque. After the prayer ended, he approached Sheikh Yaqout, the imam of the mosque, with some shyness and said:
— I came to you, my sheikh, seeking your wisdom and advice. Things have become unbearable for my daughter, and I don't know where to turn.
Sheikh Yaqout approached Adel and said:
— Have you told her about her mother's will or not yet?
Adel's eyes widened, looking confused, and he said hesitantly:
— She is still too young to understand such a thing. I guard her from all directions, but I dare not tell her those harsh words.
The sheikh stood up from his gathering and asked Adel to stand and walk with him outside the mosque so they could talk comfortably. Outside, the sheikh sat on a stone bench, leaned on his cane, and said:
— Pay attention, Adel, the girl is growing up. And the older she gets, the more she realizes and understands the meaning of life, and whoever understands the meaning of life understands love. And you know what it means to love and marry...
Adel said, standing in front of the sheikh, interrupting his last words:
— Yes, I realize that very well, and I strive to prevent it from happening.
Yaqout smiled and then said:
— No one can prevent a human heart from beating. So I advise you to tell her. The nightmares will not stop here, and soon the signs will appear. Yara must know how to control her heart. You must tell her the truth.
Adel said in a low tone:
— And is there anyone who can bind their own heart?
Their meeting ended, and Adel headed home, lost in thought as he walked, the wind flowing and hitting his galabiya. Amidst this silence, the memory of the night his wife Fatima died crept into his mind; he would never forget it, as if it were yesterday.
Five years ago, in the house of the Rayan family (Adel and Fatima's house), on an unusually quiet night with a chill creeping into hearts, Fatima lay taking her last breaths on her deathbed, with Adel and her father by her side. He was holding her hand as she looked at him, tears racing down her white cheeks, saying:
— There is not much time left in my life, love of my life. I urge you to pay close attention to Yara and prevent her from marrying for the rest of her life.
Adel looked at Fatima's father as if waiting for his comment on this strange will, but he didn't wait long:
— Listen to your wife's words, my son, and keep them with you to your grave.
At those moments, she was coughing violently, barely able to inhale and exhale, catching what seemed to be her last breaths in life. She looked into his eyes and said:
— This is the covenant, so our village remains protected from evils, it must be kept. So that it finds no way to us, Yara must remain a virgin for the rest of her life.
Adel didn't understand anything at the time, but her tight grip on his wrist while suppressing the pain devouring her body little by little like cancer was enough to realize how serious the matter was. He said without hesitation, kissing her head:
— Do not worry, I will protect our daughter from any harm. Your will is a covenant upon me, an unbreakable covenant.
Fatima smiled as the last petals of her life fell. The wind blew out all the candles, darkening the house in sorrow for her departure. Adel hugged her for the last time, saying goodbye and crying, finding nothing but her father's hand patting his shoulder as he said:
— She has found relief from her pain and departed to a better place. Now it is our turn to continue the path.
Was it really that simple? Is the departure of those we love easy, passing like a second, and then we recover easily? If parting were easy, souls wouldn't bow under its weight, nor would memories cry every time a passing name crosses the heart. Adel rose from his place and prepared the washing room to get ready for her burial, while Yara listened from her room to the screams of the women that tore her heart out like the trunk of an empty palm tree.
In the washing room, there were three women. One of them was Kawthar, Sheikh Yaqout's older sister. A woman of great dignity and awe, whose word was heard just like the sheikh's. Her hair was a mix of gray and the remnants of youth, her eyes dark brown, her hair tied in coiled braids, and her body slightly full. She wore a black abaya that revealed nothing of her body. The other two were her daughters, Durriya and Ishq, twenty-seven-year-old twins with cold features, unafraid of the sight, having been accustomed since childhood to such rituals with their mother. While there was no one else with Fatima's body, Kawthar said in a low, yet piercing voice like an arrow, running her palm over Fatima's cold forehead:
— Only now will the sea hear her name, and the mountains open their eyes... The covenant is no longer words, but blood flowing, and from tonight the signs will begin.
Durriya suddenly raised her head and said with suppressed anxiety:
— Are you sure, Mother? The girl hasn't come of age yet.
Kawthar interrupted her with a sharp look that made the air freeze in the room:
— The covenant does not wait for age to complete, but for the moon to complete.
Then she leaned close to the corpse's ear and whispered as if Fatima could still hear:
— Rest assured... we will guard the secret. But if it is broken, Umm Al-Huwaitat will not remain as it was, and no one will survive.
After Kawthar finished her words, she asked her daughters to tightly shut the door to continue the washing rituals. The washing room door was closed tightly, separating the inside from the world, and Fatima remained alone with three women who knew what no one else did. Silence reigned for a moment, an overwhelming silence heavier than death itself, before Kawthar stepped forward with steady steps, her cane leaning against the wall, her eyes never leaving the laid body. She said in a low but commanding voice:
— Begin.
Durriya lit a small incense burner, and thick smoke rose with a pungent smell, a mixture of seaweed and ancient incense, as if the village itself was being washed with Fatima. Durra slowly poured the warm water, flowing over the frail body, while Durriya carefully ran her hands, not like someone washing a dead person, but like someone bidding farewell. Kawthar watched every movement while humming short verses, not usually said during washing, but these were no ordinary rituals. She stopped suddenly and pressed her cane against the floor, making her daughters tremble.
— Pay attention... do not let the water touch the chest for too long.
The twins exchanged a silent look, then obeyed. With every drop of water, Fatima's face grew calmer, as if the pain that accompanied her in life was finally retreating. When the washing was finished, the body was dried carefully. Only then did Kawthar pull out a dark veil from under her abaya, its fabric heavy and so old that its color was no longer recognizable. She held it with both hands, bringing it close to Fatima's face, whispering:
— This you carried alone... and now we return it to its place.
She passed the veil over the forehead and eyes, then folded it slowly and placed it over the heart. Ishq felt a shiver run through her body and whispered:
— Mother...
Kawthar interrupted her in a tone that accepted no questions:
— Silence... The secret is buried in silence.
Kawthar unfolded the white shroud. Then the body was wrapped layer after layer, and every fold was like folding a story that hadn't been told. At the last knot, she pulled the tie tightly and said as if closing a door:
— The covenant is safe... for now.
Outside, the coffin was waiting. The body was carried, and the men walked with it through the paths of Umm Al-Huwaitat. After a long walk, the sea was near, sending its faint wailing, and the mountains stood as witnesses, silent, as if they knew what was being hidden in the earth. Adel walked in the front, his back bent, his heart shattered, barely able to stand. Behind him, Yara walked as if she wasn't touching the ground. She didn't cry, but her eyes were fixed on the wood of the coffin, feeling as if her soul was being buried with it. After a while, they reached the cemetery at the edge of the sea. The sand was wet, and the waves approached then retreated, in a movement resembling breathing. The coffin was lowered, and the men stepped forward to the grave. Adel, leading them, stopped at the edge of the grave, fell to his knees, and reached out his trembling hand. He didn't touch the shroud, just stopped close to it, and whispered:
— Forgive me...
The dirt was poured. Handful after handful, and with every fall of sand, the sea crashed against the nearby rocks, as if objecting or participating in the mourning. When the burial was finished, the stone was placed, and a long silence prevailed. Behind the men stood Kawthar, looking at the grave, then at the sea, and whispered so only those who knew could hear:
— The door is sealed.
People drifted away one after another, and Yara remained standing alone for moments. She felt a cold breeze wrapping around her neck, as if her mother was hugging her for the last time. Her tears fell after she had been holding up all along the way, but she could no longer bear it, as if she were wearing a heavy necklace that suddenly broke, its beads scattering to cover the ground beneath her. She slowly approached her father, placed her hand on his galabiya, pulling it, and said crying:
— Let's go, Father. Let's go back home.
He looked at her with pity, feeling her small heartbeat from where he was. He fell to his knees and hugged her, saying:
— She has gone to another place, a world different from this one. Yes, we loved her, and she loved no one more than us.
Yara interrupted him, questioning his words:
— If she loved us, why did she leave us...
If she loved us, why did she leave me?
He patted her head while both their tears fell on each other's shoulders and said:
— Because her Creator wanted her by His side, in a faraway place without pain, suffering, or sorrow.
Yara slowly raised her head, her eyes red, and her voice barely audible, as if the words came out of fear, not sadness:
— I don't want to be sad again, Father. Promise me you will stay with me all the time.
He stood up holding her hand, and they walked away together from the cemetery. With every step, Yara felt something being torn from behind her, as if the earth was still holding onto the edge of her soul. She turned around unconsciously, looking at the grave for the last time... and she imagined the dirt moved a little, then became still.
She shivered, quickly turned her face away, buried her head in her father's arm, and whispered in a broken voice:
— Goodbye, Mother.
After everyone had left and the light vanished from the sky, the village's oil lamps were lit one by one. On that very night, Sheikh Yaqout was sitting at the threshold of his mud house, his back slightly bent, his fingers slowly turning the beads of his rosary, as if time itself had grown heavier. The air was stagnant; no breeze moved the palm fronds, and there was no sound except for his heavy breathing.
Suddenly...
The silence was shattered by the sound of stumbling footsteps, approaching him, then stopping, then approaching again. The sheikh raised his head to see the identity of the person coming from afar. It was Yazeed, the fisherman who had never known fear. But his face now was not the face of a man returning from the sea; it was the face of someone emerging from a nightmare. His eyes were wide, his lips blue, and his clothes dripping with salty water that reeked of a suffocating rot. The sheikh said to him in a dignified voice:
— What is wrong with you, Yazeed?
Yazeed replied to Yaqout in a hoarse voice, as if the words were being forcefully pulled from his chest:
— Our Sheikh... the tide tonight did something I have never seen in my life.
The sheikh stood up slowly, as if his joints were protesting the movement, and took one step forward.
— Speak, Yazeed, and do not hide anything.
The fisherman's hand trembled, and he pointed towards the sea without turning to look at it, as if afraid to see it again, then said:
— The tide threw the fish onto the shore... not one or two fish... but hundreds.
Their bodies laid out on the sand, their mouths open as if screaming, their eyes glassy... staring at the sky.
He swallowed hard, then continued in a lower voice:
— Not a single wound on them, no trace of nets, no blood.
As if one thing... passed underwater and pulled their souls all at once.
Fear crept into the air, so much that the rosary stopped turning.
The sheikh stepped closer, looked deeply into Yazeed's eyes for a long time, and then said:
— Did you see anything else?
Yazeed nodded slowly.
— It wasn't the sea, Sheikh... It was a black entity, like a ghost, walking on the water, raising and lowering the waves without any noticeable sound, as if that shadow stifled the breath of the waves.
Yazeed said:
— Do you know what this is, Sheikh?
The sheikh's lips trembled, he muttered a short verse, and then said in a faint voice carrying the terror of knowledge:
— If the fish die for no reason... know that the water itself is afraid.
And at that moment, the sound of a distant wave echoed, crashing violently against the rocks,
As if the sea... was confirming what had been said.