By Ahmad Rayees
That evening was a Friday in autumn. I was sitting by the window pane and looking at the meadows beneath the mountain. The plot and idea for my new story changed colours as I watched the evening sky. The sun was vehemently trying to emerge from behind dense clouds that were outlined in silver. At a glance, it looked like a Renaissance painting, with a line of birds flying hurriedly towards an unknown destination.
I was engrossed by the beauty of the evening. Suddenly, the sun disappeared into the smoky oblivion of the phantom clouds. When the last rays of the embers reflected feebly on the heavily darkened sky, I could hear the shepherds shouting from the vast mountain peaks to their fellow men to hurry back to the tents. The bleating of the sheep and the clip-clop of their hooves on the rocky mountain echoed as they hurried to return to their dwellings. I felt a strange sadness without any obvious reason. Maybe I was overwhelmed with a sense of loss and abandonment.
I was still standing near the glass window, gazing at the sky. I could feel the northern wind pass through me, chilling my entire body. The dark night shrouded the valley with its creased onyx veil. Slowly, everything was immersed in a sea of darkness.
Yes, I needed to start. I was very keen to begin writing that very night and finish it as quickly as possible for a journal. I looked at my writing table—the blank white paper placed on the dark walnut surface seemed to be calling out to me. I could feel the pages waiting for words bleeding blue ink of pain and tears.
I have this irresistible urge to speak for those who have forgotten how to talk, who have forgotten how to cry, who have forgotten how to live. Maybe I will be the voice of the unheard. And maybe I am blessed to be a journalist and storyteller. But now, I feel lethargic, restless, and disturbed. I could feel the autumn creeping in with a deathly coldness hovering over the fallen leaves on this frosty night. Unlike previous years, this year autumn had arrived hurriedly with a cold vengeance. The rustling of dead leaves crumbling in the wind was unsettling, and I felt uneasy. I tried my best to calm the anxious spirit within me, to connect with the purity of those white sheets.
Time was ticking faster. Once again, I returned to my table and took the pen…
But—did I hear something?
Yes, I heard it again. I was distracted by noises from the distant forest. From the deep wilderness of the bushes, the haunting cries of wolves echoed, as if they had been left lonely and abandoned. I looked outside my window, then back at myself. Was I just imagining it? Was I hallucinating?
Suddenly, I was there—in front of them. I could see them clearly in the darkness, silhouetted against the white snow. When they saw me, they stopped howling and stared with shimmering red eyes.
Was I dreaming? Did I walk to them?
No… no…
I returned to my senses—to my reality! I was still sitting in my room. Just as I was trying to write the first line of my story, again I heard it. A faint sound of rustling leaves. The hollow whistle of the chilly wind gushed through the woods. It seemed as though autumn had conquered summer, pushing all living beings to their deathbed. The dried flowers were scattered by the wind. The buds had withered before they could bloom, ruthlessly destroyed—unable to spread fragrance and fill the valley with charm. Now everything had changed. Autumn was lashing wildly through the air with the howling wind, leaving grief and sorrow to linger on the withered branches.
The chilly wind blew fiercely, making the trees and their branches shiver. The cold night rendered everyone helpless and powerless. Humans stayed inside their homes, just like the animals in their burrows.
Did I hear an unnatural voice?
I sharpened my ears and listened.
Yes—I did hear a strange voice! It came from the nearby woods, from the bushes behind my house. It sounded like the voice of a mysterious person, filled with loss and sorrow. It wasn’t just a voice—it was more like a wail. I tried to ignore it, but it seemed to plead for help—something I couldn’t quite understand. No matter how hard I tried to focus on my story and look away, the voice disturbed my soul and compelled me to go out and uncover the truth.
The voice grew louder. It seemed like someone was standing in front of my house, knocking on the door. I waited for it to repeat, but the noise stopped.
Confused and tired, I turned back to my room. But something urged me on. With a compelling curiosity, I slowly opened the door and stood on the lawn. It was empty. There was no one.
With fear and uncertainty, I began walking in the direction of the voice. As I started moving, the invisible voice faded—but I continued to try to find it. I wanted to follow it. It was not only alluring, but terrifying. I wondered if it was just an illusion, leading me nowhere. Yet, the voice carried pain and helplessness that pushed me beyond imagination. I followed it through the narrow, bushy lanes of the forest in the dark of night.
The sky was starless, gloomy. The night was filled with ghostly noises from every direction. A waning crescent hid behind the clouds. I was aware of the danger, but I continued—driven by something deep inside me.
The lanes were lined with cold, dew-covered plants. The withered branches stood lifeless. Autumn hovered above them like a deadly witch. I reached the upper edge of the field where the forest met the mountain. The huge mountain stood like a dark phantom before me.
I stood under the walnut tree near the channel. The voice became faint. I crossed a small bridge to climb the hill, glancing at the dark water. It flowed from the river Jhelum, nourishing the upper mountain crops and connecting many villages like veins in a body. The clear glacier water flowed endlessly, season after season. It never stopped—an eternal source of hope.
And I remembered that day—the day we fought for that channel. How we went to the water authority office after sending so many applications which remained unanswered. We marched through town—fifty of us. Near the army camp, we had to walk one by one. Danish and I led with the petition signed by 500 villagers. Afnan and Usman chanted slogans, while Faris and Mujib carried placards. I had to calm them down to behave in the office…
Lost in thought, I didn’t realise how far I had gone. The voice still called—haunting and surreal.
Then, I heard laughter—children laughing.
By the stream, children were swimming and splashing, shrieking and giggling. They looked like marble statues come to life in the moonlight. I was stunned. How could they be playing on such a frosty night?
As I approached, my feet suddenly froze. I couldn’t move. I stood there, watching.
And once again—the mysterious voice.
The same voice that had pulled me from my home now called from close by. I turned and saw a woman in a long veil, her hair loose, her figure merging with the darkness. She gestured for me to leave the children and follow her.
Her blurred presence held me spellbound. I walked hurriedly, determined to stop her and see her face. I followed her along the channel until we reached a graveyard.
She turned to me and said, “I just want you to know that my children have disappeared and are buried in this unknown graveyard. I came here to take their blood-soaked clothes as our last memory.”
She cried, then added, “They will remain lost until the truth is unveiled.”
I tried to ask her who she was.
She replied, “We are the unknown truth.”
And then—she disappeared.
I screamed, “Hey… stop! For God’s sake, who are you?”
Suddenly—I woke up!
The alarm clock on the opposite wall read 3:00 a.m.
It was a dream.
As I tried to piece together the events, the haunting imagery still lingered. It felt so real—as if I had already known them, in another phase of my life, long ago.
Maybe I was one of them?
Why do I always walk among the dead in my dreams?
Dreams are often a jumble of our daily experiences, but they can also reveal our deepest fears or hidden desires. In them, we confront what already lives within us. Frosty nights are the darkest and most haunting, where we seek comfort in dreams that bind us to the painful echoes of the past and the uncertainties of the future. In this realm, a person’s core essence trembles, leaving them defenceless as the barren wilderness intrudes upon their imagination. These nightmares are as cold and unrelenting as the frost-covered nights themselves.
(The little ones who are sleeping will be haunted and continuously disturbed by the stories of children who were terrorised to death long ago in faraway places. Their serene sleep and dreams can be subverted by a red river that continually competes and devastates the territories beneath them).
Ahmad Rayees is a freelance journalist.
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