BOUND BY LEDGER
In the heart of old Lahore, where narrow alleys whispered forgotten tales and time clung to crumbling walls, stood a haveli—ancient, abandoned, and veiled in mystery.
Locals spoke of it only in hushed tones, calling it "Jinn Ka Makaan". No one lived there. No one dared.
They said a jinn resided within—a girl cloaked in shadows and sorrow, who had once been wronged so deeply that hatred had become her very soul. Her presence was like cold smoke—unseen but heavy, wrapping itself around any boy who dared to venture near the haveli.
And if any man crossed its threshold?
He would never return.
After nearly a decade abroad, Dr. Shezad finally returned home.
The renowned archaeologist had spent years uncovering forgotten ruins across Europe. Yet something had pulled him back to his homeland—something deeper than nostalgia, heavier than memory. He arrived in Lahore.
As his train rolled into the station, the sky darkened unnaturally & sudden gust of wind howled through the plaƞorms, scattering dust and loose papers. The moment Shezad stepped off, his cap he nearly flew away. He gripped it down with one hand, the other dragging his suitcase through the chaos of the storm. People scurried for cover, but he stood still, eyes scanning the horizon, searching.
He began asking for directions.
“To Mr. Khan’s old haveli,” he said.
A silence fell. Faces turned. Some widened in alarm, others furrowed with disbelief. One elderly man crossed himself and backed away. A few locals encircled him, their voices low and urgent.
“You don’t know?” one of them whispered. “That place... it’s not Mr. Khan’s haveli anymore.”
“What do you mean?” Shezad asked.
“It’s Jinn ka Makaan now.”
They told him the tale—how no one lived there anymore, how men who passed by the gate vanished without a trace, how the air around it whispered things only the damned could hear.
But Dr. Shezad didn’t flinch.
“I have to go,” he said simply.
And they didn’t know—they couldn’t have known—that he wasn’t just a visitor.
He was the heir.
Shezad leave the murmuring crowd and hailed a taxi. The driver hesitated at first, but money made him bold.
As the car wound through the narrowing lanes of old Lahore, the sky deepened into an unnatural dusk. A kilometer away from the haveli, the taxi slowed.
“I won’t go any further, sir,” the driver said nervously, glancing at the rearview mirror. “No one goes past this point.”
He pulled his coat tighter and walked alone, his footsteps echoing eerily through the empty street.
At the end stood the haveli—grand, imposing, and veiled in darkness. Vines clung to its outer walls like veins, and the iron gates loomed taller than he remembered.
Just as he reached them, the gates creaked open on their own.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old wood and something else—something metallic and ancient. A chill crawled up Shezad’s spine. The wind roared outside, but within the haveli, there
was silence. Heavy, waiting silence.
He switched on his phone's flashlight and began to search for the main switchboard. As his fingers found it and he flicked the power on, a strange thing happened.
The chandeliers lit up one by one. Warm yellow light bathed the grand hall.
And everything was spotless.
The floors shone. The curtains swayed gently. The antuque furniture stood polished and perfect. It was as if the haveli had never been abandoned. As if it was waiting for someone to come back.
Shezad walked deeper inside. The house, strangely, did not threaten him. There were no whispers, no shadows reaching out. He was not harmed. Unlike the stories he had heard—of boys vanishing just by walking past the gate—he felt almost welcomed.
That night, he chose a room and stayed there.
NEXT MORNING
Morning in Lahore brought no peace.
The clouds still hung low and thick, refusing to break, as if the sky itself was holding its breath. Dr.Shezad stepped out of the haveli and into the street, the iron gates creaking closed behind him.
The roads were wet from last night’s strange rain, and the air carried a heaviness that settled deep in the lungs.
He walked through the narrow alleyways, making his way to the local bazaar for essentials. It had been years since he’d walked these roads—yet they looked unchanged. Time moved slower here, tangled in the vines of old walls and memories that refused to fade.
But as he entered the market, the atmosphere shifted.
It started subtly. A few heads turned.
Then more. Conversations dropped off mid-sentence. A rickshaw driver stopped mid-turn, staring at him. Children who had been laughing moments earlier went quiet, clutching their mother’s dupattas.
It was as if a ghost had walked into their midst.
Shezad approached a small corner shop and handed over a list. “Some basic groceries,” he said.
The shopkeeper took the list with trembling hands. His eyes widened as he read Shezad’s name.
You... you’re the one who went into the haveli last night?” he asked, voice low, as though the walls might be listening.
Yes,” Shezad replied calmly. “I used to live there, long ago. It was my grandfather’s.”
“You stayed the night… and came back?”
A stunned silence spread like fire through the bazaar. Within moments, people began gathering at the entrance of the shop—men, women, curious children peeking from behind stalls.
“He went inside Jinn Ka Makaan and survived?”
“Impossible…”
“No one returns from that place. No one.”
Shezad met their stares, confused but composed. “I appreciate the concern,” he said. “But I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
An old man stepped forward from the crowd—white-bearded, hunched, his eyes milky with age but sharp with fear. “It’s no tale, son. That haveli... it breathes. It listens. And the spirit within—she remembers. You are not welcome.”
Shezad held his grocery bag Ɵghter, offered a polite nod, and turned away.
The whispers followed him through the lanes.
Back at the haveli, he set the groceries down on the dining table, drank a glass of water, and went upstairs to freshen up.
What was it about this place that stirred so much terror?
Why was it untouched after all these years, yet gleaming like someone had cleaned it that morning?
And who—if anyone—was still living there?
As he came back down, heading toward the kitchen, a sound stopped him.
A girl crying.
Soft. Mournful. Heart-wrenching.
Shezad followed the sound through dimly lit corridors, each step echoing louder than it should. The cries led him to an old study—his grandfather’s. He pushed the door open.
Nothing.
The room was untouched, filled with rows of clean, neatly arranged books.
"Am I imagining things?" he muttered to himself.
He browsed the collection, curious about the kind of knowledge his grandfather had gathered. Old texts, handwritten notes, dusty blueprints of ancient ruins.
Then, a peculiar title caught his eye:
Kitaab-e-Ishq.
The Book of Love & Betrayed.
It seemed out of place in a room filled with scholarly texts. Intrigued, he reached for it.
But before he could open the book, a loud crash echoed from the kitchen.
He flinched.
Leaving the book behind, he rushed downstairs—unaware that behind him, in the study, the cover of Kitaab-e-Ishq slowly opened on its own.
Shezad stepped into the kitchen, hoping for a quiet morning. Instead, his eyes landed on an odd sight.
The refrigerator door was wide open. Grocery items lay scattered across the floor—milk packets torn, tomatoes squashed underfoot, and a trail of spilled flour dusted the black tales like snow.
Shezad blinked, unsure if he was hallucinating again.
"You’ve got to be kidding me," he muttered.
He carefully picked up the cat, surprisingly warm and weightless in his arms, and placed her on rough in the corner. He poured some milk into a bowl and set it beside her. She purred, brushing her tail against his hand.
As he turned back to clean up the mess, a sudden ring echoed through the haveli—a sharp, oldfashioned doorbell that sounded far too loud in a house that had been silent for years.
He froze.
"Who… could that be?"
The time on the wall clock read 7:07 AM.
He made his way to the front door, footsteps echoing on the marble floor. A part of him whispered not to open it.
He did anyway.
Standing at the threshold was a young woman.
She was strikingly beautiful, her presence almost too perfect for the crumbling world behind him.
She wore a simple pale kurta, her hair tied loosely, and her emerald-green eyes sparkled like glass catching morning light. They seemed… ancient, as though they remembered things long before her time.
Shezad found himself staring.
“Uh… yes?” he said finally, his voice catching slightly.
“Hello,” she said with a soft smile.
“I’m Arna. I heard someone had moved into the haveli. Thought you might need help with cleaning… cooking. You know. Helpers are hard to come by here.”
He frowned.
“That’s kind of you, but… I didn’t ask for help. I don’t even know how anyone knows I’ve moved in.”
“Oh,” she said casually, “word travels. You’ve asked around for this place. People noticed.”
Shezad paused. “Still… I didn’t mention I was alone.”
Arna looked at him, her smile not fading. “It’s not hard to guess. This haveli isn’t exactly built for families anymore.”
He was about to say something else when the white cat suddenly darted between his legs and slipped outside. Arna’s eyes followed it.
For the briefest moment, something flickered across her face—recognition? Surprise? Something less human?
The wind rose around them, as if the haveli itself had drawn a breath.
Shezad stepped aside. “You can come in,” he said slowly, unsure why he’d said it. Unsure what drew him to trust a stranger… especially one with eyes that looked like they belonged in legends.
Without a word, she stepped inside—and began walking.
Shezad watched her quietly. He assumed she’d head toward the kitchen. But instead, she moved toward the north corridor, the one that led to the old study—his grandfather’s library. The place no one had entered since Shezad arrived.
He frowned.
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