Chapter 5 the chronicle
The Return
Darkness swallowed the basement so completely that Rahma felt it press against her skin.
Her breath trembled out of her in a thin, uneven stream.
Above them, the footsteps began.
Slow.
Heavy.
Deliberate.
The sound of someone who did not need to rush.
Someone who believed the house — and everyone in it — already belonged to them.
Rahma's fingers clenched around the metal pen.
Her torch was useless now; the bulb had died with a pop that still rang in her ears.
The man beside her whispered, voice barely a breath:
"Don't speak."
She didn't.
Another footstep.
This one closer to the basement door.
Rahma could picture the hallway clearly — every peeling strip of wallpaper, every creaking board — and the shadow standing on the other side of that door, hand outstretched, ready to turn the knob.
Her heart hammered painfully.
The man stepped closer to her. She felt the faint displacement of air near her shoulder.
"They know you're here," he murmured.
"But they don't know you're not alone."
His tone held a warning she didn't understand.
Rahma's voice slipped out as a whisper she barely recognised as her own.
"Who is it?"
The man didn't answer.
Instead, he moved silently through the dark.
She heard his coat brush against the wall — soft fabric on rough wood — then nothing.
He vanished into the black.
Rahma's lungs tightened.
"Wait—" she whispered.
A hand covered her mouth before the word fully left it.
She gasped, jerking back, but the hand held her gently, not forcefully — firm enough to silence her, but not to harm.
His voice reached her ear, barely audible:
"Stay behind the beam. No matter what you hear."
She didn't know what the beam was.
She didn't ask.
She couldn't.
Because the basement door above them groaned open.
Light spilled down the stairs in a thin, sickly gold line — a wedge cutting the darkness apart.
Rahma froze.
A silhouette stood at the top step.
Tall.
Still.
Watching the basement like someone surveying a familiar room.
Rahma's vision blurred at the edges.
She recognised the shape.
The shoulders.
The stance.
Her blood iced.
No.
No — impossible —
The figure descended one step.
"Rahma?"
The voice drifted down.
Her mother's voice.
Rahma almost collapsed.
Her mother — thin, composed, the same soft cadence — except laced with something else now… something hollow.
Something practiced.
Rahma's knees weakened.
"Mum…" she whispered before she could stop herself.
The man's hand tightened over her mouth, stronger this time, warning her to shut up immediately.
Up the stairs, her mother paused — head tilting, listening.
Then she descended another step.
"Rahma, sweetheart… are you down there?"
Her tone was light. Almost casual.
As if she were calling her daughter to dinner.
Rahma trembled violently.
Her mother took another step.
The light cut further down the basement wall.
Another silhouette appeared behind her — broader, darker.
Her father.
Rahma could barely breathe.
Her parents stood together at the top of the stairs, looking down into the dark where their daughter hid.
And her mother smiled.
Even from the dim light, Rahma saw it.
Soft.
Warm.
Wrong.
"You came back earlier than they told us," her mother said gently. "I knew you would."
Rahma felt the man pull her deeper into the basement shadows.
Her father spoke next — his voice lower, colder, far too calm.
"Come upstairs, Rahma. There's no reason to be down there."
Rahma's chest convulsed.
The basement.
The hidden door.
The straps on the chair.
The bracelet.
The symbol.
And now her parents.
Here.
At night.
Waiting.
She felt the man shift beside her.
His lips brushed her ear.
"They'll try to coax you," he whispered.
"They always do."
Rahma's eyes stung with panic.
"What do they want?" she breathed.
His answer was a blade:
"You."
Her mother stepped to the second-to-last stair.
Her voice softened to a calculated hush.
"Rahma, sweetheart… come to us. We only want to talk."
The man tightened his hold on her wrist.
Rahma whispered, trembling:
"What do I do?"
He leaned in.
"Don't move."
Her mother's shadow stretched long across the basement floor.
"We've been waiting years for you to come back to the room," her mother said gently.
"Don't make this difficult."
Rahma's heart felt like it might burst through her ribs.
Her father's voice followed, quieter, darker.
"Come upstairs… or we'll come down."
Rahma squeezed her eyes shut.
Her mother took another step.
Then her father.
Then—
The man next to Rahma finally spoke aloud, voice cutting through the dark like a blade drawn from a sheath.
"Don't take another step."
The basement froze.
Her parents went still — unnaturally still — like statues carved from shadow.
Her mother's voice lost every hint of warmth.
"…You."
Her father's reply was venom.
"So the traitor crawled back."
Rahma's blood turned to ice.
The man stepped forward at last — out of the shadows.
Her mother inhaled sharply but did not retreat.
"You were warned never to return," she said.
"And you were warned," the man replied coldly,
"that if you touched her again, I'd burn this house down with all of you inside."
Rahma's breath broke.
Her parents' silhouettes stiffened.
Her father's voice was deadly calm.
"She belongs with us."
"No," the man said.
"She never did."
Rahma wiped at her eyes — she couldn't tell if she was crying or shaking.
The man stepped fully into the beam of light at last, hood falling back, face revealed just enough for her to see him clearly.
And Rahma's knees nearly buckled.
She knew his face.
Not from the news.
Not from the investigation.
From a photograph on the mantle.
The mantle in this house.
Her family's house.
A photograph of her fifth birthday.
He'd been there.
Standing beside her.
Smiling.
Younger.
Unscarred.
Holding her hand.
Her voice cracked open, barely a whisper:
"…Uncle Idris?"
His eyes met hers
"Run"
Chaos Unleashed
Rahma's heart slammed against her ribcage.
Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps.
Her pen — useless against the storm that was about to hit.
"Run," Idris whispered again, voice low but insistent.
She didn't wait to think.
She sprinted.
The basement floorboards groaned beneath her feet.
Her mother's voice, soft and chilling, called after her.
"Rahma… stop this!"
Her father followed, slower, measured, every step deliberate.
Rahma's instincts kicked in.
She didn't look back.
She didn't need to.
She followed Idris through a side passage he had revealed in seconds — a narrow crawlspace she'd never noticed as a child, cleverly hidden behind a false shelf of boxes.
The darkness pressed against her.
Dust choked her throat.
Her chest burned.
But she ran.
Behind her, the shouts began.
Familiar voices twisted with malice.
Her mother, her father — both commanding the shadows.
"You cannot escape!" her father's voice boomed.
"Not tonight!"
Rahma crawled forward, scraping her palms raw against the brick walls.
Idris was just ahead — a shadow leading her, the only tether to survival.
A sudden metallic clink echoed.
Her mother had thrown something — a key? No — a heavy object, clanging against the floor near the crawlspace entrance.
Rahma's pulse tripled.
They were closing in faster.
Idris whispered urgently:
"Through here! Hurry!"
They emerged into a smaller room — a forgotten storage chamber she'd never seen.
Old crates, dust, and cobwebs filled the corners.
A single broken window let in a sliver of moonlight, silver on the floor.
Rahma froze for barely a second — long enough to register Idris's hand on hers, pulling her toward the window.
"Jump," he hissed.
She obeyed.
The cold night air hit her like knives as they dropped into the garden.
Twigs and dirt clawed at her legs.
Pain shot up her arms, but she ignored it.
Behind them, a scream — her mother, furious, unnatural.
And then her father's calm, cold laugh.
Rahma scrambled to her feet.
Idris turned toward her.
"They'll follow," he said.
"They always do."
Rahma's breath came ragged, body trembling.
Her mind spun.
She had thought she was prepared for any horror.
She wasn't.
The estate loomed beyond the garden — the shadows of it stretching across the surrounding buildings like claws.
"They've taken other children before," Idris said quietly, almost to himself.
"They always leave a trail… a path to madness."
Rahma's gaze sharpened.
"The boy," she whispered.
"Habeeb — they have him, don't they?"
Idris didn't answer immediately.
He only nodded once.
Her stomach sank.
The garden behind them rustled.
Movement.
Figures emerging from the shadows.
Tall, lithe, silent.
Her parents weren't alone.
"Go!" Idris shouted.
"Through the alley — straight to the canal!"
Rahma followed blindly.
Branches tore at her face.
Cold mud clung to her shoes.
Footsteps followed — many, fast, precise.
Her parents' voices intermingled with others, distorted, commanding, almost inhuman.
Rahma stumbled but Idris caught her.
"You have to run faster!" he urged.
She obeyed, lungs burning, legs like lead.
The canal appeared ahead, a ribbon of black water slicing through the night.
She didn't look back.
She didn't want to see the figures advancing.
The water was icy, unforgiving.
She plunged in, shock biting at every nerve.
Idris followed immediately.
They swam to the opposite bank, dragging themselves onto the muddy shore.
Behind them, the night erupted in shouts and pounding steps.
Rahma gasped, shaking violently, trying to rid herself of the cold, of the fear, of the knowledge that they hadn't escaped — only survived this moment.
Idris pressed a hand to her shoulder.
"They won't stop," he said, voice grave.
"They never do."
Rahma swallowed hard.
Her thoughts spun.
Her parents.
The boy.
The basement.
The hidden rooms.
"They took him," she whispered.
"They have Habeeb."
Idris's jaw tightened.
"They're going to try again," he said.
"Tonight. You need to remember everything, Rahma. Everything hidden… before they decide you're next."
Rahma nodded.
Her hands still shook.
But her mind began to focus, sharpened by terror and adrenaline.
She would not run forever.
She would not hide forever.
Because tonight, the darkness was waiting for her.
But she was done being afraid.