Ghosts,!!!!! by Sana Vasi

: Ghost Story By: Sana T. Vasi When Nimaah was in fourth grade, her third best friend told her that evil spirits liked to sit in empty chairs and watch children sleep. “You have to be careful,” So Hee said with a nervous intensity—one that seemed out of place amidst the excited chatter that filled the cafeteria. “You don’t want them to get you.” Nimaah looked down, focusing on the mixture of soggy lentils and rice that had congealed at the bottom of her Mulan-themed lunchbox. “You are such a liar,” Anna—Nimmah’s second best friend—piped up, slamming her tray against the table. Drops of apple juice splattered onto her arm, and she flicked them off in annoyance. “I can’t wait to tell Ms. Ross about how you’re trying to scare Nimaah with your stories again. You’re going to be in trou-ble,” she sing-songed with glee. Nimaah didn’t believe in ghosts, of course; she was much too old to fall for another one of So Hee’s ridiculous lies. That didn’t stop her from racing through the narrow corridors of her house, and shoving chairs away from the general direction of her bedroom as soon as the sun went down. Her mom caught her on the third night. “What are you doing?” she asked—gentle concern criss-crossing her forehead. Nimaah’s chin trembled as she repeated what her friend had told her at lunch. Her mom pursed her lips, and tucked a coarse, wayward curl behind her ear, revealing a diamond stud that winked in the fading light. “Do you remember that prayer I taught you when you were little?” Nimaah shook her head. “Not by heart,” she admitted. “Do you remember what it means?” Nimaah paused. “You said it would help keep away the dark?” “It will.” She held out her hand, interlocking her fingers with her eldest daughter’s; marveling at how much she had grown. “Why don’t I start from the beginning, and you follow along.” *** Nimaah woke up with a pounding headache, an echo of her mother’s prayer trailing along the edges of her consciousness. She squinted through the muted sunbeams that shone through her blinds and traced patterns across her bedspread. She watched the shadows creep up the length of her body and slowly caress her cheek. “Shit,” she muttered. Reaching for her phone, the twenty-two year old knocked over a half-empty bottle of gin perched at the edge of her dressing table. The sound of shattered glass ricocheting off her tiled floor startled Nimaah out of her reverie. Amber liquid speckled her pale blue sheets, and she bit back a groan, making a mental note to do laundry sometime before the end of the week. “Shit,” Nimaah repeated. Four new voicemails from the American Red Cross; they kept asking her to donate blood, and she kept forgetting to tell them that she was anemic so that they would leave her alone. Her sister told her to just block their number, but Nimaah knew how hard telemarketers worked to solicit volunteers, and she didn’t want to risk hurting their feelings with outright rejection. Nimaah sighed, and scrolled through the rest of her notifications. Three missed calls from home. She hit redial before she could change her mind. “Assalam alaikum,” the cheerful tinny of those six syllables grated against Nimaah’s receding hangover. “I hadn’t heard your voice in a while, and I just wanted to check in. Is everything okay?” “Hi, mom,” she replied. “Yeah. Everything’s great.” “Are you sure?” Concern tugged at the end of her question, and Nimaah felt the weight of her mother’s worry settle heavy on her chest. “Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” “Your sister said you called her last night, and—” “I did?” “You don’t remember?” “Of course I remember,” Nimaah lied. Her feet dangled off the edge of her bed, and she jerked them back onto her lumpy mattress before shards of glass could pierce the naked soles. The sudden movement sent a wave of nausea rolling through her empty stomach. She gulped for air, then swallowed— the noise cutting through the silence on the other end. “Mom?” “Have you been drinking again?” Disappointment clipped at her mother’s words, and Nimmah felt suddenly, inexplicable worn out. “No, but—” “Because I looked it up online, and WebMD said that you shouldn’t mix alcohol with your medication—” “I know, Mom. I know.” “I’m just concerned sweetheart,” she continued. “You’re so young; I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. And when Ayla told me about your breakdown last night—” “My what?” “She said you were inconsolable—babbling on and on about how scared you were; how trapped you felt at home.” “Ayla was just overreacting. It’s what she does.” “Maybe you should ask your doctor to adjust your dose again.” “I don’t think that’s necessary,” Nimaah croaked. She desperately needed an aspirin. “Are you sure? Is this like what happened in fourth grade?” “Mom, no!” “Nimaah, you were terrified to go to bed—remember? You were convinced that, if you closed your eyes, you would never wake up.” “I was nine,” Nimaah said. “I’m too old to believe in bullshit ghost stories.” “Language.” “Dumbass ghost stories, then.” “Nimmah,” a warning. “Made-up ghost stories,” she amended. “Better,” her mom replied. A pause. “You could try praying again,” she suggested, her tone steeped in careful apprehension. “How long has it been since you read the Qur’an or performed namaz?” Nimaah didn’t reply. She thought about her mosollah, the one shot through with gold thread and adorned with images of the Kaaba at dawn. She thought about how much she used to love unfurling the heavy fabric during Maghrib—mimicking her parent’s movements as they kneeled forward in sujud. She thought about the unceremonious way she had shoved the rug into a box at the back of her closet a few months ago, letting it gather dust. “It’s been a while,” she said. *** Conversations with her mother always left Nimaah exhausted. After hanging up the phone, she reached for a six-pack tucked behind her headboard. “I could do with another drink,” she said to the empty room. *** Nimaah couldn’t sleep. Alcohol numbed her brain and buzzed at her fingertips—dousing her with an artificial calm so different from the fear that threatened to unravel her. Earlier that evening, she had run into her old roommate at a bar they used to frequent in college, and they had spent the rest of the night reminiscing over five dollar tequila shots that burned the back of their throats. “Oh my God, do you remember how much we used to come here,” Sara said. “Only because you wanted to fuck the bartender,” Nimaah replied. The room spun, and she reached for another drink. Sara giggled, and swatted at her friend. The blow landed on Nimaah’s shoulder, and she swayed in place, before tumbling off the barstool with a muffled thud. “So how’s the new place?” Sara asked after she clambered back onto her seat, “I’m so-o jealous. You have an entire house to yourself, while I’m still stuck sharing a room with my pain in the ass sister.” Nimaah dug her fingers into the underside of the table, feeling the cheap wood splinter beneath her nails. “It’s good,” she slurred. She thought about the night-light she had installed in the bedroom to keep away the dark. “A little lonely,” she added, almost as an afterthought. Back at home, Nimaah could feel the warm aftereffects of her night out slowly fading away. She grimaced at the chill that nipped at her exposed ankles, and tucked them away beneath the comforting weight of her blanket. It was cold, she realized. How did it get so cold? Unease tugged at her scattered thoughts. Nimaah sat up in bed, tucking her head between her knees in a vain attempt to slow her racing heart. “Alahumma Akhrijness min aldulumaat ilaa alnur,” she murmured softly. It didn’t help. *** Nimaah dreamed that she was walking down a narrow corridor. Every time she tried to move forward, something wrenched her back. She struggled with each, painstaking step, pulling at her constraints; hands scrabbling at empty pockets of air. The world went dark; syrupy-sweet tar encased her legs, rooting her in place. A gentle brush against her ear. An urgent hiss: “run, run, run, run, run.” *** She didn’t wake up.