The Mystery Files - Chapter 7: A Winter's Tap

Amanah moved through her Grade 8 classroom , rearranging desks for a lesson on Oscar Wilde's The Canterville Ghost.

After settling the usual complaints about seating arrangements, she divided the students into groups before looking up at the class.

"Has anyone here—or in your family—ever seen a ghost? Experienced something... supernatural?"

A ripple of laughter swept across the room.

"Teacher, ghosts don't exist!" one boy declared confidently. "We live in the age of AI!"

His friends burst into laughter, elbowing one another with the loud confidence only thirteen-year-olds could possess.

The girls, however, remained unconvinced.

One of them raised her hand.

"Teacher, ghosts do exist. My mother says they don't bother people unless they're disturbed."

A few boys snickered. One deliberately coughed to hide his laughter while another whispered something to his friend.

Amanah fixed them with a sharp stare.

"Behave."

The single word was enough.

Their smiles faded. They lowered their eyes and quietly opened their books and notebooks.

Amanah turned back to the girl with a warm smile.

"Your mother has taught you a valuable lesson."

She walked toward the centre of the classroom.

"But the question remains..."

"...has anyone actually experienced something like that?"

Silence.

No hands rose.

She waited patiently, encouraging them with a reassuring smile.

After several moments, a hand slowly lifted from the middle row.

It was James.

"Teacher," he began, "our old tenants claimed the portion they rented from us was haunted. Before long, they'd convinced half the neighbourhood it was true."

Several boys turned towards him.

"Really?"

"That's insane."

James rolled his eyes.

"They were only using it as an excuse not to pay the full rent."

The classroom erupted into laughter.

Amanah remained composed.

"People often invent stories when it benefits them, James."

Her eyes swept across the room once again.

"Anyone else?"

A hesitant hand rose from the back.

It was Shahzaib.

Quiet...

Reserved...

And known throughout the class for never exaggerating.

Several students noticed immediately.

"If Shahzaib has a story," one boy whispered, "it must be true."

Even a few girls nodded in agreement.

Amanah looked at him with curiosity.

"Go on, Shahzaib."

He leaned forward.

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Miss... my friend... he saw something last year."

The classroom became completely silent.

"It frightened him so badly..."

"...he ended up in the hospital with a fever that wouldn't break."

Every student turned towards him.

Even the boys who had been laughing moments earlier were listening intently.

"He was riding his bicycle through that deserted alley..."

"...the one connecting the police quarters with the aviation staff colony."

Two boys immediately looked at one another.

"Teacher," one of them spoke up, "I live in the aviation staff colony."

The other nodded.

"People really do avoid that road after sunset."

"My grandmother says there are bad influences there."

Amanah felt a sudden jolt of recognition.

It was the exact stretch of road her mother had described years ago.

Her fingers tightened around the novel in her hand, though she forced herself to remain calm.

"Why was he there alone?" another student asked.

"He's in Grade Ten," Shahzaib replied.

"Tall... athletic... the kind of boy everyone thought was fearless."

"He used to accept dares and cycle through places people believed were haunted."

Several boys exchanged impressed glances.

"But then came October..."

"...just before the Maghrib prayers."

He fell silent.

The pause made the classroom feel even quieter.

"So..."

A girl leaned forward.

"What did he see?"

Shahzaib lowered his voice even further.

"He saw it..."

"What?" the class whispered together.

Shahzaib looked around the room.

Then his eyes met Amanah's.

She already knew what was coming.

The place...

The timing...

Everything matched her mother's account.

He swallowed.

"Just... a head."

Silence.

"A woman's head..."

"...wrapped in a black scarf."

Several girls instinctively covered their mouths.

Others pressed their hands against their ears.

The boys frowned in disbelief.

"A head?"

"Without a body?"

"How is that even possible?"

Shahzaib ignored their questions.

He slowly nodded.

"It was floating..."

"And it called his name."

The classroom collectively flinched.

Only Amanah truly believed him.

"What name did it call?" she asked softly, praying the answer would be different.

Shahzaib spoke slowly.

"It called for..."

"...Raza."

A freezing chill raced down Amanah's spine.

The road.

The black scarf.

The name.

Everything matched.

"And then he fainted?" one student asked.

Shahzaib nodded.

"He only remembers seeing the head."

"The next thing he knew..."

"...he woke up in a hospital."

"Who took him there?" another student asked immediately.

"And who found him?"

Shahzaib shook his head.

"He doesn't know."

"He remembers nothing between seeing the head and opening his eyes in the hospital."

Amanah felt the colour drain from her face.

"Teacher..."

One of the girls looked at her with concern.

"Are you alright?"

Amanah quickly composed herself and smiled.

"Yes."

She glanced around the classroom.

"It's just that Shahzaib narrated the incident so vividly that it creates a picture in your mind."

She lifted the novel in her hand.

"Do you all agree?"

The students nodded.

"Yes, Miss."

"Good."

She smiled.

"And that brings us perfectly to today's lesson."

She held up The Canterville Ghost.

"Notice how Oscar Wilde also uses vivid imagery and carefully chosen sounds to immerse the reader in the story."

She looked around the classroom.

"Open your books."

"First page."

"The author's introduction."

That evening, in the warmth of their mother's room, Amanah recounted everything that had happened in her classroom. to her brother.

"It matches Mama's story perfectly," she said, absentmindedly tracing the rim of her teacup.

"The same location... the same black scarf... and the same name."

"...Raza."

Ali had listened without interrupting.

At last he spoke.

"Raza?"

He frowned.

"Again?"

Weeks had passed since the conversation in the kitchen, yet instead of fading, the mystery seemed to be growing stronger.

He rested two fingers beneath his chin, his sea-green eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

"This is the third data point, Amanah."

She looked at him curiously.

"Data point?"

Ali smiled faintly and took another sip of his tea.

"In computing, every independent piece of evidence is called a data point."

He set his cup down on the bedside table and slowly stood.

"When separate data points begin pointing toward the same conclusion..."

"...they become a pattern."

He glanced at the elegant portrait of their mother hanging on the wall.

"Mama saw it in 1986."

He raised one finger.

"Then Sajjad encountered the same apparition."

A second finger.

"And now Shahzaib's friend's experience from last year."

A third.

He turned towards Amanah.

"Three different witnesses."

"Three different periods."

"They don't know one another."

"They've lived completely different lives."

He slowly looked towards the dark window.

"And yet..."

"...they all describe the same road."

"The same floating head."

"The same black scarf."

"And the same name."

"...Raza."

He ran a hand slowly through his hair.

"Who is Raza?"

"Why does every encounter revolve around that name?"

Amanah watched him silently.

What frightened her wasn't his curiosity.

It was how logical he sounded.

Just then, Samina Siddiqui entered the room.

She immediately noticed Amanah's anxious expression.

Ali, however, remained absorbed in his thoughts.

He hadn't even realised she was standing there.

"Is the entity searching for a particular Raza?" he murmured.

He slowly turned towards his mother's portrait.

"Or..."

"...was Raza the person it once was?"

"Is it calling the only name it still remembers?"

He fell silent for several moments before speaking again.

"Or..."

"...is it searching for the one responsible for turning it into this?"

"A restless anomaly..."

"...a floating head trapped between worlds."

As he stared at the portrait, he suddenly noticed his mother's reflection in the glass.

She was standing silently at the doorway.

Her face had hardened.

Ali turned to look at her.

"What if it hasn't stopped searching because it never found the person it wants?"

"Ali!"

Amanah clutched her silver hoop earrings.

"Please stop."

"You're making it even more frightening."

She hurried to her mother and instinctively wrapped an arm around her.

"Mama..."

"Can I sleep in your room tonight?"

"Everything he's saying feels like a nightmare."

Samina rested a reassuring hand on Amanah's shoulder before fixing her gaze upon Ali.

"Ali."

Her voice carried authority that had guided her children since they were young.

"Don't let this consume you."

"Focus on your work."

"And stop frightening your sister."

She stepped closer.

The memory of 1986 still lingered in her eyes.

"I told you what I witnessed not because I wanted you to investigate it."

She paused.

"You think you're the first person to become curious."

A faint, weary smile crossed her face.

"I was exactly the same."

"For weeks I couldn't stop replaying that night in my mind."

"I even tried to learn more."

Her expression grew solemn.

"Then someone much wiser than me gave me one piece of advice."

"'Do not interfere with beings that do not belong to our world.'"

"I listened."

"I never pursued the mystery again."

"And I expect you to do the same."

Outside, the December night pressed silently against the windows.

The streets were unnaturally still.

Not even the sound of a passing vehicle disturbed the silence.

As Samina eased herself onto the bed, Amanah instinctively slipped beneath the blanket beside her.

Samina looked down at her daughter and smiled despite herself.

"Now, Amanah."

"Go to your own room."

"You've grown up."

"If you're going to spend hours discussing mysteries with your brother..."

"...then you should learn to be a little braver."

Amanah gave an embarrassed smile but made no attempt to move.

Before Ali could leave the room—

Tap.

A sharp knock echoed against the window.

It sounded as though someone...

...or something...

...had tapped on the glass.

Ali instinctively stepped towards the curtain.

Samina's voice stopped him immediately.

"Ali."

He looked back.

"Go to your room."

"You have work tomorrow."

He hesitated.

His hand hovered only inches from the curtain.

Before he could draw it aside...

Amanah instinctively reached for Samina's hand.

Samina gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"It's probably just a gust of wind."

"That's how the late December winds are."

She looked from one of them to the other.

"Now..."

"...instead of investigating every knock on the window..."

"...both of you should go to your rooms."

Neither Ali nor Amanah argued.

They knew there was little point.

Their mother possessed that rare balance of warmth...

...and unquestioned authority.

Even now...

...with both of them grown up...

...she could still make them feel like children.

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