The Last Light in the Courtyard

I’m seventeen now, and I live in the UK, originally from Algeria. I’m Muslim, and this happened three years ago when I was fourteen.

We were visiting my grandmother’s village in the Aurès Mountains, staying at my Uncle Karim’s house. The village sits in a narrow valley, and the houses are packed together, built of stone and mud, with flat roofs and tiny courtyards. Uncle Karim’s house is at the end of a cul-de-sac, facing a crumbling wall that once belonged to a larger home. To the right is my cousin Yacine’s house; to the left, separated by a narrow passage just wide enough for two donkeys, is Aunt Fatima’s house. It was in that passage that it happened.

It was around half past ten at night. My mother asked me to go to Aunt Fatima’s to fetch some goat’s milk for my little brother, who was six and had a cough. I took Uncle Karim’s dog, a wiry terrier named Rusty, for company. The moon was half-full, casting a dim silver light, and the air smelled of dust and thyme. I walked the few steps to Aunt Fatima’s gate, a heavy wooden door studded with iron, and knocked. She opened after a moment, her face tired under her headscarf, and handed me a clay jug of milk. I thanked her and turned to leave.

As I stepped back out into the passage, Rusty suddenly stopped and planted his paws, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He was staring past the gate, into the darkness of the courtyard beyond. I followed his gaze. There was nothing there—just the bare earth, a few scraggly bushes, and the shadow of the wall. But Rusty’s hackles were up, and his growl grew sharper.

‘I see you,’ came a voice, thin and dry, like wind through dead leaves. It seemed to come from the wall itself. I froze. Rusty barked, a sharp, frantic sound. The voice laughed, a brittle sound that made my skin crawl. ‘I see you, boy. And I see the dog. The dog sees me too.’

I turned to run, but my legs felt like lead. The passage seemed to stretch, the walls closing in. I clutched the clay jug to my chest, the cold milk seeping through my shirt. Rusty was barking nonstop now, backing away, his tail between his legs. He turned and bolted past me, disappearing toward Uncle Karim’s house. I tried to follow, but my feet wouldn’t move. The voice spoke again, closer now, as if it had moved right behind me. ‘You’ll bring me to them.’

Then I felt a cold breath on the back of my neck, and a hand—not quite solid, like the touch of a wet shroud—pressed between my shoulder blades. I screamed, and the sound broke the spell. I tore forward, through the passage, out into the small courtyard where my uncle’s house faced the wall. I stumbled through the door, slammed it shut, and leaned against it, shaking. The jug slipped from my hands and shattered on the floor.

My mother came running, alarmed. ‘What is it? What happened?’ I could only point toward the door, gasping. Rusty was huddled in the corner, whimpering. Uncle Karim, hearing the commotion, came out and looked at me, his brow furrowed. ‘Did you see something?’ I nodded, and told them everything between shuddering breaths: the voice, the cold touch, the thing in the passage.

Uncle Karim’s face went pale. He exchanged a glance with my mother. Aunt Fatima, who had heard the noise, appeared at her door across the passage. ‘I thought I heard something,’ she said, her voice tight. ‘Ever since the old man died—’ She stopped, as if catching herself.

‘The old man?’ My mother asked. Aunt Fatima lowered her eyes. ‘The previous owner of that house. He died alone. They say he never left, that he lingers in the walls, waiting for someone to carry his curse.’ She stepped back, crossing herself—a habit she’d picked up despite being Muslim.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The image of that dark passage, the sound of that voice, stayed with me. I kept glancing out my window, across the courtyard, to the patch of darkness where the passage met the road. Rusty refused to go outside, even for his walk, and whined if I tried to coax him.

Two days later, my uncle decided to investigate. In daylight, the passage seemed ordinary: a strip of dry earth, maybe two meters wide, flanked by stone walls. At the far end, near the road, there was a small niche in the wall where old Omar, the previous owner, used to sit in the evening, smoking and watching the street. The niche was empty now, but as I walked past, I noticed something carved into the stone: a crude handprint, small, like a child’s, but with long, bone-thin fingers.

‘Uncle Karim,’ I called, pointing. He came over, ran his fingers over the carving. ‘It wasn’t there before,’ he said, frowning. He pulled out his phone and took a picture. I could see the rough lines, as if gouged by a fingernail. On a whim, I placed my hand over it—it fit perfectly, but the fingers extended nearly an inch beyond mine.

The next day, I decided to test the voice. I went to the passage alone, without Rusty, carrying a small lantern. The sun was setting, casting long shadows. I stood where I had heard the voice, and whispered, ‘If you’re there, show yourself.’ Nothing. The wind rustled the dry leaves. I felt foolish. Perhaps it had been my imagination, or a trick of the night.

But then, from the direction of the niche, a faint sound: a whisper, like sand rubbing against stone. I turned, and there, in the fading light, I saw a shadow against the wall—not my shadow, but a taller, thinner one, with an elongated neck and arms that hung too low. It didn’t move. I stared, and the shadow seemed to stare back.

I ran back into the house, slamming the door. I spent the rest of the evening indoors, refusing to leave my room. My mother found my behavior strange, but she didn’t press.

That night, I had a dream. In the dream, the passage was filled with a cold blue light. At the niche, stood the old man—a gaunt figure in a shabby kameez, his eyes hollow. He pointed at me and said, ‘You have my mark. You will carry me to the next world.’ When I woke, my left hand was cold and stiff, and on my palm was a faint red rash shaped like a handprint.

I showed my uncle. He examined it, his face grim. ‘It’s as I feared. The old man’s spirit has chosen you as his vessel. He wants you to finish his journey.’ He explained that Omar had died while on a pilgrimage, but his body was never found. His spirit returned home, but couldn’t rest because his rites were never performed. He needed someone living to carry his remains to the sacred spring in the mountains, where he could be laid to rest.

I was terrified. But my uncle assured me that if I did what he asked, the spirit would leave me alone. We agreed that the next morning, we’d go to the niche and make an offering, to ask the spirit how to proceed.

At dawn, we went to the passage. The niche looked different: the stone was damp, and a chill emanated from it. Uncle Karim lit a stick of incense and recited a prayer. Then we waited. After a few minutes, a low hum filled the air, and the handprint on the stone began to glow faintly.

A voice spoke, not from the wall, but from inside my head. ‘You must take me to the spring. Follow the dry riverbed north, past the old olive trees, until you reach the waterfall. I’ll guide you.’

So we prepared. Uncle Karim, my cousin Yacine, and I set out the next day, carrying a small wooden box with a piece of Omar’s clothing and some soil from his courtyard, as a stand-in for his body. Rusty refused to come, but that was okay.

The trek was exhausting. The sun was harsh, and the path was rocky. We followed the dry riverbed, and when we came to a fork, the voice in my head whispered, ‘Left.’ We obeyed. After several hours, we reached a hidden valley with a small waterfall, and at its base, a clear pool surrounded by reeds.

The voice said, ‘Here. Place the box in the water.’ I knelt, set the box on the surface, and it sank slowly. As it disappeared, I felt a release, like a heavy weight lifting off my shoulders. The nightmare ended.

We returned home, exhausted but relieved. The rash on my hand faded by the next day, and I never saw the shadow or heard the voice again. But the memory remains, and sometimes, in the darkest part of the night, I wake with a cold hand, thinking I feel a presence in the room. But when I look, there’s nothing—and I know that the old man has finally found his rest, but the mark he left will never truly fade. It’s a reminder that some doors, once opened, can never be fully closed.