The Man Who Asked for a Light

In the dusty outskirts of Multan, there was a winding lane called Kucha-e-Khali, which locals whispered about in hushed tones. It was said that after sunset, the shadows grew longer and the air grew colder, and more than one traveler had been scared witless by a headless figure that prowled its length. No one could say exactly where the story came from, but it was a warning passed down through generations: avoid the alley when the light fails.

Our grandfather, Rafiq, was a man of logic and little patience for superstition. He had spent his life as a schoolteacher, drilling into children the importance of evidence and reason. So when his neighbors cautioned him against taking Kucha-e-Khali on his way home from the mosque, he only laughed and waved them off. ‘I have walked this earth for sixty years,’ he said, ‘and I have yet to meet a ghost that can outreason me.’

That evening, after the Maghrib prayer, Rafiq lingered to discuss a minor point of scripture with the imam. By the time he stepped out, the dusk had bled into deep twilight, and the streets were nearly empty. He had a choice: the long way around, which would take an extra twenty minutes, or the shortcut through Kucha-e-Khali. He chose the shortcut, muttering to himself about the foolishness of grown men fearing a piece of land.

The alley was as he remembered: narrow, with brick walls on either side that seemed to lean inward as if trying to close in on him. The only light came from a single flickering bulb at the far end, casting a sickly yellow glow on the cracked pavement. Rafiq walked briskly, his footsteps echoing in the silence, but the silence itself felt unnatural, as if the world had held its breath. He told himself it was just the calm before a storm, but the air was dry and still.

He was halfway through when he heard it: soft footsteps behind him. He turned, but there was nothing there. He quickened his pace, telling himself it was just a cat or a piece of paper caught in the wind. But the footsteps grew louder, more deliberate, and then they stopped. Rafiq felt a cold sweat on his neck. He turned again, and this time he saw a figure emerging from the shadows at the entrance of the alley.

The figure walked with a steady, unhurried gait, but something was off. As it came closer, Rafiq’s blood ran cold: the man had no head. The neck was a clean, dark stump, and yet the body moved with purpose, dressed in a worn shalwar kameez, its sleeves flapping slightly. Rafiq’s heart hammered, but his feet seemed rooted to the ground. He wanted to run, but his legs refused to obey.

The headless man approached until it stood just a few feet away. Then, to Rafiq’s astonishment, it stopped and seemed to pause, as if waiting. And then it spoke. The voice was not a whisper or a wail; it was flat, polite, almost ordinary. ‘Excuse me, brother,’ it said. ‘Do you have a light?’

Rafiq’s mind raced. He had no lighter, no matches, and even if he did, he was frozen. But the man’s tone was so mundane, so utterly normal, that for a moment Rafiq felt a strange urge to laugh. He forced himself to speak, his own voice trembling. ‘No… I don’t smoke. I don’t have a light.’

The headless man tilted his empty neck as if nodding, and then said, ‘Thank you. May you walk in peace.’ And with that, he turned and walked back the way he came, disappearing into the darkness from which he had emerged.

Rafiq stood there for a long time, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He didn’t remember leaving the alley, but somehow he found himself at his door, fumbling for his keys. His wife saw his pale face and asked what was wrong, but he only shook his head and went straight to bed.

He never spoke of that night to anyone, not even to the neighbor who had first told him the story. But from that day on, he never again doubted the tales from Kucha-e-Khali. And whenever anyone asked him if he had a light, he would simply smile and say, ‘No, and I hope you never need to ask.’