The Sixth Morning

My name is Noor, and I’m from the island of Rodrigues. This happened last August, during the hottest week of the year. I remember the exact moment because the clock in the living room had just chimed five, and the air was thick with the scent of jasmine from the garden. My mother, my younger brother, and I were having tea, as we did every evening, when my aunt Leena should have walked through the door. She was never late. Not once in forty years.

An hour passed. My mother’s forehead creased with worry. ‘She must have missed the bus,’ she said, but her tone betrayed her. My brother and I exchanged glances. When the door finally clicked open, we all turned. Aunt Leena stepped inside, but something was off. She didn’t greet us. She didn’t even look at us. She walked straight past, her sandals slapping against the tiled floor, and disappeared into her room. The door slammed shut, and the sound of the lock turning was like a finality.

We sat in stunned silence. My mother called out her name, but there was no answer. After a few minutes, she tried the door. Locked. From inside, we heard a low, rhythmic sound, like a lullaby, but none of us recognized it. My mother knocked harder, but the singing continued, uninterrupted.

When dusk fell and the call to prayer echoed from the mosque, I left, but a cold knot had formed in my stomach. When I returned, my mother’s face was pale. ‘She won’t speak to anyone,’ she whispered. ‘She just sits on the bed, staring at the wall. I’m scared.’ We knew we had to call my uncle Farid. He was the only one who could fix such things.

Uncle Farid arrived within the hour, a tall, weathered man with a leather satchel. He had a reputation for dealing with, as he called them, ‘unsettled matters.’ He listened to my mother’s account, then approached the locked door. He placed his palm against the wood, closed his eyes, and muttered something under his breath. A moment later, he withdrew his hand as if burned. ‘She’s not alone,’ he said, his voice barely a whisper.

He insisted we all stay in the living room while he worked. We heard him speaking to Aunt Leena through the door, his voice low and gentle, but she responded with that same eerie humming. Then, after an hour, the singing stopped. A profound silence fell, so heavy that the ticking of the grandfather clock seemed deafening. When Uncle Farid emerged, his face was ashen. ‘It was a spirit,’ he said. ‘A woman, restless for centuries. She’s attached herself to Leena.’ He refused to say more.

That night, no one slept. We took turns sitting on the floor outside Aunt Leena’s room. At 3 a.m., I was on watch when I heard a faint rustling from inside, like fabric dragging across the floor. I pressed my ear to the keyhole. I heard my aunt’s voice, but it wasn’t her. It was a childish giggle, followed by the words, ‘Six more mornings.’ The chill that ran down my spine was colder than the sea in winter.

The next day, Aunt Leena refused to eat. She sat by the window, her eyes fixed on the horizon, rocking back and forth. My mother begged her to speak, but she only smiled—a smile that was not her own. Uncle Farid returned with bundles of dried herbs and a worn book. He burned the herbs in the hallway, filling the house with a bitter smoke. The humming stopped, but the silence that followed felt even more sinister.

On the third morning, Aunt Leena walked to the kitchen as if nothing had happened. She poured herself tea, sat at the table, and said, ‘Good morning.’ My mother burst into tears of relief. But I noticed her hands trembling. And when she looked at me, there was a vacancy in her eyes, as if she were looking through me. I tried to hug her, but she pulled away, muttering, ‘Come forward.’ That night, I dreamt of a vast, dark field, and in the distance, a woman in white standing under a dead tree. She didn’t move, but I could hear her voice in my mind: ‘You can’t stop it.’

On the fifth morning, Aunt Leena began to speak in a language none of us knew. The words flowed like water, soft and melodic, but filled with anguish. Uncle Farid grew more frantic. He performed rituals, drew symbols on her door, and burned more incense. But each evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, she would retreat to her room and sing that same lullaby. I started to count the mornings. That’s when I realized: it was the sixth morning today. And at 5 p.m., she would have been home for exactly six days.

On the sixth morning, Aunt Leena emerged from her room looking radiant. She wore her favorite yellow dress, which she hadn’t worn in years. She hugged each of us, whispering, ‘I love you.’ My mother cried, clutching her, but I noticed a dark shadow in her eyes, and her hands were ice-cold. Uncle Farid stood in the corner, his face a mask of dread. ‘It’s now or never,’ he said.

At 5 p.m., the clock chimed. Aunt Leena sat in her chair, smiling. Then, her expression changed. Her eyes widened, and she started to scream, but it wasn’t her voice. It was a chorus of voices, overlapping, screaming in pain. The room grew freezing, and the lights flickered. Uncle Farid shouted something in Arabic, but the noise only intensified. My mother grabbed my brother and me, pulling us behind the sofa.

Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. Aunt Leena was slumped in her chair, her head lolled to one side. When we approached, she was dead. There was no sign of struggle, no wound. Just a faint, sibilant whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere: ‘I am free.’

The next morning,, we held a small funeral for Aunt Leena. As we lowered her into the ground, I felt a chill, and I swear, for just a moment, I saw a woman in white watching from the edge of the cemetery, smiling. She vanished before I could point her out. Uncle Farid never spoke of it again, but he left the island soon after. I still have nightmares. Every day, at 5 p.m., I listen for the sound of a lullaby, and I pray to God it never comes. But sometimes, late at night, I hear that same childish giggle from the walls, and I know the spirit isn’t gone. It’s just waiting for the sixth morning of someone else.