The Whispering Lake

They say some lakes are born from tears — of sorrow, of longing, of despair. But the lake that rested quietly between the cursed mountains of Qalith was not born of anything human. It was a prison. A prison for something ancient. And something wicked.

For generations, the people of Darya Village had whispered about the lake in fearful tones. No one bathed in its waters, no one fished there, and no boats ever floated upon its mirrored surface. The elders warned children to stay away — not just because of the myths, but because those who disobeyed never came back.

But, as it always happens, some warnings become dares. And daredevils are born.

In the summer of 1983, when the crops withered and the rain forgot the land, a young man named Aamir grew restless. He was no fool, but poverty had made him desperate. His mother was sick, his father long dead, and the healer needed gold — something Aamir didn’t have.

One night, while listening to the drunken ramblings of the village madman, Aamir heard the tale that would set everything into motion.

> “The lake ain't just cursed,” the old man had hissed. “It’s alive. There’s a djinn in there, a prisoner since the world was fire and ash. But it still hears. Still grants.”

Aamir leaned in. “Grants what?”

“Wishes,” the madman croaked, eyes gleaming with madness and regret. “But never for free. You’ll pay with what you love most.”

---

Aamir couldn't shake the story. As days passed and his mother weakened, hope ran dry. That night, under a sky blanketed with trembling stars, he walked alone toward the forbidden lake.

The path was shrouded in fog and silence, as if nature itself was holding its breath. When he reached the lake's edge, a strange stillness settled around him. The water reflected nothing. Not the sky, not the trees — not even Aamir.

He fell to his knees. “If you are real,” he whispered, “help me. I’ll do anything. Just... save my mother.”

A ripple spread across the lake. Then, a voice — deep and sibilant — slithered from the water.

> “Anything?”

Aamir shuddered but stood firm. “Yes.”

From the depths, a shape rose — humanoid but vast, its skin like oil and eyes like burning stars. Horns spiraled from its skull, and mist curled around its form. It did not fully emerge but hovered just above the surface.

> “I am Jann-al-Ghul,” it hissed. “Bound by Solomon, cursed for eternity. Your plea reaches me through generations of silence. I will grant your wish. But remember... all things have a cost.”

Aamir hesitated, but the image of his mother lying pale and breathless gripped his soul. “Do it.”

The creature touched the water, and a red pulse surged outward, vanishing into the earth.

> “It is done,” the djinn said. “Your price will come. When the moon is full and your soul ripe.”

Then it was gone.

---

Aamir returned to the village to find his mother sitting up, smiling, color blooming in her cheeks. The villagers called it a miracle.

But miracles have shadows.

At first, Aamir's nights were restless. He’d hear whispers behind walls, see strange shapes in puddles. Animals refused to come near him, and children cried at his approach. Then came the dreams — the lake calling to him, the djinn's voice in his mind.

On the seventh night, the moon was full.

Aamir awoke to find water dripping from his ceiling. But his roof was thatched. He looked around — everything was soaked. Footprints, wet and wide, led from his bed to the door.

Then came the scream.

He rushed outside. His neighbor’s child had vanished. Only a trail of muddy water and the child’s shoe remained.

That night, and every full moon after, another villager disappeared. Always after rain. Always after water dripped from the ceiling, regardless of the weather. The village descended into fear and paranoia. Rumors spread.

Some blamed Aamir.

The healer, terrified but brave, confronted him. “What did you do?”

Aamir confessed. To everything. The lake, the wish, the djinn.

The healer gasped. “You didn’t make a deal. You opened a door.”

---

The elders met in secret and decided. The lake had to be sealed. Ancient scrolls were fetched, and a ritual was prepared. But the lake — now awakened — would not go quietly.

That night, clouds blanketed the sky, and thunder rumbled like growls from below.

Aamir stood with the elders at the shore. Candles surrounded them. Chants filled the air.

Then the lake screamed.

Not in sound — but in feeling. Every bone vibrated with malice. The water surged upward like claws, and from its center, the djinn burst forth.

Jann-al-Ghul was no longer bound.

It towered above the village, rain swirling in reverse around it. “You sought my favor,” it bellowed, voice echoing like a storm in a tomb. “Now you all are mine.”

Lightning struck. The waters erupted. The villagers ran, but the lake swelled outward like a monstrous flood. Trees bent away. The earth split.

Aamir alone did not flee.

“I called you,” he said. “Take me. Let them go.”

The djinn paused. “Willing sacrifice?” it mused. “How quaint.”

The waters calmed. The storm paused.

> “Very well.”

A tendril of water wrapped around Aamir’s body. He gave one last look to the village and vanished beneath the surface.

The lake was still once more.

---

Years passed. The village was never the same. The water remained calm, too calm. But no more villagers disappeared. Crops grew again. The wind returned.

But at night, when the moon is full and the air smells of storm, villagers say they can see a figure walking on the lake.

Not the djinn. A man.

His eyes glow dimly, and his mouth moves — whispering.

Some say he’s warning. Others say he’s beckoning.

No one knows for sure.

But no one goes near the water.

Ever again.

---

Moral:

Even mercy bought from evil carries its interest. Never summon what drinks wishes and drowns hope.