The Djinn of the Pamir Mountains

The Warning of the Elders

The sun was dipping behind the peaks when Farid joined the village elders in the square. They sat around a crackling fire, their faces lined with the weight of time.

“You should not go,” Old Zahir said, his voice heavy with meaning. “The mountains are not yours to challenge.”

Farid smirked, adjusting the knife at his belt. “I have walked those paths since I was a boy. I know them better than anyone.”

Zahir shook his head. “A man may know the path, but that does not mean he is welcome upon it.”

The others murmured their agreement, the firelight flickering in their weary eyes.

“The Djinn watches, Farid. And it does not forgive.”

Farid exhaled sharply. “I respect the stories, Elder, but I do not fear them.”

Zahir studied him for a long moment. Then, with a sigh, he reached into the folds of his robe and pulled out a small, intricately woven charm. “Take this,” he said, pressing it into Farid’s hand. “It may not save you, but it may remind you to be careful.”

Farid glanced at the charm—a simple thing, made of twisted threads and dried mountain herbs. He slipped it into his pocket.

It was only later that he would realize its true weight.

The Journey Begins

The Englishman arrived the next day.

Richard Thornton was not a man of superstition. He was a man of science, of history, of facts. With his weathered journal and his endless enthusiasm, he spoke of lost empires and forgotten treasures.

“The caves, Farid,” he said, his blue eyes gleaming. “They could hold knowledge unseen for centuries.”

Farid agreed to guide him.

Their journey began at dawn, the sky painted in hues of gold and indigo. The first days were easy enough—the familiar trails winding through the valleys, the scent of pine thick in the air. But as they climbed higher, the world seemed to change.

The trees grew sparse. The air thinned.

And at night, the silence was different.

Not the peaceful stillness of the mountains, but something heavier. Watching.

On the third night, the wind carried a voice.

“Farid…”

Thornton, stirring the embers of the fire, frowned. “Did you hear that?”

Farid’s blood ran cold.

The voice was neither close nor far. It was simply *there*.

A memory surfaced—Zahir’s warning. *Should you ever hear the voice of the Djinn, do not answer.*

Farid swallowed hard. “We should sleep.”

Thornton hesitated, then nodded. But as he turned away, Farid caught the slight tremor in his hands.

Neither of them slept.

The Cave of Secrets

By midday, they reached their destination.

The cave mouth yawned before them, framed by jagged rocks like the ribs of some ancient beast. Symbols were carved into the stone—worn by time, but still pulsing with unseen power.

Thornton traced the carvings with his fingertips. “Magnificent…”

Farid shifted uneasily. The air smelled wrong—like burnt metal and old dust.

“We should be quick,” he muttered.

They stepped inside.

The deeper they went, the more the world outside seemed to vanish. Their torches flickered, their breaths echoed. Shadows danced along the walls, twisting into shapes that didn’t quite belong.

Then they found the door.

It was massive, forged from stone but glimmering as if laced with gold. More symbols covered its surface, winding and curling like ancient script.

Thornton’s face was alight with wonder. “This… this could predate Alexander’s conquests.”

He reached out.

“Don’t,” Farid warned.

But it was too late.

Thornton pressed his palm against the stone.

The cave shuddered.

And the whisper returned.

“You dare…”

The torches flickered violently. The air turned thick, suffocating. The ground beneath them *moved*.

Then, the door began to open.

The Djinn’s Wrath

The darkness beyond the door was not empty.

It was alive.

A shape emerged, shifting like smoke, yet solid as stone. It had no single form—its edges constantly shifting, its features unplaceable. But its eyes…

Its eyes burned like dying stars.

“You were warned.”

Thornton stumbled backward. “What—what is this?”

The Djinn’s voice rumbled through the cave, shaking the very walls.

“You seek what is not yours.”

Farid fell to his knees, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“We mean no harm,” he whispered.

Thornton, breathless with fear but still driven by his obsession, took a step forward. “Please! Just let me study this! I—I only wish to understand.”

The Djinn *laughed*.

It was not a sound meant for human ears.

“No harm?” it mocked. “You take. You claim. You *violate*.”

The air thickened. Thornton gasped, clutching his throat. The darkness curled around him like fingers.

Then, with a final, anguished scream—he was gone.

Vanished.

Not a trace remained.

The Messenger

Farid did not move.

The Djinn turned its gaze upon him.

“You,” it said.

Farid clenched his fists, willing his voice not to shake. “I will leave. I swear it.”

The Djinn studied him, its eyes narrowing.

“You will tell them.”

Farid bowed his head. “Yes.”

The Djinn exhaled—a sound like the wind before a storm.

Then, with a final flicker of shadow, it was gone.

Farid fled.

By the time he reached the village, his body was bruised, his mind frayed.

Old Zahir was waiting.

“You have seen,” the elder said.

Farid nodded.

That night, he spoke of what had happened. The villagers listened in silence.

And they believed.

Epilogue: The Next Seeker

Years passed.

Farid never climbed the mountains again. The story of the Djinn became legend, but he knew the truth.

Then, one evening, a traveler arrived.

Young, ambitious. Eyes filled with curiosity.

He asked about the cave. About the Djinn.

Farid, now an old man, met his gaze.

“Do not seek it,” he warned.

The traveler smirked.

And as the wind howled through the village that night, Farid knew.

The Djinn was waiting.

Waiting for the next fool to challenge its domain.