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Haunted Listings: A Realtor’s Deal with the Dead

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Farah was a star real estate agent. Smart, stylish, and so persuasive she could sell a 1980s one-bedroom with no ventilation as “a cozy retro capsule.” She prided herself on finding the perfect homes for her clients. Her Instagram (@farahsellsfast) had boomed thanks to her signature tagline: “This house just needs love!” But lately, she was starting to wonder if some houses didn’t want love — They wanted revenge. It started subtly. A newly listed bungalow in PECHS (with questionable plumbing but a great school nearby) gave her the creeps. Not the usual Karachi-creeps, like stray cats fighting or mysterious sewer smells. This was colder. Quieter. Off. She ignored it. Until one day, she was giving a tour and a client asked: “Is the old man in the living room part of the staff?” Farah froze. The house was empty. That night, she came back to double-check the keys and saw it — an old man in a white kurta staring out the window. He turned, gave her the saddest smile she’d ever...
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Sleepless Beauty and the Jinn Who Wouldn’t Leave

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Once upon a time — not in a magical kingdom, but in Karachi — there lived a modern-day Aurora named Zara. Unlike the fairy-tale princess, Zara wasn’t cursed by a wicked witch. She was cursed by something worse: chronic sleep paralysis . Every few weeks, it happened. She’d be lying in bed, blanket up to her nose, phone vibrating under her pillow, when suddenly   BAM. Awake. Eyes open. Can’t move. Can’t scream. And hovering in the corner of the room?  Him. Tall, shadowy, slightly dramatic — like a jinn who did theatre in college. He didn’t say much. He’d just press down on her chest dramatically, like he was trying to put pressure like a ghost gym bro testing her core strength. Zara had named him “Prince No-Charm.” Unlike the classic tale where the prince kisses Aurora awake, this jinn-prince was more like: “I shall sit on your chest and radiate cursed energy until you hyperventilate.” Every episode followed a pattern. Zara tries to sleep. Blanket over face fo...
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Not Your Villain: La Llorona’s Support Group for Misunderstood Women

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La Llorona had had enough. Centuries of being blamed, misquoted, and Photoshopped into low-budget horror posters had finally pushed her over the edge. She wasn’t evil — she was traumatised . And honestly? She was tired of people thinking she just wandered around crying over her ghost children for fun. So she did what any empowered, emotionally exhausted spirit would do in the digital age: She started a support group. Name? “Not Your Villain: Women in Folklore Reclaiming the Narrative.” Held every Wednesday night on Boo!m. First to join was the Churail , logging in from rural Punjab with terrible WiFi and a visible chip on her shoulder. “I don’t even eat men anymore,” she said on the first call, stirring her tea angrily. “But no one talks about why I started doing it in the first place. You cheat on your wife while she’s pregnant and I’m the monster?” La Llorona nodded, dabbing at her tear-streaked face with a tissue that had somehow stayed wet since the 1600s. “They never as...
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Bloody Mary vs. The Jinn: Mirror Mayhem in Room 13

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It started, like most terrible decisions, with a sleepover and a teenager who thought she was braver than she actually was. Thirteen-year-old Mariam was hosting a horror-themed birthday party. The lights were off, the fairy lights were dim, and someone had dared her to summon Bloody Mary . Classic move. Western ghost games were trendy on TikTok, and Mariam had watched at least five tutorials on how to do it "properly." What she didn’t watch were any videos about South Asian jinns and what happens when you mess around with mirrors without saying Bismillah (“In the name of Allah”). Big mistake. The girls gathered in the bathroom. Candles? Check. Mirror? Check. Nervous giggles and shaky phone cameras? Double check. Mariam looked into the mirror and said it. “Bloody Mary… Bloody Mary… Bloody Mar—” CRACK. The mirror shimmered like a heatwave. But instead of just Bloody Mary, something else pushed through the glass — something smokier, angrier, and definitely more desi....
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When the Karsaz Bride Met the Vanishing Hitchhiker

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  In a dusty corner of the afterlife, where WiFi is weirdly strong but purpose is weak, urban legends lounge around, doing what ghosts do best—haunt, vanish, and scroll mindlessly. The Karsaz Bride was tired of it all. Tired of endlessly appearing in a red lehenga on Karachi’s busiest road at 2 a.m., only to disappear mid-ride and make the poor biker scream like a banshee. She wanted something more. Someone who got her. Someone who knew what it was like to be half-myth, half-misunderstood. So she did what every restless soul in purgatory eventually does, downloaded Ghostr , the dating app “for spirits who still have unfinished business and the desire for companionship.” Her bio was short: “Bride. Died tragically. Still looks good in red. Not interested in Maulvi Sahabs or holy water. Just a soul to float through eternity with.” Swipe. Swipe. Ugh. A Headless Horseman who only types in caps. A werewolf who calls himself “Alfa69.” Bloody Mary with three mirror selfies. And ...
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The Whispering Wind – Why We Fear Abandoned Places

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Once I dared my cousin to enter the abandoned farmhouse behind our old colony. It had no roof, a rusted gate, and the wind always seemed to blow colder near it — even in Karachi’s June heat. He was the kind who once touched a lizard for a dare, so I thought he’d laugh and walk right in. He did — for exactly 45 seconds. He came out pale. Like visibly changed. Said nothing. Not a joke, not a scream, not a boo . Just looked at me, walked home, and till today, has never told me what he saw in there. That was the day I learned: There’s silence. And then there’s abandoned place silence . That thick, haunted hush where the wind whistles like it remembers something. Abandoned buildings, ruins, graveyards, old schools — they all share something unsettling. They used to hold life. And now they don’t. That in-between-ness is what makes them terrifying. They’re stuck in limbo — not quite alive, not quite dead. The tiles are cracked. The doors hang crooked. But the energy? Still lingers. E...
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Sleep Paralysis & Shadow Figures – When You Can’t Move and Something’s Watching

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I’ll never forget the night I saw the arm. It was one of those summer Karachi nights where the fan was spinning at full speed, the windows were open, and I was cocooned inside my blanket even though it was too hot—because the blanket was protection . You know? Like nothing could get me under here. I had my fortress of bedsheet solitude. At some point in the night, I woke up. Not like a gentle “oh I’m a little awake” kind of way—no, I woke up with the immediate knowledge that something was wrong . I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. I couldn’t even twitch my fingers. My heart was racing, but my body? Dead weight. And then… I felt the pressure. Right on top of me. On the blanket. Like someone had rested their entire arm across my chest. And I saw it—pressing down through the sheet, like a human limb. Not sharp. Not clawed. Just heavy . Human-ish. I couldn’t lift my head, but I could see just enough to know I wasn’t dreaming. The weight didn’t let up. It just stayed there,...
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