"The Two-Storey House"
by Shehnaz Sumi
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No one in the neighborhood could say exactly when fear first entered the house.
They only remembered Firoza Begum.
She had been beautiful—strikingly so. Fair skin like milk touched with vermilion, long dark eyes, thick curls cascading down her back. But more than that, she had been fearless. The kind of woman who walked into darkness as if it belonged to her.
Every morning, she dressed as though attending a celebration—fresh sari, heavy jewelry, kohl-lined eyes, red lips—and stepped out with laughter in her voice. Even after marrying into a wealthy, aristocratic family, she remained warm, approachable. No pride. No distance.
Just light.
The house she lived in was enormous—old, sprawling, with a history no one fully spoke of. It had been bought after the Partition, from a Hindu family who had left everything behind overnight. At first it was a single-storey home. Later, her husband expanded it.
But the roof…
The roof was different.
Encircled by flowers that bloomed too vividly at night, it felt almost alive. The scent of jasmine and tuberose grew heavier after dark, thick enough to make breathing feel slow, dreamlike.
Firoza Begum loved the roof.
On summer nights, she would take all her children upstairs and sleep under the open sky. No fear. No hesitation.
Until one night.
A sound woke the house.
Heavy. Sudden.
Thud.
…Thud.
…Thud.
Firoza Begum sat up instantly.
"Thieves," she muttered.
She grabbed a hurricane lamp and called her son, Ibrahim.
"Come with me."
The boy was barely fourteen, his hands shaking as he followed her up the narrow staircase at the back. The light flickered wildly against the walls.
They reached the roof.
Silence.
No footsteps. No shadows. No one.
Just the flowers—still, unmoving.
Watching.
That was the first time something felt… wrong.
But not enough to stop her.
Not yet.
It was another night, deep into summer, when everything changed.
The children had fallen asleep on the roof, scattered across thin mattresses. The sky stretched endlessly above them, heavy with stars.
Firoza Begum was still awake.
She didn't know why.
Something had pulled her from sleep—a feeling, not a sound.
Then she saw it.
At first, she thought it was a bird.
No.
Too large.
Too slow.
It drifted across the sky, lower than it should have been—low enough that she could see the shape clearly.
Wings.
Two enormous white wings.
They moved gently, almost lazily, as if the air itself carried the creature forward.
Her breath caught.
Because the body beneath those wings…
Was a woman's.
Completely naked.
The skin was pale—unnaturally pale, like something that had never known sunlight. The limbs hung loose, weightless, as it glided silently above the roof.
Firoza Begum tried to look away.
She couldn't.
The face turned.
Just slightly.
Not fully visible.
But enough.
Enough to know—
It was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
Not human.
Not anything that should exist.
For the first time in her life…
Firoza Begum felt fear.
Real fear.
Cold. Sharp. Paralyzing.
She shook her children awake.
"Get up. Now."
Her voice didn't sound like her own.
They stumbled downstairs, half-asleep, confused. None of them understood why her hands were trembling.
She never spoke of it.
Only said one thing the next morning:
"No one goes to the roof at night. Ever again."
Years passed.
Firoza Begum died.
The house remained.
Old. Silent. Watching.
Zamir Sahib, her husband, now lived alone on the ground floor, avoiding conversation, avoiding people. The upper floor belonged to Ibrahim—now grown, with a family of his own.
And a daughter.
Shehnaz.
Sixteen.
Bright. Restless. Fearless.
Too much like her grandmother.
At first, it was small things.
She liked the roof.
Spent long evenings there, humming softly, wandering along the edges, staring at the sky.
Ibrahim warned her.
"Don't go after sunset."
"Why?"
"You might see something."
She laughed it off.
She stopped going in the evenings.
Or so he thought.
It began again quietly.
After midnight.
When the house fell into deep, unmoving sleep.
A door would creak.
Soft footsteps.
Up the back staircase.
To the roof.
Shehnaz would walk beneath the night sky, her voice barely above a whisper as she sang. Sometimes she stood by the railing, counting stars.
Sometimes…
She stood very still.
As if listening.
Or waiting.
One night, Ibrahim woke suddenly.
No reason.
Just a feeling.
The same one his mother once had.
Heavy.
Unsettling.
Calling him upward.
He stepped into the corridor.
The house was silent.
Too silent.
Then—
A sound.
Faint.
From above.
Not footsteps.
Not quite.
Something softer.
Like the slow, dragging beat of wings…
…passing over the roof.
And for a brief moment—
just a moment—
the scent of night-blooming flowers grew unbearably strong.
As if something had returned.