GHOST STORIES by Sidrah
My mother raised me on ghost stories of a lurking demi-monde, of djinns in the woods that covet girlish laughter and itch to run smokeless fingers through sin-spun hair. You'd never smell them on the air, no chills down your spine: “You'll know when the devil is near, when you feel those tresses begin to sear. Now cover your head as you should, don't laugh so loudly, and don't go into the woods.” I never believed the stories I never needed to, living in concrete jungles where fluorescent light permeates even the shadow realms. Is it truly djinns we fear? Or is it the moon and stars that sparkle so free and sincere? Perhaps we are merely terrified of what light might lure our daughters outdoors, into the night and keep them here. Yet when I visit our village, even I tread lightly, with muted laughter, and dropped gaze,
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