Neve Emek: Room 102 - Part 12 of ?

12

The second time I stepped into the office, the receptionist barely glanced up when I gave my name. She flicked a hand towards the door behind the desk and went back to twirling her hair. Even as I passed cautiously, expecting her to call the solicitor or at least give a heads-up, she did nothing. Thus, I hesitated in front of the door, knocked once, and waited. No one answered. I tried again, firmer this time. Still nothing. Then I heard what I imagined was the young woman turning towards me, probably giving me a strange look as I lingered there. Figuring the solicitor must have been expecting me somehow, I finally twisted the doorknob.

Mrs Harris sat behind her desk, the afternoon light reflecting off her impeccable glasses as she adjusted them on the bridge of her nose. For a moment, she seemed entirely absorbed in whatever she was reading. Then, as I stepped past the doorway, her gaze flicked up, and she rose abruptly.

“Mr Sami,” she said and extended a hand. Her handshake was as firm as I recalled it. On the desk lay a neat stack of papers, carefully clipped and weighed down by a ceramic mug decorated with a subtle floral pattern. “I didn’t expect us to meet again this soon,” she continued, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

I didn’t respond, only settled into the chair opposite her. It almost felt like déjà vu, the way she adjusted her glasses, her calm but alert movements, and the scent of coffee lingering in the air, just like two days ago.

She then slid the papers across the desk towards me. I arched my brows and leaned closer, expecting the familiar layout of the documents from my last visit. But these weren’t the same. Every line was written in Hebrew. My stomach tightened as I traced the angular letters and flowing curves with my eyes, searching for something recognisable, anything that would make sense.

For a moment, I wondered if I was supposed to know what to do. Did she expect me to read this? My fingers hovered over the papers for a brief moment before I finally touched them. The smell of coffee intensified almost instantly as I did so, my senses on high alert, and I became acutely aware of how Mrs Harris observed me with the faintest hint of an unreadable smile. I swallowed, trying to mask the sudden unease rising in my chest. Signing this, without understanding a single word, felt like a stupid idea. And yet, the expectant weight of her gaze unsettled me to the core, pressing down on me…

“These are…?” I began, expecting her to offer some clue that might make sense of the unfamiliar script before me.

“They’re the documents we discussed,” she replied without missing a beat, carefully gauging my reaction, before drifting back her focus to the stack. “You’ll need to sign on every marked page.”

I took another look at the documents as she finished her sentence. Each page was filled with unfamiliar symbols and words I couldn’t understand. I knew, though, that I had no choice but to follow her instructions. Reluctantly, I picked up the pen on the desk she slid towards me and began signing, one page after another. Time seemed to blur as I did so. My fingers began to ache too, cramping and stiffening from the repetitive motion, while a knot of frustration formed in the pit of my stomach for each passing second. I didn’t like the uncertainty of all this – not one bit – but pressed on still.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I laid the pen down. Mrs Harris gathered the completed stack and pressed the papers into a folder. She ran her fingers along the edges to straighten them, then closed it. I let out a deep breath I hadn’t realised I had been holding, feeling both relief and a lingering sense of discomfort I couldn’t quite shake, no matter how hard I tried.

“Is this all?” I asked. “Am I the legal caretaker—the steward of the property now?”

“Not entirely,” she replied. “Under the conditions stated in the contract we discussed last time, your role is limited for the moment. Once the six-month period is complete, however…” She let the words hang in the air, as if ensuring I fully grasped the implication. “…you will assume full responsibility.”

“I see.”

I rose from my seat, ready to leave, when the solicitor’s voice stopped me in my tracks, pulling me back into the chair.

“There’s something else,” she said, her eyes flicking towards the side drawer she then opened, withdrawing yet another sheaf of documents, which were slightly thicker than the previous stack. I leaned closer to take a closer look, and my frown deepened. The faint black marks along the edges were hard to miss. Printer’s copies. And at the top of the first page, the heading was typed in English: Summary of Investigation – Case File: Amal Khalil.

A shiver ran down my spine as my eyes fell on the name of my missing aunt, printed in stark letters on the copy of the investigation papers. There was an unsettling gravity to the document, one I wasn’t supposed to take part in or see, and for the first time since stepping into the office, I truly hesitated, torn between the urge to uncover whatever truths lay within and the fear of what I might find. Thus, with these harrowing thoughts weighing me down and disturbing me, my fingers lingered on the edge of the papers, trembling.

“It’s not the full copy,” Mrs Harris explained. “The original is in Hebrew, complete with police notes, signatures, and supporting evidence. What you have here is an authorised summary, translated into English. Under normal circumstances, as I mentioned during your last visit, access to the official investigation requires a court ruling.” She paused briefly. “But I was able to obtain this version. Consider yourself lucky; this is as much as anyone outside the authorities can ever get their hands on.”

“It couldn’t have been easy. Thank you.”

I turned the first page, holding my breath. The first thing that struck me was the language. It was overly clinical and impersonal. Each line read like a record rather than a real human story, and that very objectivity made the account all the more chilling, stripping away the subject entirely and leaving only a sequence of dates, locations, and conclusions.

Subject last sighted: 19 July 2007. Location: Neve Emek. Subsequent inquiries yielded no confirmed sightings. Witness interviews inconclusive. Declared deceased in absentia under Section 19. File closed 2022.

The names of investigators and references to attachments had been completely removed from the copy, reduced to generic placeholders like “Officer A” or “Prosecutor’s Office, Haifa District.” The formatting too was equally methodical and consistent, composed entirely of bullet points, numbered entries, and abrupt paragraphs that conveyed nothing more than facts – or rather, only what the summary allowed me to see. Even so, the omissions were glaring, leaving gaps that my mind could not help but fill, making me imagine the witnesses, the unseen investigators, the scribbled notes and side comments that had been cut off.

It occurred to me then that the entire summary had likely been written this way on purpose, drafted to close the investigation as quickly as possible rather than to uncover the truth. My stomach tightened at the thought. It wouldn’t surprise me if the so-called witnesses and placeholders weren’t even real people, but fabricated accounts invented by the investigators to justify writing off the case and moving on to the next one.

I spent the entire bus ride reading through the summary.

The more I learnt about the case, the more my curiosity grew. I had been right: my aunt did make it to Neve Emek before she vanished without a trace. But why hadn’t the investigators revealed this to my family at the time? I remembered vividly my mother saying the case was written off as a typical runaway, and that there was no evidence of her ever leaving Haifa. But the brief before me told another story, one very different from what had been given to my family all those years ago:

Background
The subject was last officially recorded as caretaker of the municipal burial grounds of Neve Emek. The position had been registered under her name following the death of her father. No subsequent renewal or activity was filed with the municipal offices.

Last Known Sighting

• Multiple unverified reports placed the subject in or around the village cemetery between 18 July 2007 and 21 July 2007.
• No confirmed sightings after 2008.
• Neighbours interviewed: statements inconsistent; no corroboration.

Investigation Conducted

• Door-to-door inquiries completed.
•  Religious authorities questioned: no records of burial or travel.
• Police report filed 2007; case suspended due to lack of evidence.
• Registry cross-check completed: no documentation of marriage, emigration, or death abroad.

Determination
Without verified presence, activity, or claim, the subject is declared deceased in absentia under Section 19 of the Missing Persons Law, 1959.

Notes
This declaration allows for the reassignment of custodianship of property and grounds formerly associated with the subject. One surviving direct descendant recorded in the State registry, currently residing abroad. Case file closed 2022.

I exhaled slowly, an uneven release, but it did nothing to ease the hollow pit growing in my chest as I re-read the final lines. So, this was the note that made the solicitor reach out to me, the last known heir? But why had it taken her this long to make contact? It had been two years since the case had been closed. And even though she kept insisting all this had to do with the bill about to be passed in the Knesset concerning Palestinian properties, I didn’t buy her excuse. More troubling still was her failure to investigate the current caretaker. I had expected her to say something about who I was dealing with, but she had remained eerily silent on the matter. It was almost as if she—

The bus suddenly rattled along the cliffside road, sunlight flashing across the forested slopes as I nearly tipped sideways, bracing myself with a firm grip on the seat in front of me. I would be lying if I said I didn’t immediately look out the window, expecting to see that dilapidated house and the creature that haunted me. But there was nothing there, only acres upon acres of open fields, stretching wherever my gaze settled. Had the bus already passed it?

Another thought struck me then, and I instinctively patted the pocket of my trousers. The key to room 102. I had almost forgotten about it, which wasn’t as nearly as strange as it sounded. I spent two whole days in the guestroom without blinking an eye after all, peering through the gap in the wall now and then, trying to catch sight of anything resembling a door – yet I had found none.

Had I been mistaken? No. That couldn’t be it. There had to be a logical explanation behind all this. And what about the digits I had seen in the caretaker’s hut? Were they just random numbers leading nowhere, or a code? Hold on. What were they again? Two. Nine. And then—I bit my lower lip, frustration building in my chest as I tried to remember, but my mind drew a blank. I should have paid closer attention. Now what? Just the idea of going back in there was enough to send a shiver down my spine, but… now it seemed I had no other choice but to do exactly that. Great!

Neve Emek: Room 102 - Part 11 of ?

11

The drive back to Neve Emek went uneventful, at least for the most part. I spent about an hour at the bus stop, at which point the sun had already dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in the beautiful shades of twilight. So far, so good, right? I wished that would’ve been the case. But no. Wherever my eyes settled, strange things happened around me, as though I was being followed by a bloody curse or something.

This time, about halfway through the drive, we passed that dilapidated hut again. But only once. I started counting the moment we went by it, so I was pretty sure whatever happened last time wasn’t going to happen again. Still, seeing it put me on edge, and the image of that grotesque form too took space in my already distraught mind. One thing was sure, though. The hut was real, not something my brain came up with.

As these dire insights raced in my head in a never-ending loop, another thought crossed my mind and gave me goosebumps. Who was that guy, anyway? The caretaker or whatever he was. The solicitor clearly didn’t know him or have any knowledge of his existence. Bothered in ways no words could truly capture, I fetched up the legal document she gave me and skimmed through it until my eyes landed on that word again: caretaker. But if I were the caretaker, then who the fuck was that guy—

“Shit!”

I lurched forwards, the paperwork slipping from my grasp as the bus screeched to a stop. Crouching into the aisle to gather the scattered sheets, I froze when a child’s chuckle reached my ears and pulled me out of whatever demons were occupying my mind. I then followed the source of the noise across the aisle without being aware of it. There, near the driver’s seat, the porcelain doll sat with its arms folded over one another. It wore that grotesque smile too, the one that kept widening and morphing into a rictus. But it wasn’t the humanlike antics that arrested me or made me hold my breath. Its white gown was drenched in blooming crimson liquid, sprayed and splattered all over in broken patches.

The aisle stretched, impossibly so, as though the space itself had been pulled tight, long, and narrow. Even the overhead lights buzzed in an eerie beat, washing over the seats in dark hues that shifted with every damn flicker, shadows blurring at the edges and crawling and lengthening – until it felt as though the bus had no end at all. And yet, with every blink, the doll drew closer and moved down the aisle before I could catch it.

I tried to move to no avail, and in those harrowing moments, its blank eyes stared straight into mine like it had a soul of its own and was reading mine.

I gulped hard.

Each time my eyes closed, even for the briefest of seconds, the distance between us shortened further, and the doll… only drew closer.

And—closer.

I shut my eyes one final time.

Stopped breathing altogether now.

Then… silence. Just silence and nothing else.

When I dared to open my eyes again, the aisle looked normal. Too normal.

I heaved a deep sigh and relaxed my shoulders, letting my head fall back onto the seat. But each inhale was laboured, and the little relief I felt did nothing to soothe my galloping heart, while beads of cold sweat rolled down into the worn fabric. It took me a moment to calm down completely, at which point I gathered the papers against my chest, still panting like I had been running, before rising and turning around. But as I did that, something else unaccounted for happened. The lights flickered once and then—darkness.

I saw nothing but the murk, heard nothing but the sound of my own frantic heartbeat. That is, until then. That chuckle… It was so close now that I—

A rush of hot breath grazed my ear, whispering something low and hushed. Intelligible. I thought.

The flickering lights turned on and off. Repeatedly.

When my eyes adjusted to the flickering, I noticed that the doll was back on the aisle, this time closer to my row of seats. Its porcelain mouth had stretched wide in a blood-curdling grin, moving, whispering. What was it saying? Then the words made sense, slowly and steadily, the broken chant transforming into words I recognised. There it was again, that word etched onto the stone at Neve Emek.

Kāfir. But this word meant nothing to me. Nothing at all. But it meant something, did it not? And it seemed someone – or something – wanted me to figure out the true meaning of that word. But where to start? Where to go? The word itself hadn’t even been directed at me, that much I knew. Sure, I had no faith to talk about as an agnostic, but the word “kāfir” went deeper than the English equivalent word “heathen”. I never rejected the Qur’an, nor did I ever possess the knowledge to do so. But someone else must’ve. Or perhaps another… entity.

You read that right. Another entity.

The doll, the girl at the airport, every strange thing that had followed me like a second skin since the arrival of that darn letter – they all pointed to the same conclusion. Something otherworldly was reaching for me. Trying to reach me. I didn’t know its purpose, not yet, and couldn’t speculate. But I was convinced nonetheless: none of this was a coincidence or the way of fate. I either had to succumb to my beliefs and face it head-on or throw in the towel and leave this place before I lost my mind. I chose the former. I wanted to choose the former, and so I did.

Neve Emek was as desolate as the night I first arrived here.

The sun had fully given way to the gloom when I disembarked and started for the burial ground, but not a single soul was in sight. Still, their watchful eyes followed me from behind the boarded-up windows and drawn curtains billowing subtly to the cadence of the whistling wind making its entrance and chilling everything in its path. While somewhat hostile and just as on high alert as I was, something told me that these people meant no harm. I was an outsider after all, and perhaps they too sensed the curse clinging and feared what it might become. I knew I would if I were in their shoes.

I knocked on the caretaker’s door only once. Not sure why I did that after what happened the last time. Maybe the mystery of his identity overshadowed the fright that grew in the pit of my stomach? Honestly, more than anything, I just wanted answers and a name I could relay back to the solicitor. Anything, really. I needed to know more about him, this place too, before my unsound mind completely took over and made a fool of me. So, why the fuck wasn’t he answering the damn door!?

I was inches from striking the door a second time when it creaked open. The unexpected movement sent a jolt through me; I reeled back, the image of the hybrid creature flooding my mind and disturbing me to the core. Through the slender gap, however, I made out the outlines of a cramped hall that emptied into a doorless room. Everything beyond was swallowed in darkness. I saw no creature – nor the caretaker, for that matter.

“…Hello?”

I pressed my palm to the door and eased it wider before it slammed shut, letting my airy voice drift into the darkness. There was no answer. No movement, no breath, or sign of anyone at all. I didn’t even know the caretaker’s name, but I kept calling anyway, imagining him asleep somewhere just out of sight.

“Hi, uh, it’s me, again. Sami. Mind if I… come in?”

When I entered the hut, just one foot in, all sounds drowned out like I had passed a threshold into the past or a portal into another time. Almost like I was slowly descending underwater, the sound morphing and bending unnaturally. Even the floorboards beneath me groaned in ways I lacked the proper vocabulary to describe; all I knew was that each step caused my heart to pound louder.

 At the entryway stood a foyer table, antique and worn by the passage of time. On it was a framed photograph of the caretaker and what looked like his son, taken perhaps some ten years ago. What immediately arrested me was the smile. They wore the same smile. Too wide, too large… just off, in other words. Maybe something between a scream caught too short and a grin? Like the one that doll had?

I set the frame aside and let my attention drift to the half-open drawer. Inside lay a sheet of yellowed paper with old coffee stains. When I lifted it, the underside revealed a row of printed digits. Some kind of code? The second drawer resisted me entirely. I hooked my fingers under the edge and pulled, feeling the wood tremble but refuse. I tried again, harder this time, the faint scrape of swollen timber breaking the silence. Still nothing. Eventually, I let go and breathed out into the stale air, unsettled by how stubbornly it remained shut – just like the wardrobe in the guestroom.

The hall split into two directions, but only one led to an unlocked space, which I assumed had to be the living room, though it was probably used as a bedroom since a collapsed sofa had been folded out into a bed. The sheets were completely unmade, as if someone had left in a hurry or thrashed through the night. Across from it, a canapé sagged under its own weight, the upholstery torn open as though something sharp had stabbed straight through the fabric.

Against the wall, on the floor, stood what I first mistook for a tall, oval mirror draped with a sheet. I pulled the cloth away and laid it on the sofa, only to find the glass beneath broken into pieces from a brutal impact at the centre with thin fissures going outwards into the surface. Even the oriental rug was completely ruined; its colours were faded under layers of dark, stiff stains. Brown spots all over. The stains reminded me of those back in the guestroom. Had someone died here? That would surely explain these stains. But something did not add up. From the look of it, these stains were not only several years old but also a copious amount. And I don’t mean copious as in “someone had a heart attack and banged his head on something”, but more in the sense of “someone got murdered and was dismembered here.” No other plausible explanation could account for—

The front door slammed shut.

I rose from where I had crouched and whipped around.

But no one came. No footsteps reached my ear.

Instead, something else tugged at my attention as I let my eyes snap to the hallway. Another door. For a moment I stood there, feeling the locked door’s pull, as though whatever lay behind it expected me… or had been waiting for me all along. I frowned. Wait a second. Had it really always been there? Perhaps the darkness altered my perception? Who knew?

I stepped towards the door, drawn against my will. The air grew colder with each step, carrying a faint, stale scent that made my stomach twist. My hand hovered over the knob. It was ice-cold to the touch, far colder than the rest of the hut had been. A shiver ran down my spine as I tightened my grip.

Then twisted it. Thank goodness, it was locked.

I pressed my ear to the wood, not sure why. Was the caretaker inside the room? I wasn’t sure… and I couldn’t hear a damn thing, either. But no matter how long I listened or waited in front of the door, nothing out of the ordinary let itself be known to me. Still, the pull of the door didn’t fade. Why was it locked? My fingers itched to try the doorknob again, to see if persistence could pierce whatever barrier lay behind it. I couldn’t explain it – not then, not now – but something about the door intrigued me. I knew half of my questions would be answered if I managed to pry it open, but at the same time, I feared it. What if the truth I sought was ugly? What if I regretted knowing the truth when ignorance was bliss?

Right then—

The front door swung open.

My eyes snapped down the hall, towards the living room, searching for cover. The sofa sagged too low, the rug offered nothing, and the curtains were flimsy at best. Then I spotted the canapé just far enough away from the wall to slip behind. Without thinking, I went for it, pressing my back against the hard surface, getting as close to the ground as was physically possible for someone of my build.

The footsteps grew heavier instantly, faster, reverberating over the thin floorboards. My heart slammed in my chest, threatening to rip through my skin. I waited for a few seconds without moving, barely breathing, then slid along the wall until I could peer into the living room, flattening myself further into the shadows, straining not to cough, not to breathe too loud. From this angle, however, I could only see the bottom of the entryway where the footsteps had come from.

I had never once been this scared in my adult life. Ever. It brought me back to my childhood, to the days were I feared the darkness that swept over my bedroom with the nightfall. But this kind of fear was different – more real. I could die. A single misstep, a breath too loud, and I could die, and no one would ever know.

Shit!

A pair of legs entered my view.

Boots. Mud had crusted at the edges and stained the leather as if they had trudged through wet soil. Coming closer. Into the open space. But I was too low to see further than the abdomen. It had to be a guy; I would have known if it were a woman by the way he flexed his calf muscles beneath his trousers.

The man stopped abruptly in the middle of the rug, breathing heavily, shifting his weight slightly as it seemed to me he was looking around the place. Was he looking for me? But how did he know I was here? But these thoughts soon faded and gave way to other kinds of thoughts – morbid thoughts – as my eyes drifted to the broken mirror on the floor and caught a glimpse of the stranger’s face. This wasn’t the caretaker but someone younger, more muscular, at the same time… eerily similar. The facial muscles, the way the brows were set low and—

I frowned as the framed photograph of the caretaker and his son, whom I assumed was his son, popped into my head. Could it really be? But why was this guy here? The caretaker didn’t say a word about having a son, not that he had to, but a brief heads-up would’ve been appreciated. The burial ground was, albeit not yet legally, my property! No one just went in and out without permission. To think I actually spent the entire night with those odd people…!

Despite everything going on around me, inside me, I tried my best to stay calm and not take hasty decisions. Whoever this guy was, it was now clear to me that he was waiting for me to make a mistake and give myself away. I was not about to make his day, trust me. Afraid? I sure as hell were. Suicidal? Right-fucking-now? Think not—

The boots shifted abruptly, turning my way.

I covered my mouth, frantically trying to calm my nerves and stop myself from making a sound and fleeing like a coward. But doing so was harder than it seemed. It was in the human instinct to either fight or flee in such situations, and I was no exception. Even so, I knew that the moment I moved, whoever was inching closer would catch me in the act. There was no escape in this room, no window that was not boarded up, and the only exit route was out of reach. My chances of survival, however slim, were higher behind the canapé.

For a heartbeat, I thought the figure would crouch, thought the next second would be the appearance of a hand along the canapé. But something else happened instead. The person, or whatever this was, retreated and crossed back towards the hallway. Seconds later, the front door groaned, and the lock turned with a click, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps fading into the night.

Relief washed over me as I let out the breath I’d been holding the whole time, gasping for air. My chest rose and fell in a frantic beat, nevertheless.

It took me a while to gather my thoughts and leave my hiding spot. But then something else caught my attention, something that hadn’t been there before. Near the rug, catching the moonlight, glinting. My eyes narrowed. An old key. It lay on its side, and the bow was wrought into filigree. The shaft was thick and squared, the teeth blunt and heavy. From the ring hung a single stamped plate: Room 102. Was this the key to that room in the gap in the wall?

My hand reached for it before my head caught up. As my fingers brushed the cold metal, I realised that it was heavier than it looked and left a faint, oily print on my skin. For a long moment, I simply held it and listened to the hut exhale as if it too were reacting to the strange events leading to this very moment.

What now? The caretaker said the building was basically a maze and that I would probably get lost if I went somewhere I wasn’t supposed to. But now that I was certain I had been brought here for a reason, I couldn’t ignore the voice in my head telling me to get to the bottom of whatever secret the burial ground guarded over – as well as that caretaker and the young guy that looked like him.

I still had three days to decide, but that same night I messaged the solicitor and said I wanted to sign the papers as soon as possible. If I was ever going to explore this place, truly explore it, navigate its maze and understand what hid beneath it, I needed more time. The six months required suddenly felt like the exact span this strange task demanded of me.

I knew I was playing with fire, that something hunted the burial ground. But instead of driving me away, it piqued my curiosity. I’d always wanted to write a book, and this place – this impossible situation I now found myself in – felt like the kind of premise that would hook any reader.

Or maybe I was walking straight into something I wouldn’t survive.

I suppose only time would tell. And it certainly did.

Neve Emek: Room 102 - Part 10 of ?

10

The solicitor’s office lay on the second floor of a derelict building in the quieter part of town, tucked between a bakery and a pharmacy. The entrance hall was narrow with a directory plate that had been polished so often the letters had faded and become blurred at the edges.

The reception itself was small and gave off a cosy vibe, unlike what I had mentally prepared for. What immediately caught my attention was the low bookshelf on one of the walls with several legal journals. I guess it was the only thing that gave away that I was at the right place.

A young woman in a navy blouse stood behind the counter, chewing gum and playing with her hair. She glanced up from her screen as I carefully drew closer, clearing my throat. Had I not, she might not have noticed me at all.

“Name?” she asked.

“It’s—” I held out my passport.”—“Sami.”

Her eyes narrowed as I said this, as if she was pondering something that eluded me, then checked the ID, tapped at her keyboard, and nodded.

“You’re expected. Please take a seat.”

The chairs in the waiting room were firm and uncomfortable to say the least, but I stayed seated anyway. While waiting, I let my eyes drift to a framed print of Jerusalem’s Old City hanging on the wall. The colours were… off. Not sure on how to describe it, but the colours seemed to have faded due to the passage of time and become muted.

The whole place was quiet, save for the incessant sound coming from the receptionist and the buzz of the overhead fluorescent lights now and then. But I didn’t mind the silence. Not after what happened earlier. I was still unsure of it all, whether I had dreamed or seen something that shouldn’t exist.

I had fallen asleep – I must’ve had. But that didn’t mean the creature wasn’t real; it had entered my dream. I clearly remember it not being able to move past the pathway leading in and out of the burial ground, which meant something had caused it to reach out to me this way instead. But why such desperation?

“Sir? Please, this way.”

I followed the receptionist into a larger office at the back. Nothing too huge, but compared to my expectations, pretty large. Inside, a single window with blinds was halfway drawn, with a wide desk at the centre where the papers were stacked in neat piles. Behind it sat the solicitor I had been in contact with these past few weeks, but never formally met until now.

She was middle-aged and dressed in a grey blazer. Her glasses sat low on her nose, and her hair was slicked back neatly. It was easy to see that she had been in this business long enough to know every crack in the law there was. And this insight equally scared and amazed me at the same time. The question gnawing at me at the time was why. Why had she suddenly decided to help me, a stranger to her, not to mention someone of Palestinian descent? It made no sense to me. But as our conversation deepened in the following minutes, I think I understood why she did what she did.

“Mr Sami,” she said, extending a hand, before gesturing for me to sit. “Welcome to Israel. Couldn’t have been easy to navigate, but I’m glad you could make it.”

“Thank you for seeing me,” I began. “Truthfully, I’m still trying to process… everything. I knew my grandfather had some standing once, but I didn’t think there was, you know, any property left in our name. Not after the last siege. I hope I don’t come off as rude. I’m just… surprised, I guess.”

“Not at all. Take a look.”

She opened one of the folders in front of her, sliding several papers across the desk before turning the headings towards me. “Legal Hebrew” was stamped on each paper with the local municipal crest. English annotations were typed in dense columns for me to understand what I was looking at.

“As I mentioned in our call, the burial ground has stood without clear ownership for some years. The municipality, therefore, decided to conduct a standard investigation into heirs. Your aunt, Amal, was listed as the last registered caretaker and heir.”

“And?”

“She has been declared legally deceased due to failed attempts to contact and locate her whereabouts. If she’s alive, she’s no longer in Israel. That leaves succession. Normally, these kinds of properties revert to the state. In this case, however,”—she tapped one of the pages lightly with her nail—“you are the closest identifiable heir.”

I frowned. “But there’s something I don’t understand. I didn’t know there was anything to inherit until you contacted me. My family fled when everything we owned was destroyed and then re-registered as Jewish property. The burial ground… it shouldn’t have been ours.”

“It isn’t ownership in the usual sense,” she corrected. “Think of it as stewardship. Custodianship, if you will. You’d be recognised as the legal caretaker. That carries responsibilities like the upkeep of the grounds, maintaining access, on the condition that you reside in the village for a minimum of six months, of course. After all that, the claim becomes binding.”

I leaned back, frustrated by the fact that she kept avoiding my question.

“But why now? Why contact me at all? If this is routine, wouldn’t the land just revert to the state as you just said?”

For the first time, her composure shifted slightly, and something in her eyes told me she was actually surprised by my adamant attempts to pressure her into telling me exactly what was going on – not just what she thought I wanted to hear.

“Let me be frank with you, then, Mr Sami,” she said. “The municipality noticed discrepancies when the case was reviewed. And with the new bill about to be passed in the Knesset about unclaimed Palestinian properties, there’s been greater scrutiny. They prefer to identify heirs where possible, at least on record.”

“But why me?” I pressed. “Why reach out personally if it’s just procedure?”

Her eyes held mine for a moment too long before she looked back down at the papers. “Because your name appeared in the file. And once a name is there, the process follows. Beyond that…” She lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “The system doesn’t explain its choices to us.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She exhaled. “I’ve already said more than I should, Mr Sami. What matters now is your decision. You’re free to refuse, but if you do, the property reverts to the state.”

I glanced down at the paperwork, columns of clauses and stipulations blurring together in a chaotic mess, on repeat. Six months, residency requirement, custodianship… Those same words, over and over again, blurring together, becoming one.

I stopped breathing and met her eyes.

“And if I don’t sign?”

“Then the claim is void, and the property is absorbed by the municipality.”

“How long can I delay it… the decision, that is.”

“Three days. You have three days to decide.”

I rose slowly. “I see. One more question, Mrs Harris.”

She folded her hands. “Go ahead.”

“My aunt. You said she was declared legally dead. Is there any way for me to access her case file?”

“Well, hard to say. You’d have to petition the court to prove your relation to her in the best case.”

“There’s no other way?” I insisted. “I’d like to know more about what was done to find her.”

For the first time, something softened in her face, and a sigh escaped her. I could see then that she knew exactly with what kind feelings I had mustered up the courage to ask her this very and yet unmistakable desperate question. As if she had lost a beloved one once too, one she had failed to find.

“I’ll see what I can do. But no guarantees.”

“Thank you. Todah.” I stood up, ready to leave, when a sudden thought crossed my mind. “By the way, Mrs Harris, you say I am legally to be the caretaker, if I’m not mistaken. But what about that guy?”

“That… guy?”

“The current caretaker,” I began, adding as I recalled our brief conversation in front of the dilapidated hut. “Strange man. Not much of a talker, either.”

“There’s no such thing, Mr Sami.”

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mrs Harris went through several files on her desk, adjusting her glasses while doing so, before glancing up again. The hardened lines on her face told me she was utterly confused and concerned.

“Are you saying someone is living at the property right now?”

“You didn’t know?” I asked, equally perplexed.

“No. Our records show that Amal Khalil was the last known heir. Legally. No one should be there as far as the documents tell me. Do you have a name?”

I nibbled on my lips. Why hadn’t I asked his name?

“No. But he said he and his family worked as caretakers of the property way before the siege took place. Maybe you can trace his identity?”

“That’s strange. There must’ve been some mistake somewhere down the road. But you know what? I’ll take a look into the matter and see if his claim is true, and then we’ll take it from there.”

“Right.”

“Oh, and, by the way. Should… anything happen, hit me up. The locals can be—you must’ve noticed it already.”

“…Sure.”

“Well, then,” she said, rising to her feet and extending a hand. “I hope to hear from you as soon as possible.”

When I stepped out after what felt like several hours, the air had become more humid and the midday sun fiercer, draining the colour of everything it bathed in a golden light. I walked without direction at first, the chaotic mess of legal words on a never-ending loop in my mind, overwhelming my thoughts and weighing me down. Suddenly growing weak, I sat on a bench in a busy square. A café across from me had placed a few plastic chairs onto the pavement, so I spent a few minutes watching the waiters drift between tables.

Six months.

The number sounded small, survivable even. But…

I couldn’t shake off the events of yesterday, of the caretaker’s bizarre antics, of the things I thought I saw and heard in that bathroom – inside the bus.

What was the matter with me? I could no longer tell right from wrong. It was as if the lines between the fantasy and reality had become one, blurred together, and I was trapped in the mess with no exit.

At the same time, something told me that I had come here for a reason. Perhaps I was only trying to fool myself by having such thoughts, who knew? To convince myself to stay those six months despite my better judgment. Even so, despite everything, I had already made up my mind. I wanted to stay. Not for my own sake, not even for my aunt’s, but for my family.

The property was my second chance, a means for me to get back my wife and daughter, to become a family again, like we used to. And I clung to that hope like my life depended on it. Had I not… then all I had left was this misery of life. But if this was how I was going to live for the rest of my life, then I’d rather die than live another day.

And I… wanted to live.

Neve Emek: Room 102 - Part 9 of ?

9

I advanced through the heart of the serene settlement, steadily making my way to the mosque-turned-synagogue in the northeast. What had been left of the minaret guided me through the dawning like a beacon, grounding me to the present and helping clear my mind of the creature. But it wasn’t the thought of reaching the local bus in time that occupied my mind as I advanced.

The caretaker had not lied.

A slew of villagers moved through the lanes alongside me, avoiding and giving me hostile looks as if I had trespassed and was not welcome. Mostly elderly men with knotted hands and hunched backs, shuffling past with their sticks tapping against the stones, while the few women I saw wore their scarves tightly around their heads, hiding half of their faces. But it wasn’t the hostile nature of their gazes or arcane antics that sent a shiver up my spine. It was the implication behind those gazes.

All of them watched me.

Not with the caution of seeing a new face where there shouldn’t be one, but with suspicion. Like they expected me to suddenly do something that would warrant them the right to attack me. Like a ticking bomb. But why such palpable hostility? I did not know any of these people, nor did they know me. What happened between the Palestinians and the Israelis several years ago had nothing to do with us, the people in the present, so why should I accept being seen as inferior and a subhuman? As if the tears of blood Palestinian mothers shed through decades were not enough, just not enough.

A cold, marrow-deep certainty then crawled through me: I didn’t belong here, this place my grandfather once called home. It was a foreign place I had only heard stories about. My late mother used to tell me that there had once been a time when she and my missing aunt used to run about in these lanes with the other kids – Muslims, Christians, and Jews – playing marbles with stones and skipping rope with makeshift ropes.

Thinking back, I suppose Mum never gave up the hope of returning. Maybe she told me all those stories so I wouldn’t forget my roots – or my missing aunt. And maybe… she believed telling me those childhood memories would one day help me find her – Amal Khalil.

I remember overhearing my mother and grandfather talk late at night, when they thought I was asleep, that our village was one of the few left untouched back when Khāle was still with us. It had yet to be accused of being built over an ancient Jewish site, set on fire, and renamed for imperial motives. But rumours spread like wildfire: nearby settlements were already being emptied into displacement camps, and those who resisted were taken by the Israeli military, never to be seen again.

 

Had my aunt been taken too by them or perhaps caught in the crossfire between those who resisted and those who oppressed them? Then again, who knew? It was total pandemonium back then, with the corrupted press deliberately withholding information about the recurrent settlement abuse and displacement camps. And maybe, in that chaos, she encountered a much more gruesome fate.

As I was having these thoughts, the caretaker, whose name I still did not know, crossed my mind. He said his family had worked for ours for generations. Did that mean he’d seen my missing aunt back then? Surely, if she did make it here as she told everyone she was going to, he’d be the last person to have seen her alive? But why did he not mention anything about her if that were the—

I stepped back instinctively.

An old man spat on the ground two feet from me and snapped me back to reality. What was the matter with these people? They were acting like I wasn’t a human being like them, but some other species! What kind of deep-rooted grudge was this to last for decades? Surely, if someone needed to harbour such vile sentiments, it was the very people forcefully displaced and then accused of being terrorists wherever they went!

At the same time, I did not want to cause a scene. So, I moved on, head low, hands curling into fists beside me. It would be a lie to say I did not fear, that these villagers did not give me the heebie-jeebies. There was something innately evil about people who hated other humans for no other reason but for the colour on their skin, the religion they followed, the culture they grew up in and had no say in, or the clothes they wore, or simply because they were “the other” – an outsider. Hard to describe exactly, but this was close enough, I guess.

I pressed on, telling myself I would reach the bus stop in time without needing the help of these people. What else could I do? The caretaker told me it was hard to miss once I passed the synagogue. Worst case scenario, I’d have to return to the burial grounds and hit up the solicitor, ask to postpone the meeting. But for now? All I wanted was to find that bloody bus stop on my own, without getting involved with anybody.

Right then, a stone skittered across the frost-hardened ground at my feet, cutting through the stillness out of nowhere. My legs jerked back as adrenaline flowed through my veins. The surface was jagged, but carved deeply into it was a single word in Arabic script: kāfir. Heathen.

My gaze shot upwards, scanning the small crowd that had gathered unbeknownst to me, forming a circle around me and standing too close. I spun in place, perplexed,  as every face was turned towards me, the hollow eyes unblinking, and mouths fixed in grim lines. I could almost hear it, those words drilled into their indoctrinated brains: leave or regret.

My breath came in short bursts as I weighed my options, or rather, the absence of them. Every instinct screamed at me to flee, but my legs refused to listen to my commands, keeping me rooted in place. My mind reeled nonetheless, skimming every potential path forwards, every subtle movement that could signal compliance or escape. I knew that any misstep, any hesitation, could be noticed and misunderstood. And yet—

There was one sound now, distant but unmistakable, that pierced the prevailing silence: the low growl of an engine drawing closer by the second. Around the same time, as if on cue, the villagers dispersed, and a small opening formed in the direction of the oncoming bus. I broke into a run without waiting for the villagers to close the gap once more and trap me, sprinting towards the noise to my left, beyond a bend, past the run-down synagogue.

The bus stood at the edge of the settlement itself, its windows reflecting only the flat, brightening sky. My legs carried me forwards in a sprint until at last I reached the steps and hauled myself inside. The stale warmth was the first thing to greet me, mixed with oil and dust.

The chauffeur didn’t look at me as I entered. His eyes were fixed ahead as though I did not exist. I tried a greeting. There was no sign it had been heard or acknowledged. I slotted some coins into the metal tray anyway and stepped further down the aisle. The few passengers scattered along the seats were sparse, but they were all watching me as I apologetically passed by.

Heads turned with slow motions, so much so that it sent a chill down my spine and put me on high alert. Like they were all mannequins that mimicked one another and were pulled by invisible strings, yet looked just as human as I did.

I edged towards the back and slid into the final row, pressing my shoulder and back against the window. Outside, the frost on the glass caught the first pale morning light, breaking it into pieces. I exhaled shallowly, trying to steady myself, but the sense of being observed lingered still.

Then the doors clanged shut.

Silence returned as if the bus had swallowed the world outside, and time itself had stopped. Minutes passed slowly, stretching, each tick of the clock telling me that the meeting with the solicitor drew closer and closer. I twisted in my seat. Uneasy. Why wasn’t the bus moving? Though I had no words for it, this growing pit in my stomach, I did know that something was off. According to the caretaker, the bus was supposed to leave the village several minutes ago, so why were we still stuck here?

Now that I thought about it, the engines had been shut off, too.

I rose and moved towards the driver. The aisle felt longer than it should have as I did so, each step resonating against the floor. My hand lifted, a small tremor betraying my tension. And then, suddenly, the bus jolted forwards, and the world lurched violently on its axis.

I stumbled, grabbing instinctively at something solid to steady myself.

“Sorry,” I muttered as I looked back. My fingers had closed around—nothing. Just air. The support I had thought was there, another hand, a railing, or some graspable edge was gone. My body swayed slightly, anchored only by the floor beneath my feet and the weight of disbelief pressing down. What the fuck?

I sank back into my seat, knuckles whitening as I gripped the seat in front of me, unsure of what to make of what had just happened.

Outside, the landscape stretched with steep drop-offs, twisted and uprooted trees, and glimmering stone paths surrounded by olive trees. It was a beautiful sight, one that symbolised the resistance of my people, of their determination to fight till the very end. The sun had risen fully now, too, a bright and cheerful light that should have comforted me but bitterly failed.

I pressed my head against the cold glass and let the sunlight wash across my face. But even as the warmth kissed my skin, the unease settled deeper, whispering that this calm, this fleeting normalcy, was only skin-deep.

Indeed, so it was – only I didn’t know at the time.

The bus rattled and groaned as it traced the narrow cliffside road, tyres scraping against the gravel. The slope below plunged into a dense forest, where sunlight pooled in golden patches between thick clusters of pine and olive trees. For a fleeting moment, I let my shoulders relax. The brightness of morning, the gentle sway of branches, the distant hum of the engine – all of these eased the tightness of panic in my chest, and my hands unclenched, and I finally allowed myself to watch the trees slip past in a calm, hypnotic rhythm.

But calm was but a fragile illusion.

A hut appeared, hunched against the roadside at one point. Not that it arrested me. Not at first, that is. Beside it, a single gnarled tree twisted strangely at an angle, roots clawing at the soil. A thicket of brushwood surrounded the hut, too, bristling and restless in the wind. I blinked, overcome by the sweet and tender embrace of sleep.

And the bus passed it once, and then…

Again.

The same hut.

The same bent tree.

The same thicket.

My frown deepened, confusion and panic taking shape in my chest as I forced my eyes open, staring hard outside the window. At first, I thought it was a trick of my tired mind, a hallucination born from lack of sleep. But each repetition came with subtle changes: the hut sagged lower, the tree’s bark peeled, the thicket darkened, and the sky above began to darken too without warning.

By the fourth cycle, the hut was nearly unrecognisable, a collapsed shell leaning into the earth. I felt sick, as sick as a dog. This made little sense! Something beyond reason was at work, twisting the world to an unfamiliar pattern of repeating cycles! Then…

The bus screeched to a sudden halt, and the air shook with the hiss of doors opening. I pressed back into my seat instinctively, knuckles white against the cold metal, looking out the window once again – eyes widening.

From the ruins of the hut, the creature that had pursued me back in Neve Emek slowly came into existence. Its limbs elongated and twisted at unnatural angles, joints jerking with dissonant rhythm. Its posture was bent, its movements lurching – too fast. And then—I held my breath.

Our eyes met.

I blinked.

It drew closer.

I blinked again, harder, faster.

This time, its crooked limbs snapped forwards with impossible speed, like a film reel skipping frames, and I screwing my eyes shut, teeth clenched, every muscle braced for the impact of claws or hands or whatever it would use to drag me out the window and tear me up.

When—

There it was – right before me! Inches from the glass!

Its face slammed into focus with its skin stretched thinly across sharp bones, the eye of the Khamsa wide and empty, pupils nothing but pits of absence. Its mouth yawned open in a rictus, the gums slick and teeth long and crooked. Frost appeared instantly on the window where its breath touched, several branches of lines spreading outwards like a blooming flower or the roots of a tree.

I jolted back with a strangled gasp, and in that heartbeat—

“Chaver, tat’orer… ata cholem.”

My eyes snapped.

Hyperventilating.

“Ata beseder?” You okay?

This was a phrase I knew, one of the few I knew by heart. You okay. A scrap of memory from another place, another time. And now, somehow, it was the same phrase that pulled me back into the present, steadying me, helping me push through the haze that still clung to my skin in beads of cold sweat.

With frantic eyes, I glanced at the young man, who had woken me up from whatever nightmare this was, clutching his arms and digging my nails in without being aware of it. Then I let go. Still out of it. Still breathing too fast.

Outside, through the window, lay rolling, golden fields under a sun now stark and scorching. The road had straightened, trees realigned. The bus was no longer in the middle of nowhere, no longer near that bloody hut.

Heck, had it even stopped at all?

Most of the passengers were gone by then, leaving only me and the young man behind in the aisle. I let out a hushed, cracked “Todah” – thank you in my broken Hebrew – and followed the young man out, still shaken. I couldn’t, for the life of me, recall how or when the bus had ended up here.

Or when I’d fallen asleep.