Neve Emek: Room 102 - Part 13 of ?

13

The main hall smelled of rot as always, as I set foot past the doorway and started for the signs painted onto the peeling walls. Most of the lettering had faded, but I could still make out some of the numbers and arrows that once must have guided visitors through the place. Room 102, from what I could tell, should have been on the ground floor of the right wing, and so I advanced.

I had no doubt in my mind at that point that the key I found did not open the chamber in the wall. There were no doors to that room. Thus, I memorised my current position as well as the exact corridor Room 102 should be located in. Bad idea, I know. But the uncertainty of it all, coupled with my sleep deprivation, led to this reckless decision.

Each corridor I entered, however, looped back on itself in a way that made no sense. In my mind, I knew exactly where to go, which turns to take to find the right wing. But whenever I followed the map etched in my head, the building found a way to confuse me. It was almost as if it didn’t want me to find it, that room. But I didn’t give up, and so the building eventually caved in.

When I found the double-panelled door marked with a battered plate that read Right Wing – Level 1, my first thought was that I had beaten the odds and won against this place trying to stop me. However, I didn’t once question why it was trying to stop me. In hindsight, I understood. Perhaps my grandfather himself was trying to protect me. But I didn’t know that at the time, and so I pressed on.

The handle gave under my gentle grip, but only slightly, to my surprise – as well as dismay. A steel bar had been fixed across from the other side, firmly bolted to make sure no one entered. Or left. Beyond the doors, through the tainted glasses, I could make out the faint glow of the emergency lamps, as well as an accessible passage, albeit unusually tight and narrow from the look of it. Next to the handle hung a rusted keypad box, which was cracked open, but seemed functional with four blinking red lights pulsing on and off. Was the keypad connected to the steel bar?

I pressed the keys randomly at first, wishing upon the stars for a miracle, starting with the digits I remembered from the caretaker’s hut. But, once again, my memory failed me, and the double doors remained shut. I tried to push the door open a few times after that, frustrated, then threw in the towel. Dejected, to say the least. After what felt like ages going in circles, I had finally managed to find a passage to the right wing, and this was what I got in return? Yeah, fuck me.

I returned to the entrance, tracing my way to the blueprint map of the building in search of another route leading to the right wing. That was when I noticed something missing – perhaps another passage. The markings looped around the bolted glass-panelled doors and seemed to lead… nowhere. Or rather, that was as far as the blueprint revealed. But from what I could recall, I did notice a door smaller than the others while navigating the building moments earlier. Judging by its position and by what the blueprint suggested, it could be the mysterious passage. The question was whether I dared follow it into the unknown.

I took my chances, however slim.

The smaller door stood at the end of a narrow service corridor. The colour had dulled to a yellowish shade, and the handle was worn smooth by the passage of time. When I turned the handle, it yielded without resistance, spilling into a passage so tight it forced me to turn sideways to enter.

The corridor beyond sloped slightly downwards, or rather, enough that I only noticed it after several steps, and the air plummeted and grew cooler within seconds. Even the walls pressed closer it seemed to me, lined with exposed piping that leaked a foul-smelling liquid as I squeezed through. I tried to keep track of my turns, calculating the distance by instinct, but the building refused to make sense of itself. Once again, the passage curved where it should have been straight, forked where no fork was marked, and doubled back in ways that left me uncertain whether I was moving forwards or merely circling deeper into its interior.

At last, the ceiling lowered, forcing me to duck, and the floor beneath my feet changed from stone to concrete. A metal door waited at the end of the passage. When I pushed it open, the space beyond confirmed what I already feared at that point. The passage did not lead to – or through – the right wing after all, but to another place somewhere beneath it. It might have been a storage room or perhaps the basement. It was difficult to tell at first, but as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the truth became clearer. This was the basement, or at least a section of it. My suspicion was further confirmed when I caught a glimpse of a faded sign mounted on one of the walls: Basement Level 1 – Staff Only.

Beyond the storage boxes and service shelves, another corridor opened along the far wall, narrower and more poorly lit, as if it had been added much later to the construction of the basement. I followed it cautiously, well aware that I was moving farther away from the main building and deeper into the underground basement. Still, this insight did nothing to stop me.

I had to find out where the basement ended, where it led to.

The passage sloped downwards more noticeably now, interrupted by short flights of concrete stairs that descended in uneven intervals. Deeper and deeper. I passed several junctions that led nowhere as well, sealed doors with no markings, and alcoves filled with equipment whose purpose I could not guess even if I so wanted. None of it appeared on the blueprint I had studied, nor did they look remotely modern.

Eventually, the ceiling rose again, and the walls widened just enough to suggest I was no longer beneath the main structure as I suspected. That was the strangest of it all, though. How could I have ventured outside the main building by descending deeper?

Then, the passage curved abruptly, ending at a heavy utility door streaked with peeling paint and water damage. When I opened it, cold air rushed in, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of soil and wet leaves. I frowned. Wait. Was I actually outside? But it didn’t make sense! I could swear I was going deeper, that the corridor kept sloping downwards, so how did I end up outside?

Though conflicted and visibly confused, I cracked the door open and stepped out, only to find myself surrounded by dense thickets and uprooted, gnarly trees. My first thought was: “Where am I?” Then I scanned the forested area until my eyes landed on the trail leading out of the woods, towards the burial ground and the main building looming in the distance through the wilted treetops, though its outline was unfamiliar from this angle.

Only then did I realise that I was standing at the edge of the burial ground, near the adjacent woods I had noticed upon my arrival, now several days ago. The damp soil beneath my feet was uneven, and the trail was swallowed by moss and roots. But my bewilderment did not last long. From this location and angle, I could see straight into the caretaker’s hut through the thickets, where the door gaped wide, much to my surprise.

My feet moved before my mind caught up, and before long, I found myself back inside the hut, at the entranceway where the antique desk awaited me. I did not wait a second, did not take the risk of being caught by whatever thing I had encountered the last time, and rummaged through the drawers until I at last found the paper with the digits. 2907.

I had to remember it. I had to—

Somewhere down the hallway, a door opened. The one that had been locked before. But I didn’t linger enough to see what came next; instead, I retraced my steps back to the mysterious passing, through the basement, past the dripping walls, back to the sealed keypad door.

For a moment, nothing happened. Nothing at all. Nothing that would suggest the steel bar had dislodged and the glass-panelled doors unlocked. So long in fact that beads of cold sweat trickled from my brows and along my bare neck from the stress and anticipation.

Then… the bar on the other side gave a shift, and the doors opened inwards, revealing yet another pitch-black corridor. It took me a moment to adjust to the dark and enter. I didn’t know what to expect once I passed the threshold of whatever this was and… I was afraid. Though I wasn’t sure why that was the case. Was it the fear of the unknown taking hold of me, or something else entirely? I couldn’t tell, and that uncertainty made me hesitate.

Besides, why had this part of the building been sealed off? To this extent, too? Also, why did the caretaker keep the code to the keypad in the open drawer and not the one locked? It was almost as though he wanted me to find this place, to unlock whatever the doors were designed to keep in. But what could be more dangerous than the creature that had haunted me in the left wing? I dared not speculate. But there was no going back now. Whether it was the caretaker’s intention or the twist of fate, I had to follow this through to the end and find out.

The part of the building was warmer than the basement, but definitely not brighter. I reached into my pocket and turned on my phone’s flashlight. The corridor was similar to the ones in the left wing, and nothing stood out to me. At first, that is. It was only when I passed the first few doors that I noticed something – let’s say – rather bizarre.

They were all odd numbered, the doors I mean.  Room 102 wasn’t and couldn’t be here. But this was the right wing, wasn’t it? I briefly looked away. Did I read the blueprint wrong? Right then, the caretaker’s words repeated in my mind on cue, telling me not to get lost in the maze, that this place was alive. But instead of returning or giving up, I advanced. Venturing deeper and farther than I should.

When I encountered yet another glass-panelled door leading to who knows where, a scratched sign on the wall caught my eye. It read: Rooms 100–110↓. Down? The only way forwards was straight ahead, through another corridor. Maybe the corridor led… down? I didn’t like this at all; now completely drained and annoyed by constantly moving downwards, where the air was stale and the temperature colder. Down, down, down. When did this ever end?

For each step I took, although I knew it shouldn’t be possible – not physically – it felt as though I had never left the underground basement. And I was only going deeper. No, wrong wording, the building took me deeper into its interior, to places not shown in the blueprint, not revealed in any signs on any walls. Where was it taking me? Or perhaps I was… Was I lost? Did I stray away too much, like the caretaker warned me not to, and was now—

A rattle.

Behind me, somewhere I had already passed.

No, something opening. A door? Or… the creature?

A shiver shot up my spine at the thought. Did it follow me to the left wing? Shit. I had to move! Now! Before it caught up!

Pushing through the door, I entered a broader corridor lined with doors. Even numbered. Thankfully! In a hurry and definitely not in the mood to get my head turned into mush by that thing, I ran my fingers over the nearest plate with the number 100 and tried to open it. It remained shut. I swore under my breath, my heart galloping out of control, my hands turning sticky with sweat from the panic rising within.

And the din, or whatever the heck it was, drew closer.

Only closer.

I tried another door, my movements more fumbled, more desperate. I wasn’t even looking for room 102 at this point; I just wanted a shelter, somewhere that could keep the creature at bay. And as though I wasn’t panicked enough, I realised belatedly that where the door to room 102 should be was a wall – just like back in the left wing. It was then that I pointed the beam of the flashlight further down and realised to my horror that I was no longer in the right wing. I was on the left. And beside the space was the guestroom. But I couldn’t even process the bewilderment, the impossibility of it, before the familiar scraping sound reached me.

But I didn’t seek refuge in the guestroom like the last time. Instead, I fixed my eyes on the space before me, pacing it carefully, fully convinced that a door had to be hidden somewhere inside the wall, a secret entrance to room 102. Thus, I set my shoulders against the wall where I suspected a door should be, drew in a deep breath, and forced my weight into the wooden surface, shoving repeatedly against it until my muscles trembled and ached. Then I heard it. A reluctant creak, something breaking apart. It worked. It worked! Inch by inch, the wall shifted as I shoved against it, slowly at first, then more visibly.

When the hidden door finally gave way, a cold draft seeped from the crack, carrying a faint, metallic odour that set my nerves on edge. A crooked smile then tugged at my lips, one laced with disbelief. I had found it. At last. But my excitement was short-lived.

Enter the creature.

Wide, rictus grin. The eye of the Khamsa locked onto me, unblinking. Its movements were stiff but as certain as could be – getting closer and closer. The blade scraped along the floor beside it, scraping against the floor, ready to slice my head off in a macabre act staged solely for its own grim satisfaction. What was this thing’s deal, anyway? Did it want me to pursue the truth of whatever this place hid, or did it want to claim my head? I couldn’t figure out which was the case, and so I reached for the key in my pocket and thrust it into the keyhole instead.

The door clicked open, and darkness stretched beyond the doorway, deeper than it should, swallowing the dim light from the corridor. I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then I stepped through, letting the uncertainty behind me fall away, if only for a moment, acutely aware that whatever lay ahead might not be what I expected. The moment I did so, something inside me stirred, and the alarm bells in my bleak mind rang. The proportions of the room didn’t make sense. Not at all. From the gap, it looked normal, yet the space itself stretched far deeper than the corridor behind me, almost as if it had been hollowed out on purpose.

My hand flew to the handle as soon as the first wave of startlement passed and made sure the door remained locked, which it did. I wasn’t even sure whether the creature tried to barge in or simply left me alone at that point. But I did not dwell on this. Instead, I let my gaze settle on the familiar bed I had watched numerous times through the gap, imagining the creature sitting there and watching my every move. The thought alone was enough to curdle my blood.

I advanced.

Against the far wall, a desk arrested me. I did not recall seeing it through the gap in the hole, which confused me, but I shook off the doubts as soon as they crossed my mind. Instead, I approached it.

There was some stuff on the desk, papers written entirely in Hebrew and what looked like a ledger book with a cracked spine. When I opened it, the handwriting inside was hurried and inconsistent. But it wasn’t the rushed handwriting that unsettled me most; it was the repetition of a timestamp scrawled in the margins: 6:12. Over and over, at every single page. Then it hit me. A reference to the bible, the Old Testament? I barely looked away when my eyes unwittingly drifted to the unmade bed, where an indentation appeared before me, one that I could swear wasn’t there earlier. I set the bedsheet aside, revealing the stained mattress. And there, covered in what I could only describe as dry blood, was a copy of the Old Testament.

I turned the thin pages until I found what I was looking for.

Deuteronomy 6:12:

“Be careful that you do not forget the Lord, who brought you out of Egypt, out of the land of slavery.” The entire passage was meant for the descendants of Abraham, instructing them to love God with everything they had, follow His rules, and teach it to their children, and through that faithfulness, find the land promised.

It reminded me of another passage in the Qur’an my grandfather used to recite on his deathbed, dreaming of a world where Palestine was no longer occupied, where no child went to bed hungry and scared for tomorrow. I could hear it still, his soothing voice, the flood of tears he shed, as the words of his god comforted him where comfort was no more – only pain and agony.

Surah Al-Baqarah 2:40–2:42:

“O children of Israel! Remember My favours upon you. Fulfil your covenant and I will fulfil Mine, and stand in awe of Me alone. Believe in My revelations which confirm your Scriptures. Do not be the first to deny them or trade them for a fleeting gain. And be mindful of Me. Do not mix truth with falsehood or hide the truth knowingly.”

And then… another surah pressed in, letting itself be known, resurfacing deep down from my subconsciousness. Surah Al-Ma’idah—

Something cracked behind me.

I whipped around.

There, where moments before there had been only a wall, a door had appeared out of thin air. Slightly ajar, beckoning me to draw closer and explore it. I put away the Old Testament and reluctantly stepped closer, compelled and wary at the same time. Every instinct screamed at me to run, yet some menacing curiosity pulled me forwards.

I held my breath and pushed the door open.

Beyond was not another room, not even a corridor as I hoped, but a stairwell that descended at a sharper angle than what felt normal. Going downwards. Again. I took the first of several steps down against my will, trying to catch anything remotely that could tell me where the strange stairs led, but saw nothing but a faint light burning somewhere, like the glow of an oil lamp.

My throat tightened, and that, for good reasons. When was this nightmare going to end? I kept going down, deeper and deeper into the unknown, and yet I found myself going in circles where there should have been none. And yet, this place wasn’t just a labyrinth; it was as alive as I were this second, showing me only the things it wanted me to see.

Nothing more, nothing less…

I descended.

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.