Night Hag

 The box arrived bruised and battered, bound in twine. Ethan found it propped against his apartment door like a little orphan, his name and address in jagged script. His brother’s handwriting. Of course... he kicked the door shut behind him, the package tucked under his arm. Six months since Brian had vanished into Morocco’s sun-bleached alleys. Six months of radio silence, broken eventually by a deranged fucking set of emails and WhatsApp messages about desert d-ja-jinn, stolen artifacts, and arguments with 'bribed officials'. Like, what the actual fuck was he doing out there? Ethan had stopped reading after the third one.
He ripped the twine with his teeth. Inside, nestled in a worn Arabic newspaper, was a stone. He was hit by a painfully thick smell that nearly made him toss the thing in the sink.

It took a moment to process, it absorbed the light rather than reflect it. It was pocked with tiny, fractal grooves. Smaller than his palm, heavier than it should’ve been. At the bottom of the box, a scrap of paper...
"Found three of these near Zagora. Guides called it Jinn Teeth....I want to share one with you little bro. I really... really want share... want share... wilidi" Ethan rolled his eyes. Of course Brian would send him some mystic bullshit and start talking some bullshit he picked up from a kebab seller or something. He realized Brian had actually described this is one of his emails. So it's stolen.
"I should return to sender. Make him pay the import fee"

He tossed it onto the chipped counter and forgot about it... 
Until midnight.

The first thing Ethan noticed was that musk. He sensed the usual malignant presence, undefinable, but never before had his organs and senses been affected so badly. His bound hands were curled like claws. Breath came in uncontrolled shallow sips.
He tried to sit up, but couldn’t. Shadows shifted and grew around him.The musky stench flooded his nostrils harder this time. Somewhere in the dark, fabric rustled, then there was a crisp hiss. He closed his eyes and remembered what his mom used to tell him.
"What's there in the dark is there in the light and a child has everything he needs inside to make him feel all right."
Something gripped his throat and laughed. It was so visceral, so real. He resorted looked at the periphery edges of his eyesight, trying not to make it any more real than it was right now. He felt his skin move, like something was plucking and testing it. It lasted for hours.... 

When he finally broke free of the paralysis, he lunged for the light switch.The room was empty. The stone though, was now resting on his sweat-soaked pillow. He took a deep breath of relief. Ethan looked at his phone clock. He felt the hyper energy from false sleep. Need to wake up.

The water blasted out, scalding, as he scrubbed at the ache in his chest. His fingertips caught on something.. ridges. He stilled, soap suds sliding down his torso, and looked down. He saw two raised, circular patches of skin the size of quarters, pink and inflamed. Like fresh scars. No - like grafts. The texture was so foreign. He traced one, shuddering. The flesh beneath was swollen, tender. And his chest hair was gone. He sighed. "Infected I bet. Is the shower filter done for again? Goddamn it. The things I put up with for rent control."

After work the next day they went to their usual bar. The barmaids there were hot. Classic blondes. It wasn't like hooters or anything but these chicks could.. they were whores. Huh... that's harsh. They should find themselves husbands. What? He thought.They laugh so free and wild.  His gaze swept the room, and now he saw not pretty women, but occasions for sin. A redhead leaning close to a man, her hand on his arm. Shameless! Another, her skirt riding high on her thigh as she crossed her legs, a deliberate fitna, a temptation. Their beauty curdled in his perception, becoming something cheap, something tainted. They were not attractive. they were a test of faith.
"Everything okay? The bartender nodded and asked.
"This is no place for decent women." He replied. She looked him up and down and rolled her eyes. The longer he was at the table the more he was possessed by a sense of superiority that made him leave the bar, leave his co-workers and go home. Only after sitting on the sofa did he feel like himself again. Those girls were hot. That's a bar, it's normal behavior for tips. Never had a problem with that before. Why criticize hot girls? He slipped into sleep.

He found himself wandering endless bazaars under an impossibly beautiful moon. Stalls overflowed with sizzling food, veils and silver jewelry. Shopkeepers called out in Arabic, their hands outstretched, offering generously. He felt comfortable. Happy. A campfire at the foothills of the Atlas mountains. Safe, warm.

He woke up and smelled that musk again. Despite drenching himself in cologne. It seemed to follow him. Strangers were moving away from him on the subway. People visibly showed disgust. 
A few days later he crouched in the canned goods aisle of the grocery store, a child’s giggle cut through the fluorescent hum. A girl, maybe six, clutching her mother’s hijab.
“Mommy, why’s that lady dressing like a boy?”
The mother got a good look herself, then shushed her, steering her away with an suspicious glance.
Ethan froze, soup cans clutched to his chest. He looked at himself in a fridge glass. His beard hadn't grown for days... and his arms. Smooth and hairless except for fine, downy strands. Cancer.. it must be. No.. he was only twenty-five. Pure fear slithered in his gut. The smell, must be some hormonal shit. God damn it. Ah it's probably something to do with the shower. Yeah.. that's it.

Ethan awoke to a sound. That crisp hiss again. Moonlight spilled through the blinds, casting alabaster stripes across the bed. Can't breath, can't breath. The terror sat cross-legged at the foot of the mattress. Beautiful. Skin like ruby, hair a cascade of smoke, eyes like supernovas. Needle-thin fingers danced in the air, weaving invisible strings.
"Are you frightened?" Ethan tried to shake his head but couldn't move. It crooked two fingers at him.
"I'll make you a true believer. Aziza has been making herself known, but now it is time for her to wake up" 

Ethan screamed as he looked in the mirror. Eyes were colourless, pale, just long enough for him to notice light green become brown. Dark earthy brown. 
He didn't know where to go first. The psychiatrist again, or the Doctor. He decided if he couldn't sleep he couldn't heal whatever other shit was happening to him. As he ran into the living room he saw a fire in the distant corridor. FUCK.
He ran up to it but as soon as he saw the threshold it disappeared. What!? Was he awake or was he asleep. Maybe his eyes hadn't change after all. He turned on the lights. He let the light seep in. The colours were brighter. Everything was so much more vivid. 

"You've had these night terrors since childhood?" Dr. Khan said.
"Yeah yeah. Not so much in High School. I was happy then." Ethan said.
"Any stress recently?"
"Some health issues maybe. But it started before that"
"Mood is a major factor, they are probably connected. Bit of a snake eating it's own tail. If they are getting worse, I can give you some insomnia drugs. They should subdue your brain enough that you won't wake up prematurely from REM sleep."
"No red tape? Thanks doc." Ethan said. The doctor smiled and wrote out the prescription.

A man’s voice, strong and melodic, floated from a modest storefront mosque, amplified by tinny speakers. It was the call to prayer. To the people around him, it was just sound, an exotic noise to be ignored. But... he felt an obligation. What am I doing out here? I need to pray. I miss home. Oh Allah I miss home. The call ended. The city’s noise rushed back in, but it was muffled now, irrelevant. He stood trembling on the sidewalk, tears tracing paths through the faint dust on his changed cheeks. He was looking at the mosque’s door, at the men slipping off their shoes and entering. I miss home.

Ethan tried to focus on the breasts in the videos. He wanted so badly to cum but he couldn't. Every time his energy and desire ran out. It was just exhausting rubbing this thing. His thin muscles lacked strength. But the deeper realization was... this was wrong. Why was he wasting his life doing this? These women are not even attractive. Their bodies tainted with plastic and monstrous materials. She was not even attracted to women... right? For a woman to be attracted to women would be haram. He needed to pray. That would remove his sin.

He prayed on the rug he bought near the mosque. The knock at the door was a strangely familiar rhythm, ten quick, confident raps, followed by a booming “Ethan! You in there, man?” It was Kyle. A foreign name? Did he know a Kyle? For a split second, a surge of relief went through him. Normalcy. He met him at the door.
He looked flatly. A man in her space. She looked away as Kyle made contact with him. It was not right to make eye contact with a man.
"Woah. Coulda sworn you had green eyes dude." 
The following touch was jarring, overly familiar. Leo—she—flinched, taking a subtle step back to break the contact. Now he touches me too. Touches a woman at prayer.
“Dude,” Kyle said, a nervous laugh escaping him as he noticed the rug. “What is this? You join a cult? Is this some kind of yoga thing?” 
Her gaze then fell on the offerings he’d brought. The smell of grilled meat and fried bacon wafted from the bag. Haram. The six-pack bottles clinked together. Haram. “You bring… this… into my home?” she said, her voice low and shaking with a righteous anger. Her posture straight and severe. “You interrupt my salah? Get out!"
His eyes narrowed at the rug, then at her. “What is this, seriously? You’re gonna tell me you’re actually praying? On that thing?” He sniffed. "And what the hell is that smell?"
You defile this space with your… your presence.”
“Defile?” Kyle mocked, his own anger rising to meet hers. “It’s a fucking bacon cheeseburger, Ethan... and that’s a rug. This is my friend’s apartment. Now cut the weird shit and talk to me like a normal person!”
“This is not his apartment,” she said viciously. “He is gone. And you will take your filth and you will leave. Now. Or I will call the police and have you removed for harassing a woman in her home.”
 Kyle stood frozen for a moment, looking at the person he thought was his friend and seeing only a furious, pious stranger. Maybe he was mistaken and Ethan had moved without telling him. Maybe this was some coincidence. This skinny, brown eyed man wasn't even the same height as Ethan. He turned around stunned, and walked away. Ethan slammed the door and returned to the rug. 

"Not again... not again. What the fuck doc." His eyes were bound towards the ceiling. His hand felt sticky, he looked down to see it covered in cum, impossible amounts. He felt more lucid than he'd been in days. As if this horror was true wakefulness. Had he been praying earlier? Insulting his friend?
"Ethan.... Ethan.... too late for your regrets now. The ritual preparation is complete. Your body is soft, skinny, hairless. Pliable..."
"What's there in the light is there in the dark and that's all a child needs inside to feel all-" His throat was nearly crushed. It was released a moment later, he tried to splutter or cry, but it was still locked. The insides spasming from the crush.
"Childish vague prayers. Unfitting for the responsible mother of a pious family. Pray to Allah."
"Oh god. You are real." Ethan wanted to say. 
"Yes. I'm so lucky to have such a perfect victim. One who's sense of reality is already so fragile."
The thing grinned and jabbed a nail into his head. Quicker than he could see. Then another, another and another.

From the small wounds, from the follicles where his short, brown hair grew, coiling curly jet blackness erupted. Faster and thicker than thought, it fell down over his narrowing shoulders, brushing the hollows of his newly molded back. He felt the soft weight of it, smelled the faint, sweet scent it inexplicably carried despite the smell of that thing.

Tiny, wet splintering sounds echoed inside his skull. His arches, those the sturdy cheekbone brackets defining his masculine face dissolved away. Bone fragments grated against each other. Blood trickled thinly from his nose and tear ducts.  "Such a fascinating subject." His nose broke into a thin and aquiline shape. "Tell me, are you a man or a woman?" It asked. 
A woman. He thought without hesitation. A woman.
"You cannot deny it." The Ifrit chuckled.

He felt more stinging around his lower face. The thin, chapped masculine line became raw, inflamed borders. The peach swelled, filling with blood vessels bursting and reforming. Cracks split the skin, weeping clear serum before sealing into plumpness – a pronounced Cupid's bow forming at the top, while the lower lip gained a soft, full pout. By all descriptions, a beautiful face.

The feeling of being bound in sheets of metal he was used to, loosened for a moment. He suffered, trying to caress the affected areas, but his softened skin itched and he wanted more than anything to molt out of it. To rip his way free. The angry red became a dusky blush, which  spread as it darkened into a deep sweet olive. There was a brief moment and then senses robbing snaps of bone ran up and down his body. 

It's face was an inch away from his. "Laa illaaha illa Allah," the Ifrit whispered, its voice triumphant. "You are Aziza bint Maryam.
With a flick of its hand, dark fabric shimmered into existence above them, fine linen, printed with intricate geometric patterns. A hijab. It drifted down, settling over the newly grown dark hair. Its pleats folded around Ethan’s softening throat. He used every inch of his will to toss his head from side to side. Get this foreign shit off me. Get it off. But... but it is the appropriate dress for a woman. I am a woman. I cannot be seen without one.

The taste of sweet mint tea washed away the bile clawing at Ethan’s throat. He saw, vividly, not his own childhood in Philly, but a sun-drenched courtyard in Fez. A woman with kind, dark eyes... mother... braiding her hair before morning prayers. It wanted him to forget. Forget his family.
"No!" Ethan cried forcing his limbs to work, pulling at the Hijab. tearing at the uncomfortable and unfamiliar black silk. "That’s not real! Lies! He tried to swear. The most vicious, nasty, rebel yell he could. Yet he spoke in sounds that became familiar to him as he over pronounced each one. "La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah..." he said. The surah for helplessness and power belonging only to God.

The prayer hummed in the back of his mind as he felt his tenderized chest begin to stretch. Two twin moons on a horizon. Building hot dunes of flesh and flat. Every millimeter of space claimed adding more nerves and more sexual value. As the nipples capped, dark and hard, he little out a little moan. His voice pitching high and feminine, as rubbed the large tits. They shook like mahalabiya and his outward noises told the world that here was a ready and excited female. Ready to be wed. Breasts large and delicious to look at. Amphoras of life-giving milk.

Ethaziz tried to gasp as he felt a throbbing in his used up testicles. Vertigo hit him. Pressure like he hadn't urinated for days. Veins bulged beneath the stretched flappy skin of his scrotum. He shook his head at the sounds, wet, fibrous tearing, as if cherries were being peeled apart seam by seam. His penis jerked uselessly before drawing inwards. Blood vessels withered to threads. Everything left in his testicles, his old milk... spilled out on the floor. The puckered butchered scrotum pulled up and reshaped into two swollen folds. Black curls started to grow out again around it. The humming prayer grew louder. The Ifrit floated around.
Waves of inflammation rolled in his lower stomach. He screamed and gurgled blood. The pinpoint of a hole in his groin began to lengthen both ways into a slit. The Ifrit could see through his flesh as his organs shifted aside and a new space entered into  being below them. Out of nothing, a womb swelled into place with wet, fleshy sounds. Tubes branched out from its sides, feeling their way. Lashing blindly until they finally connected to the ovaries. Now dotted with immature eggs. Each one carrying her new heritage and story.. The Ifrit's voice slithered out through the carnage.
"Your line ends here mortal. But hers.... hers begins" It laughed.
Between shaking thighs, a stranger’s vulva glistened. olive-toned, perfectly proportioned, already scenting the air with a feminine musk. All those excited female thoughts rose again. I want the right man to hold my breasts, fill and stretch me.
"I... don't.... want that" He croaked in a harsh new Arabic accent.
The Ifrit's fingers extended unnaturally, and opened up the folds.
Azizan moaned. The unaturalness of being opened made Ethan surge back. Fuck you. Ethan thought.

"Fuck you? Ah yes. You humans are such animals. Your brother was so wanton. He moans... he moans like a slut in the desert as his tribal husband penetrates him. Impregnates him with the story of the desert people." Images flashed through her mind of her former brother on a rug. His ass in the air. She yells out in Arabic, his body covered head to toe in black. The occasional twist in her face as if someone recognizing utter horror.

Ethazi reached out his slimmer hand towards him.
"You're lucky. I'm giving you a more civilized life. All you need to do is accept the peace I'm offering. I could have burned you, broken you, turned your fluids to sand."

Thaziza's flower began to soak. As she watched the powerful emotion on the woman's face. It became less and less familiar. Brother? Wilidi? But he...she...he...she had no siblings right? She was the lone daughter. Besides... how could she be related to a tribal woman like this? A Berber desert whore. Yet... it sparked something. She ran her hands over her sweaty face and moaned again. 

No! This is haram. Her desires shifted. The things Ethazi had wanted... oblivion in dollar store beer, the numbness of endless scrolling, the barbaric chewing of meat, the grim satisfaction of his working class job - held no more appeal. Really it felt like someone else’s cravings. Instead, she felt a deep, aching need for order, cleanliness, and ritual. She found herself in a spartan room, arranging her few belongings with precise care. She craved the specific peace that came at maghrib, the evening prayer, when her connection to God felt most tangible. Everything she had felt over the past few days only in passing, felt like philosophy.

The final battle was fought over his name. She could see herself, as a child. Not a boisterous American boy with brown hair, but a curly haired girl in a packed classroom. Quiet and attentive to the teacher. She scribbled her name in Arabic.
Please...no.. I'm Aziza. AZIZA. AZIZA. AZIZA. ET-AZIZA.
The note beneath her had the name written a thousand times in script. Attentive, just like her. She looked after her father when he was sick. Not like Ethan, a selfish man. Who cared little for his brother or father even as he lay dying.

No, I am not that man. I will be a wife. Her old life, her earliest memories, were being buried under the sand and sediment of fiction. Driving holidays and oak forests were replaced with camels, cows and rural hovels.

She placed on the full niqab that appeared in front of her. She was a good daughter. A pious woman. Far from home, but never far from God. 
The spirit was reabsorbed into the stone. It's authority leaving the room. Aziza looked around with a troubled expression then muttered in Morrocan Arabic. So dirty, hopefully no one from the mosque sees it. It felt informal, but this was America. 
She tossed the Arabic paper in the trash looked at the mysterious stone on the counter. How beautiful. Perhaps she could give it as a gift to someone.