Silence fell like wet cloth.
The voice kept going.
"…Maliki yaw-mid-deen…"
Zoya's eyes widened.
"Okay. Either we're blessed, or someone invisible is very religious."
Ammi stood slowly.
"That is not human recitation," she whispered.
The voice was too smooth.
Too clean.
No breath between verses.
Ayaan felt his skin crawl.
He spoke loudly,
"Who is there?"
The recitation stopped instantly.
The stairs creaked.
Not with footsteps — with pressure, like something heavy resting on each step.
Imran muttered,
"See? I told you cheap rent comes with emotional damage."
They searched the house.
Upstairs, every door was open.
Except one.
The prayer room.
Zoya pushed it.
Inside, the carpet was warm.
Not sun-warm.
Body-warm.
On the wall, Arabic writing had appeared — wet, dark, moving slightly:
نحن نصلي معكم
(We pray with you.)
Zoya swallowed.
"Cute. The house is Muslim."
Ammi slapped her arm.
"Don't joke!"
The writing sank back into the wall like blood into skin.
That night, no one slept properly.
At 3:17 a.m., Imran felt someone sit on his bed.
He whispered,
"Zoya?"
A voice replied softly,
"No… guest."
He screamed.
The lights exploded.
From every room came whispering dua — broken, reversed, wrong.
The house wasn't haunted.
It was practicing.