Do Not Disturb the Sleeping Dame - By Maryam Yaasir

Written By: Maryam Yaasir

Category: Short Story, Mystery, Fantasy and Gothic Fiction

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In a masterful short story, Maryam Yaasir invites readers into a world of mystery and fantasy with "Do Not Disturb the Sleeping Dame." This captivating piece is a part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, showcasing her skillful blend of gothic fiction and modern storytelling. Set against the bustling backdrop of Colombo, this tale unravels secrets, adventures, and family mysteries, immersing readers in an intricate narrative that promises intrigue and suspense from start to finish.

About the Work

Maryam Yaasir's story is a rich tapestry of mystery and gothic elements, weaving a narrative that is both captivating and complex. With a protagonist navigating a world filled with enigmatic paintings and hidden treasures, the story's mood oscillates between suspense and revelation. Yaasir employs vivid imagery and a compelling narrative style, inviting readers into a tale that explores themes of family secrets and self-discovery, all wrapped in a cloak of fantasy and intrigue.

Do Not Disturb the Sleeping Dame

Original Submission by Maryam Yaasir

Do Not Disturb the Sleeping Dame

________________

Prologue

Call me your protagonist, knight me your narrator, for I will guide you through these wild streets, unravelling an adventure I had sworn to bury. My Odyssey, dare I say.

It began like any adventure; the skies opened and lightning struck my home, transforming my cat into a sorcerer with blue eyes- I’m kidding, it was Tuesday evening last August.

I fear I’m getting ahead of myself, let’s step into the portal then, shall we? Be warned, this tale does not contain one singular flavour but is infatuated with many.

Tread carefully my dear friend.

Part I: Hit ‘Play’ by accident.

Sunlight speckles the window. Its golden rays trace the silver frames hanging in the antique painting shop. Through the wooden windows, dust floats in the air, filling the store with the musky scent of cinnamon and old books.

The bell chimes as the final customer exits into the chaos of the streets, slamming the door behind them. Right on cue, the clock tower echoes, signalling the end of yet another workday in the streets that never sleep. Pettah.

My hands lift the smooth wooden board hanging by the door. Tilting it to the right, I display ‘Sorry, we’re closed’ to the outside world. A passerby cocks his head, surprised. I sigh in return.

Truthfully, it was unusual for any business to wind down so early in such a bustling city in Colombo. However, my store was far from conventional. For starters, my paintings

weren’t necessarily the sorts you’d find in Sri Lankan homes. Rather, they were the only source of financial stability mother left behind.

“Sell them. Keep them. Do as you like, duwa. There will come a time; they will save you,” her letter said. The same

letter I’d found on my nightstand the day she went missing.

My finger glides along the cool frame of the largest painting in my store. ‘The Sleeping Lady’.

It boasts a painting of a knight asleep with flowers protruding from her neck as she bleeds crimson, shedding tears of gold.

Morbid indeed.

Often, window shoppers would pause to spectate; none of its adoring fans mounting the courage to seal the deal. And so, she remained, watching me as I worked.

An accustomed sensation of soft cotton snakes through my legs. Sudu nona, or Suna for short, my Persian, drapes around my feet.

“Looks like it’s dinner time,” I smile, petting her between the ears as I pick her up, ready to retreat to my sanctuary of cushions and coffee. On my way upstairs, my eyes launch a quick scan of the backrooms. Nothing seemed unnatural aside from the absolute mess of cardboard boxes discarded across the space. Admittedly, the room would be more spacious if it wasn’t for Mother’s wooden cupboard that clung to the wall. I could never bring myself to move it. It reminded me too much of her. Despite the fact that she never let me touch it.

Mother was mystifying like that.

A piercing crash shatters my ears. Gasping, I leap into the air as my cat bolts away from my arms, hissing.

What on earth?

Collecting my wits, I rush back to the storefront, expecting a car accident or worse, a tea shortage to be erupting in the streets. Panicked, I jerk the door forward, leaping onto the road.

A car honks, nearly taking my life as it jets past me. Whipping my head from left to right, my eyes scan for any signs of trouble.

Nothing. The streets remain crowded, people in saris, shawls, and loose clothing bustling as business continues through the market. A porter shoving a large cart glares at me for blocking his path. Confused, I step back into my shop, questioning my sanity.

Was I imagining things?

“Suna?” I call, finally searching for my cat,” Where are you, old girl?”

That was quite enough for today-

I scramble to the floor, shock taking away my breath and gravity. Holding in a scream, I stare at the large painting. The Knight’s closed eyelids now had two golden pupils staring straight into my soul. ‘The Sleeping Lady’ had awoken.

________________

Part II: The Game is Afoot

There’s a strange drawer in the portrait’s wooden frame that was never there before. Frazzled, I dig my palm into it, ignoring the potential of a rat leaping outside.

Instead, I find a coarse sheet of paper. Shaking it open, I brandish a map. A key, hidden in its margins, falls into my lap. My fingers wrap around it, the cold texture unsettling in my hands.

“What is going on?” I snap out painting.

Where does this map lead- treasure perhaps? More importantly, why did Mother’s painting have a key hidden inside it?

A horrid thought skids across my mind. Was this stolen?

Oh, good heavens.

I begin muttering to Suna, “Growing up, we weren’t the wealthiest; I can only assume-”

Frantically, I shake my head. No.

Mother was never the notorious sort. If a cat scratched her, she’d blame her hand instead of the cat.

“Meow,” Suna says.

“You’re right. This map does look familiar,” I say, taking a

closer look. I squint to realize it said ‘Prince Street.’ That’s where my shop was located. There is a circle that leads to a wider shape, underlying the text ‘Pettah.’ I lift the map towards the dim orange store light. My eyes widen. There’s a hidden

trail leading away from ‘Pettah’…

This trail follows the map to a blue circle with the text ‘Green’ in cursive.

“Green?” I mutter, “As in…” The light bulb switch flicks. Of course. The promenade.

I dart my eyes to the clock. It’s 17.32 in the afternoon. Grabbing my cat and keys, I throw the doors open. Coarse, city air billows my coat as I yank it over one arm, using the other to bolt the store. Hastily shoving on boots, I hop towards the pavement, my feet and brain refusing to slow down. Why

was I so desperate?

“Your mother’s gone, child,” my neighbour’s voice slithers, “I suggest you get over it.”

I knew she was. But if I could get some clue, some answer perhaps…

I could be free.

Free of the misery her disappearance had ingrained.

With the grime of the road creasing my batas, I hurry towards the beach. Tuks honk at me, offering a ride. Suna, who’s clinging to my shoulder, hisses at passing vehicles.

“I see it!” I cry. The copper sand and crystal ocean waves beat the shores, splattering seawater like diamonds across the horizon. There was no doubt about it. This was the place. Galle Face Green, Colombo’s ocean-side promenade.

There wasn’t much green, contradictory to its name. There hadn’t been for years now. Geographical changes aside, something felt very wrong. Correction, something about this entire

day was wrong. From the moment my last customer departed to the speed of the crows gliding the now greying skies.

I should’ve brought an umbrella.

The abrupt change in weather didn’t faze me, for it was the epitome of Sri Lankan weather; however, it didn’t quite soothe the unsettling feeling in my stomach.

I hear a hiss in my ear, like the flight of a bullet through the air. Lightning quietly tears the skies. Bundling a wailing Suna in my coat, I cross the pedestrian.

A bike flies past me, the rider and I exchanging glances as their eyes widen.

“You-”

A bus honks, bringing my attention back. I realize I’m standing in the middle of the road. Gripping my coat, I race across the main street, my feet finally touching the copper land.

This is it.

I was barely alive, with a cat clawing at my trousers and rain gently drizzling into my eyes. All because of a termite-infested map on my mother’s cursed painting.

I must have finally lost my mind.

Part III: New Characters Unlocked.

I cross the clumps of land that lead towards the stalls, above the ocean. Amidst the ruckus of kite sellers and children running amok with their bubble machines, I finally comprehend something. I am being watched.

More specifically, my keen observers weren’t sitting still. Former footprints of mine were being replaced with the heavy trod of creepy stalkers. And so, I did what any sensible, overstimulated young adult would do.

Run.

My feet kicked the grainy sand as I began speeding across the open expanse, hoping to blend in with the crowds of enthusiastic families and couples. Mother’s advice echoes in my ears.

‘Remember, duwa, when being pursued, you will have no chance of survival on your own. Escaping a scene is always better than causing one.’ Thank you, mother.

I bump into a burly man with a large trench coat. That’s odd; no one here dressed like Sherlock Holmes. It was too scalding in Colombo for- why was he looking at me like that?

He whispers into his collar, “I found the target.” With colossal

gloved fingers, he reaches for me. I take a leap backwards, bumping into another person dressed like him. In the distance, my eyes catch glimpses of several figures like him.

My stomach sinks. Was I about to get kidnapped in broad daylight? Crowds brush past us, too busy engaging in their own affairs to care.

Suna unceremoniously leaps from my coat, the brave soul attacking the man’s hand. A flying cat throws the creep off guard as he starts waving his arm to get rid of her. She lands on her feet a few inches away.

“Suna!” I cry, snatching her. Quite literally pocketing the element of surprise, I sprint ahead, not daring to look back.

I hadn’t quite figured where I was headed yet. The men seemed to be everywhere. As I stop by the sidewalk facing the ocean to catch my breath, a hand yanks me.

I can barely yelp before it covers my mouth, pulling me under the shade of a prawn vadai stall. “Be quiet,” it orders. Footsteps of the men rise before they fade.

I stumble backwards, shoving the hand off my mouth. “Who are you?” I demand, turning to stare at my mysterious savior. It appears I had, coincidentally, uncovered the identity of the mysterious biker I had seen earlier; though they were no man.

A woman in a dark leather jacket with large sunglasses nestling her eyes surveys me. When she shifts her neck, a tattoo reveals itself. Where did these people come from? Despite the rain, it’s 27 degrees outside. Did they not sweat wearing such heavy clothes?

“I,” she says, pausing for dramatic effect, “am your sister.”

Despite today’s terrible turn of events, I snort. “No, you’re not,” I correct.

“Yes, I am,” she says, surprised,” I am your sister-”

I burst out laughing. “Respectfully, I don’t have a sister. Let

alone one with a neck tattoo.”

“My dear?” she asks confused.

“How old even are you?” I ask before snapping, “this is ridiculous. I appreciate you saving my life. I will be leaving now. Good day-”

“I know this is a lot. I will explain everything. Why we could never see each other, why you were the one she left behind-”

“Left behind?” I sputter. Does that mean mother was alive?

“I promise. I’ll tell you everything,” she says before gently adding, “nangi.” My brow twitches at that.

Strangely enough, that word planted a seed of grief in my chest. I had always wanted an older sister.

“Don’t call me that,” I mutter, turning to leave.

“Mother had slightly grey hair. She was born with it. I know every month she’d go to Dehiwala to get it dyed,” the stranger reveals.

“What?”

“I knew my mother,” the biker declares, smirking.

I smile back.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” I say bluntly. She could be her hair stylist for all I know.

“Look, it doesn’t matter,” she says impatiently, “the point is, you have dangerous people after you.”

“Why?” I ask, frustrated, “I have nothing. I barely earn minimum wage. In this economy-”

“Listen to me. When you pulled that hidden compartment in the Sleeping Lady, you triggered a mechanism that alerted every player after it,” she says.

“After what?” I sputter, “And I didn’t trigger anything.” She pauses.

“Really?” she asks, surprised,” it just triggered itself?” I nod.

The lady starts gripping her chin, muttering, “What are you plotting, Ammi?”

“She’s over there!” someone yells.

I look up from my stall to see Mr. Overcoat pointing right at me. The chase is now drawing spectators’ attention.

“This way,” the woman says, pulling my arm. I get up as we start running, like fire is in our wake.

“I still don’t trust you,” I say, huffing.

“Kid, I’m on your side. Look out!” she says, yanking me from the clutches of another overcoat individual.

Suna hisses.

I had no choice but to trust her, the biker that is. I wasn’t leaving without answers. For three years, mother never

afforded me the liberty of closure. She just left… “Fine, tell me where we’re going,” I cave.

“The ocean,” the woman says.

Dang, was it too late to change my mind?

“There’s a boat waiting. We can leave Colombo through it,” she says, grabbing my hand.

My chase was gathering a lot more attention as we barge through crowds, a stitch forming in my stomach.

I head towards the stone stairway that led to the ocean below. The woman grabs my arm.

“No. This way,” she says, steering me towards the pier instead.

“We can’t get to the boat from there,” I wheeze.

“Change of plans. Those men are down there,” she says.

We bound up the pier, rushing to the edge.

“I don’t see a boat,” I say, unsure.

I turn, my heart sinking as I realize we’re surrounded. I hadn’t fathomed how many people were chasing me. From where I stood with my hands on my knees, I could observe the count exceeding twenty.

“Hurry! Climb!” the woman says, standing on the railings.

“That does not look safe-”

I can’t finish my sentence as she yanks me to join her. I step on the thin railing, staring at the violent, roaring sea below.

Where was the boat?

“Stop!” one of the men orders.

Bystanders start pulling out their phones, but that’s far from my concern, given it’s not the only thing pointed at me.

One of the men held a gun.

“Get down from there!” he yells.

I look at my sister, noticing a sequined cheetah figure stitched to her jacket. Blinking heavily as rain slid through my eyes, I

ask, “What do we do?”

She turns to me, a grin slithering across her lips. My heart stops.

“Sorry, kid,” she admits.

Gripping my shirt aggressively, she then proceeds to fling me off the railing. My eyes widen in betrayal as I hear the gun fire.

Wind whips my face as blood splatters the sky.

Part IV: Game Over

Well. That’s one way to escape a scene.

Perhaps Mother was onto something, I think to myself as the cold ocean slams my back, saltwater suffocating my eyes and lungs.

The water was graciously deep, saving me from getting splattered to death. The currents, however, weren’t so kind.

Rapid tides fling me mercilessly as I gasp for air.

Suna!

I violently claw the salty darkness searching for my cat. No.

No. No.

Panic builds as oxygen collapses, the sea pulling me into its unforgivable depths.

I guess I’ll see you soon. Mother.

Unexpectedly, a creaking sound shatters my muffled ears. I’m sucked into a powerful current as my body is spat into an open space. The next thing I know, I’m sputtering on some stone floor as ocean water escapes my throat.

What just happened? Who stopped death from cutting my strings mere seconds ago?

Disoriented, I glance around, my eyes adjusting to the fluorescent lights. I’m in some kind of facility. And that’s not the only thing I notice…

“Suna!” I nearly burst out crying as I hug my best friend. My cat shivers as water drips from her fur. I wrap my drenched clothes around her as she growls, nipping and scratching my fingers furiously.

“Well,” a deep voice booms, “I didn’t think you’d survive that.” I look up to see an old man in a black robe.

Was he just standing here this whole time?

“There’s no mistaking it. You are her daughter,” he says.

“Where am I?” I ask, not skipping a beat.

“You, my dear, are under the sea,” he says, waving his hands to point behind me.

I turn to see where he gestures. How did I not notice the large glass window behind me? Fish swim from view as dark water covers the entire wall.

“What’s going on?” I ask, “Who are you?”

“Welcome to the British Archives. Also known as the Final Treasure Beneath the Greens,” he declares, “or for short, FTBTG.

We like to keep it original.”

“What?”

Retracting his hand from his moustache, he claps them.

“I am the keeper of this great place. Or I was. Now that you’re here, the agreement is complete.”

“What agreement?” I question.

Mastering the art of avoidance, he turns, gesturing for me to follow. It’s freezing to stand still, so I comply.

My, my, I really had the survival instincts of a spoon.

To be fair, I had just been submerged underwater and survived. Seawater hadn’t quite left my brain. Nor had the

sound of gunshots. Did someone die?

Leading me to a large door, he turns away.

“What?” I ask as he tilts his head. “Now. You,” he says plainly.

“Sorry, seeya. I don’t know what you want from me,” I say, shrugging. He stands there clutching his hands together.

As expected, he was no help.

“Suna, get in here, girl,” I say, opening my coat pocket.

She jumps in as a sound rattles the shelter floor. The key, which miraculously survived the Indian Ocean, falls from my pocket. Its gold edges glisten on the dark orange floor. In a flash, the old man picks it up and holds it out to me without a

word.

“Okay…” I say, taking it from him. I squint at the door, finding its keyhole. If this works, I will question my entire existence.

That ship sailed a long time ago.

The key slides into place. Blowing into my icy hands, I twist it as a loud crashing sound echoes through the chambers.

The massive door yawns, revealing the inside. I enter a large space; a chunk of gold sits there. Diamonds and jewels bedazzle its edges.

“It’s not real, is it?” I ask the man in disbelief. I hadn’t noticed it, but there was a cheetah crest on his lapel. Surely a coincidence-

Suddenly, the room is pitch-black, the candlelight silenced. My reality shifts as the crates beneath my feet alter. The darkness taunts me as the floor gives way. I can barely yelp as I fall into an abyss.

“Ow!” I groan as I fall flat on my back

In the distance, a door with a faint yellow light appears. I get up to reach for it when something catches my eye. Behind me, the gold sits on a concrete block, commanding the darkness around it to surrender. Do I take it…?

________________

Part V: The Final Boss

Oblivious that this was the final moment my sanity would remain intact, I push the cave door open. The familiar scent of cinnamon rushes to my nose as realization sinks in.

Dripping ocean water in the backrooms, I re-enter my shop in Pettah. The markets outside still bustled with chaos. As I step away from the cave exit, the wooden doors slam shut, the forbidden cupboard sealing itself. So that’s why mother never let me touch it.

My cat sniffs the treasure my cold fingers gripped.

Before I can even process what made me decide to swipe the gold-

The bell chimes. I have a customer.

Didn’t I lock the door?

Pocketing the treasure, I rush outside.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” I say distractedly. There’s a cloaked individual in a hat and coat.

I reach under my desk for the hammer I kept within reach.

“Can I help you?” I ask quietly.

“The Sleeping Lady, how much?” A woman’s voice utters. I notice the same damned cheetah figure on her lapel and… My jaw drops. It can’t be.

Peering closer, my hand weakens around my weapon, tears building in my eyes.

“Ammi?” I sputter.

The lady takes her hat off, revealing greying hair and brown eyes.

“Yes, duwa, she’s safe,” Mother mutters into her phone before dropping it to face me. Her face breaks into a warm smile.

A smile I’d once called home.

She pulls my shivering figure into her arms.

“Congratulations, you found our treasure.”

Instead of uncontrollable euphoria, an anchor weighs on my

chest as I can’t help but wonder… All along, was I just a pawn?

The End.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, hosted by Hashtag Kalakar, is a prestigious platform that celebrates diverse literary talents from around the world. This competition provides writers an opportunity to showcase their creativity and storytelling prowess in various genres, including poetry, short stories, and essays. It is a celebration of literary artistry, fostering a community of writers who push the boundaries of imagination and narrative.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Maryam Yaasir for her enchanting contribution, "Do Not Disturb the Sleeping Dame," to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her story is a testament to the power of narrative and imagination, leaving readers eager for more. We look forward to witnessing more of her creative endeavors in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.