The Stone At Midnight - By Kaneez Fatima Bhalam

Written By: Kaneez Fatima Bhalam

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Kaneez Fatima Bhalam presents a captivating narrative in her short story, "The Stone At Midnight." Part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, this entry delves into the complexities of relationships and the unsettling grip of paranoia. Bhalam's storytelling guides us through a labyrinth of emotions, where every shadow might hold a secret, and every revelation has the power to reshape lives.

About the Work

"The Stone At Midnight" masterfully blends elements of suspense and drama to explore the protagonist's inner turmoil. Through vivid imagery and a gripping narrative, Bhalam crafts a world where reality and fear intertwine, leading to profound self-discovery. The story's tense mood and intricate plot twists keep readers on edge, reflecting on themes of trust, perception, and the haunting echoes of the past.

The Stone At Midnight

Original Submission by Kaneez Fatima Bhalam

THE STONE AT MIDNIGHT

Slowly, I open my eyes and sit up in bed, squinting from the deep, restless sleep. I scan the room from wall to wall. Our whole room is chaotic and cluttered.

On one side, my entire wardrobe is out on the floor. The contents of my dressing table are thrown across the room, as if someone has gone through everything.

My eyes fall on my gold jewellery box—empty and broken.

The realisation hits me.

My stomach twists and tightens. I instinctively call Rayyan, my husband, but he doesn’t answer, as usual.

Maybe… what if he can’t come to me? What if someone is still inside the house? What if they did something to Rayyan?

My breath quickens. I pull my legs out from under the blanket and stand. I look at the clock, but I can’t see it clearly; the edges blur.

Carefully, balancing each step among the sharp items on the floor, I walk to the door. I grip the cold handle and pull it open.

The corridor is pitch‑black with a cold, subtle wind and a faint hum, as if it is still nighttime, but there is bright light in our room.

My hands clench and unclench on their own. My neck pulses. I lift my foot to step out, thinking, I must find Rayyan.

But my foot never lands on the ground. When I raise the other foot, I fall into pitch darkness—into zero gravity.

I gasp awake.

I sit upright, survey my room, and it is normal—no clutter.

I sigh deeply.

I look at my hands; they are tightly folded. I release them, pain erupts, and my body relaxes.

I stand up and check the clock. This time, I see it clearly.

I rush through my shower, dress quickly, and practically run across the house to grab essentials. I glance at the open window and make a mental note to close it later.

Before leaving, I remember to take the chequebook. The woman I want to help doesn’t know about online payments. I climb the stairs again, open my wardrobe, rummage through clothes and documents, but the chequebook isn’t there.

I lock the main door while calling Rayyan. It goes to voicemail. I record him a voice message and then drive to my office.

Standing below my beige‑cream building, I look up. The Morning Ledger, in Dariya City.

I look up at the seventh floor, where I work as a senior columnist. I take a deep breath and put on a stiff smile that only I can feel.

Inside, greetings feel excruciating. I force my legs to walk faster to my seat.

Even my seat is surrounded by dense, obtuse people.

Daria looks at me from under her eyebrows and smiles cheerfully, then rolls her eyes in mock sulking. I smile back.

The only person who is not prodding and nudging people for stories. She cares about people’s feelings and privacy.

Half my day passes in researching, writing, and deleting. There is so much content online; nothing feels new.

At lunch, Daria suggests a new restaurant near us. We walk there, and a waft of delicious smell reaches us. After ordering,

She asks, “So, did you talk to Rayyan?”

“About what?”

“About what’s happening to him”

“What’s happening to him?” I ask absentmindedly. Then, “Oh, that.”

“Yes. That,” she raises her eyebrow.

“Not yet,”

“Why? You had the whole weekend.”

“And say what? ‘Honey, why does our marriage feel like a contract?’”

“Yeah.”

“I can’t. You know I’m bad at confronting him.”

“Why are you?”

“Because he was with me when I needed him most.”

“And?”

“And that’s it. It’s like… payback. Even if I get hurt, I’ll endure it.”

“That’s not right.”

“I know. But I need time. Anyway, he left on his business trip yesterday.”

“Okay,” she says abruptly.

We avoid the topic after that.

After work, we plan a quick drink.

The pub area has narrow streets jammed with traffic. Immigrants live here in old buildings on the verge of collapsing. Food stalls line the streets.

At the bar, I order three drinks; Daria rolls her eyes.

A couple nearby whispers sweet nonsense. We laugh.

Then I feel it, someone staring.

Looking at the dance floor, my eyes meet a stranger.

A man in his early forties, though he looks older. Deep wrinkles. Eyes fixed on me, unblinking. Not flirty. Amused. Angry. Familiar.

There is a mix of smells: alcohol, sweat and perfume.

Neon disco-lights reflecting on his face.

A group of teenagers passes between us, laughing. He disappears.

“What are you looking at, Kavya?” Daria shrieks.

“Nothing.”

We gossip about office people. My phone rings—it’s Rayyan.

It’s 1 AM. I panic.

I say a quick goodbye to Daria and drive home.

Outside my house, the bedroom and kitchen lights are on. Rayyan returns tomorrow. No one should be inside.

My heart pounds. Taking deep breaths, I open the rusty gate, which screeches. The bedroom window is open, but I remember closing it.

Rayyan’s baseball bat lies in the garden. I pick it up. There is a metallic smell in the humid night.

In front of the wooden door, I dial the police number. The kitchen is empty. But the dread of the second floor chills me.

Many immigrants live in bad conditions as inflation rises. Theft has become a new profession.

The weight of the bat is pulling me down. Sweat accumulates on my forehead and upper lip. I wipe it with the back of my hand.

As I take the second step, a loud, heavy thud echoes. I run outside screaming.

I am hearing my heartbeat in my ear.

The police arrive at 2 AM. They find nothing.

“There’s nobody inside, ma’am. The vase fell because of the open window. Other than that, nothing.”

I shake my head. “Officer, I never keep my windows open. Maybe someone came and left it open. Please check again.”

“Okay, ma’am.”

They check again. Same result.

Am I being overdramatic?

I go upstairs. The window is open with a broken vase. But my jewellery box lies near the window.

I hid it in my wardrobe. No one knows. Not even Rayyan.

I barely sleep.

Rayyan returns the next morning. I tell him everything. He listens carefully.

“So, you’re sure someone was here?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. We’ll stop keeping the extra key outside. And install CCTV.”

His tone is too logical. Too distant.

I bought the CCTV myself. He wants to buy it for me, but I refuse his help.

It’s installed by evening.

Later, when an urgent call came, I go to interview a man in the mental hospital. A man who believed his parents were satanic worshippers.

Sitting uncomfortably on cold metal chairs, I feel drained by the place. My mother’s face flashes in my mind.

After work, Rayyan picks me up. He’s angry about something at his office.

I half-listen, distracted by my thoughts.

What if I did leave the lights on? What if this is paranoia?

Next morning, I got up and went to hospital; to book my old psychologist appointment, I had talked to her for years and days just to be assured, I am not going to lose my mind like my mother.

The death of my mom was very hard on me because I saw her deteriorating day by day.

From the parking lot, I returned without making an appointment, and I realised we can make them by calling too.

I can wait a few days and then make an appointment.

While driving, I saw a woman of my age, no, a little younger than me. Crossing the road with her old mother.

I travel back many years,

“Mom, what is happening? Why did you stop in the middle of the road? The light will turn green soon.”

Mom was staring a long distance; it looked like she was gazing beyond this planet or universe.

“He is watching me. He will always watch me. I am only getting away after I die.” She said without the slightest expression.

Her face appears many years old, ingrained with torture and stress.

“Mom, no one is there,” I said. “No one can keep you caged. There is absolutely no one.”

Her face turned toward me in slow motion. Her eyes rim with tears. She smiles softly, like she knows more than I will ever know.

After my working hours, when I reach home, I hear a loud voice coming from the study room adjacent to our bedroom.

I didn’t know Rayyan would be home early.

I walk to it and hear, “I cannot tell her anything now. It’s too late. I have already kept it hidden for so long.”

I knocked, and he hurriedly said goodbye to someone.

When he opens the door, I say, “Who are you talking to?”

There was sweat on his face, and he was not looking normal, looking shaky.

“You can go home early. I… I was just talking to one of my clients.” He said with a little shaky voice.

“But what did you hide from your client?” I ask.

“Nothing, nothing. He is planning a surprise for his wife about the house, and his wife is also asking for a good house recommendation. And now, she saw us together today, there were just a few misunderstandings.”

He takes a deep breath after finishing.

A doubt begins circling in my mind, but we eat together for dinner and sleep on each side of the bed, lost in our thoughts.

The next day, I wake with the first ray of light and get ready early.

The bell rings. Rayyan calls me downstairs.

Two faces appear inside my house—my sister and brother-in-law arrive uninvited. Rayyan grabs his bag and leaves.

I scream inside as I greet them. They question me gently, then not so gently.

“Maybe you left the lights on?”

“No. I didn’t.”

But did I?

Then she says softly, “You should consider pregnancy. You’ll be busy and—”

Something snaps.

“I AM busy. I had a lot of work in the office.”

“Yeah, we know. We just meant it’ll be a new start for your marriage,” my irritating brother‑in‑law says.

“We don’t need a new start. We’re fine. Anyway, I need to leave.”

We say hasty goodbyes. Their words echo—new start. Did Rayyan say something?

I go to the garage—but my car is gone.

Stolen?

I call Rayyan. No answer.

A text arrives:

Will call later, in a meeting.

The police line doesn’t connect. I take a cab to work.

Later, Rayyan and I check the CCTV—it’s off. In the garage, the car is back.

At dinner, he says, “It’s okay if you want to see your old psychologist.”

I stay silent.

That night, I searched the car. There is a faint smell inside it. A crumpled receipt lies under the seat—items I never bought.

The next day, I visit the store. After some pressure, they gave me a number.

Should I call? What do I even say?

I don’t tell Rayyan.

At home, I binge on Netflix to quiet my mind.

While taking out a wine glass, an old album falls.

Photos of my dad before his accident. My mother was laughing with him.

A picture falls into my lap—me in my teens with a man in his twenties, my painting mentor.

I was crazy about drawing. Then everything fell apart when I put him behind bars.

I shut the album. The doorbell rings.

Rayyan enters, tired. He notices the wine and album but says nothing.

We eat dinner in silence. He goes to his study; I return to the sofa.

I’m immersed in the series when a loud crash sound startles me.

I mute the TV. It’s 2 AM.

My heartbeat thuds. Something breaks in the kitchen.

Footsteps descend the stairs.

A stone wrapped in paper lies on the floor among shards of glass.

I unwrap it.

Die, you bitch.

I show Rayyan. “Do you still think I’m imagining it?”

He runs outside with a knife and returns.

“No one was on the street.”

I tell him about the receipt and the number.

He says we’ll go to the police in the morning.

I can’t sleep. At 5 AM. I call the number.

“Hello,” a man answers.

My heart stops. I know that voice.

I wake Rayyan. He grumbles until I spill everything. He understands and rushes.

The police trace the address.

We go with them.

The house is tiny, rotting. In the narrow lane of the Old Quarters. Dust is floating in the air.

The door stands ajar. Inside, the man hangs from a rope.

Later, the police call and say, “He left behind a letter, and it mentions you. Come to the station.”

They show us the message:

Hello,

I was sentenced to fifteen years for a crime I didn’t commit. Kavya’s false confession destroyed my life. I lost my youth, my dreams, my dignity.

Seeing her at the pub—happy, free—triggered something in me. I followed her home. I watched her life, the life I should have had. I wanted her to feel the torment I lived with.

I took her car and returned it. I threw the stone. I wanted her to know what it feels like to be broken.

But hurting her didn’t heal me. Nothing can give me back the years I lost.

I am ending my life today.

Goodbye.

My tears fall uncontrollably. I destroyed an innocent life to protect myself from trivial judgments.

For days, I cry in my bed without eating or sleeping.

The doorbell rings. I am still crying on my sofa. Rayyan opens the gate and ushers our guest in.

My sister visits. She talks endlessly, saying I didn’t know, I was young, it wasn’t my fault.

Her voice becomes muffled, underwater.

She starts talking about how starting a family will put this all behind us.

I glare at her with an icy, cold stare.

Then she says, “Why are you acting like a helpless woman?”

“What?”

“Why don’t you let me take care of you?”

“Really? Where were you when Mom needed us?” I nod toward her husband. “Busy with your puppet?”

She snaps. “Mom wasn’t sick. She was a coward.”

Something breaks inside me.

“She was a coward. A coward. You didn’t even see her. How can you say this about our mother?”

“Kavya, you need to understand. She was not sick.” She insists, glancing at Rayyan.

“What? Why are you looking at him?”

Rayyan steps forward, pained.

“Kavya… I hid something. Your mother was being blackmailed. There were… pictures. She paid for years. It broke her.”

The dryness in my throat constricts my voice. My legs are trembling.

I walk toward my room.

“Kavya, I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d investigate. I wanted to keep you safe.”

Halfway up the stairs, I turn.

“That’s why she kept saying she wasn’t a liar. She was just weak.”

I look at my sister.

“She wasn’t a coward. She needed us. We disappointed her.”

I go to my room.

Her last words echo in my mind.

I never asked. I never looked deeper. I believed my own assumptions.

I wail for hours. When darkness comes, I let it take me.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating the art of storytelling. It invites participants worldwide to share their literary creations, showcasing diverse voices and narratives. This competition emphasizes creativity and originality, offering a stage for writers to express their unique perspectives and connect with a global audience.

We extend our heartfelt gratitude to Kaneez Fatima Bhalam for her thought-provoking contribution, "The Stone At Midnight," to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her story invites us to explore the intricate layers of human emotions and the profound impact of our past on the present. Thank you, Kaneez, for sharing your compelling narrative with us.

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.