The Shadow in the Wheat Fields
A Story by Faraz Parvez (Pen Name of Dr. Arshad Afzal)
The village of Noorabad was known for two things—the endless fields of golden wheat that stretched beyond the horizon and the strange disappearances that no one spoke about. Every few years, someone vanished without a trace. No bodies were ever found, no footprints left behind—only the silent sway of the wheat fields under the moonlight.
But people had learned to live with it. After all, life must go on.
It was in this very village that Naeem, a young farmer, lived with his family. He was a hardworking man, engaged to Sughra, a sharp-tongued but kind-hearted woman he had loved since childhood. Life was simple, until one evening when his best friend, Sikandar, vanished.
Sikandar had gone into the fields to check on his crops, but he never returned. His mother, Mai Sakina, cried for days, her wails echoing through the village, but as always, the villagers moved on.
Naeem, however, couldn’t.
“This isn’t normal,” he told Sughra one evening as they sat outside their small hut. “People don’t just disappear like this.”
Sughra frowned. “It’s been happening for generations. Some say there’s a curse on these fields.”
“Curses don’t steal men,” Naeem muttered.
That night, against Sughra’s protests, he decided to investigate. Bashir, an old shepherd who had lived in the village for over fifty years, agreed to accompany him.
“Something watches from the wheat,” Bashir whispered as they walked. “I’ve seen it before.”
They moved cautiously, their lanterns casting long shadows on the rustling stalks. The deeper they went, the heavier the air became. Then, suddenly—a whisper.
“Naeem…”
He spun around, his heart hammering. “Did you hear that?”
Bashir nodded, his face pale. “Let’s leave.”
But Naeem pressed forward. The whisper came again, clearer this time.
“Help me…”
Then he saw it.
A shadow, taller than any man, standing between the wheat stalks. Its shape flickered like a dying flame, and its voice was nothing but wind through the fields.
Bashir grabbed Naeem’s arm. “This is not for us to understand!”
But Naeem refused to leave. He stepped closer, his breath shallow. “Who are you?”
The shadow trembled, then moved aside, revealing a small mound of earth.
Naeem hesitated before digging. His fingers scraped against something cold. As he unearthed it, Bashir gasped—bones.
Hundreds of them, buried beneath the wheat.
Terror gripped them as realization dawned. These were the missing people.
A gust of wind howled through the fields, and the whisper came again—this time from all around them.
“We were never found…”
Panic surged through Naeem. He and Bashir ran back to the village, their lantern swinging wildly. They burst into the elder’s house, waking him from his sleep.
Elder Rashid Baba listened quietly as they recounted what they saw. When they finished, he exhaled heavily.
“It is the curse of this land,” he murmured. “Long ago, this village was built upon a battlefield. Hundreds of men died here—unburied, forgotten. Their souls wander, taking what the earth has denied them.”
Naeem’s stomach twisted. “Then what do we do?”
The old man looked away. “Nothing. This is how it has always been.”
But Naeem refused to accept that. The next morning, he gathered the villagers, including the grieving Mai Sakina, and led them to the wheat fields.
There, under the scorching sun, they dug.
They dug for days, uncovering the remains of those who had vanished. One by one, they buried them properly, offering prayers for their souls.
And then—the disappearances stopped.
For the first time in a hundred years, the wheat fields whispered no more.
But Naeem would always remember the shadow that had led him to the truth. And sometimes, when the wind blew just right, he thought he still heard a voice in the fields, not in fear this time—but in gratitude.
