The Investigator’s notes [March 18]: The body, interred in an unmarked grave at our cemetery two weeks ago, is still missing. However, we believe that the man apprehended at a grocery store a few days after the mysterious happening had everything to do with it.

This man — a 40-year-old, short, thin, bespectacled shop attendant — consistently and vehemently denies that he had any hand in stealing the corpse of that lonely woman from a hostel.

But during the interrogation he has confessed to committing another series of crimes — so heinous, unnatural, and appalling that the entire city is still reeling from the shock.

This man — who lives alone in a dilapidated flat in the city’s old quarters — has admitted to stalking the women recently buried in the cemetery and violating their graves.

He desecrated at least 12 resting places, a fact corroborated by the discovery of his “trophies” — 12 strands of hair wrapped in 12 pieces of cloth from shrouds, stacked inside a cupboard in his dark and dingy bedroom.

He also led us to the graves. With the court’s permission, we later exhumed the bodies, all lying in their final resting places in various postures of anguished contortion.

The psychopath’s diary [March 3]: I must stop visiting the graveyard. I love that place and its silent inhabitants — the moist darkness infused with the scent of rose petals and a sense of decay draws me irresistibly. But now someone else is also active in the cemetery.

My rival is a lot more powerful, swift, and meticulous, because he managed not only to steal the body that was buried this morning — before I could reach it — but also closed the grave so perfectly that I didn’t have the slightest doubt that it had already been tampered with.

Nothing about the dead scares me. But when I removed the slabs tonight and switched on my torch, I was shaken by the sight of an empty grave, with a strong scent of wild flowers rising from its bottom.

Obituary by the roommate [March 2]: Fatima — the heavenly light in this dismal and depressing retreat of the unwanted — is no more. She was my daughter, my sister, my friend, my guide. She was the most beautiful, kind-hearted, and pure person I have ever laid eyes on.

Little is known about her past except that she had run away from home at a very young age to marry a tutor she had fallen in love with. It is said that the handsome young man, the father of her stillborn baby, was murdered a couple of years after their marriage by a killer sent by her disgraced family.

These tragedies had, however, not embittered her. Rather, the love which the schoolmaster had once kindled in her heart had grown more and more impersonal and powerful with time.

In this dark world, her very existence looked like an impossibility. She was a vessel of miracles, and now I believe that it was her magical touch more than any other treatment that had cured my brain cancer and the growing blindness of one of the hostel’s maidservants.

However, it was her death that disclosed her saintly secret.

Today, she woke me up at 11am — I had the flu and was sleeping late in the morning. To my surprise, she told me that she was supposed to depart in two hours and therefore she wanted to say goodbye to me.

I sat up in bed bolt upright and held her hand. “Where are you going?” I asked her anxiously.

She was in high spirits and instead of answering my question she handed me a packet. “I have a gift for you,” she said. “I have just returned from the market.”

Ignoring the look of confusion on my face, she suggested that I fix a special omelette for her. “We will have breakfast together,” she said to me playfully.

As we sat in the dining area, I realized that before waking me up, Fatima had met each resident and worker at the hostel. Realizing my growing anxiety over these hasty farewell ceremonies, she patted my hand and said: “Don’t worry, friend, you will be the first to know.”

When we returned to our room, she pointed to a bag carrying a white dress: “I bought it for myself,” she said. Then she started packing her belongings in a suitcase. This suspense was too much for me. I held her hand: “Are you really leaving me alone?” I asked.

She smiled again, looked at the wall clock and said: “I am running out of time.” Presently, she went into the bathroom to take a shower. When she returned, she was radiant in her white dress. Seeing tears glistening in my eyes, she hugged me in a tight and unexpected embrace.

“Sister, will you be kind enough to make me another cup of tea?” she said, while stealing a glance at the clock. Her beautiful face was radiating with happiness.

I returned to the room within 10 minutes with two cups of tea to find her lying on the bed, with a white sheet covering her entire body except her radiant, smiling face. Her eyes were closed. A letter was lying beside her pillow, my name written prominently on its cover.

With trembling hands, I placed the tray on the side table and picked up the letter.

It bore this brief message: “Dear Saadia, it’s about time I was leaving. Please send this suitcase to my mother. My rosary and prayer-mat are for you. Please burn my diary. I have already taken a bath and this is my shroud, so please don’t bother about my ghusl. I will love you always: Fatima.”

A short poem from Fatima’s diary:

Desires paint images; Images are veils;

Veils must be lifted if you want to see the light.

Desires paint images; Images are idols;

Idols must be broken if you want to see the light.

The writer can be reached at farrukhkamrani@gmail.com

All facts and information are the sole responsibility of the writer