The Night Call

 

The drumbeat came first, like a heartbeat in the darkness. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Samir Mason jolted awake in his bed, that familiar cold sweat breaking out across his forehead. The sound wasn’t in his dreams. It was real, echoing through the narrow streets of Fustat like something alive.

Thump-thump.

Three-twelve in the morning according to the digital clock beside his bed. Always the same time. Every night since Ramadan began.

Samir swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his feet—a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the pre-dawn quiet. His wife, Amira, stirred beside him but didn’t wake. She never did. Sometimes Samir wondered if he was the only one who could hear it at all.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

“It’s coming,” he whispered to no one.

The window in their bedroom faced east, toward the oldest part of the city. Samir approached it with the careful, measured steps of a man who knows better but can’t help himself. The curtains hung motionless in the still night air. With one finger, he pushed the fabric aside.

The street below was empty. Or at least, it should have been.

A figure stood directly beneath the yellow cone of a streetlight. Tall and thin, wrapped in what looked like a long robe that might have been white once, now stained with what Samir told himself was just dirt. The man—if it was a man—clutched a wooden staff in one gnarled hand and an ancient drum in the other.

Thump-thump.

Samir felt his heart sync with the rhythm. He’d researched this, of course. The tradition of the mesaharati, the “awakener” who roamed the streets during Ramadan to wake the faithful for their pre-dawn meal. A beautiful custom that stretched back centuries, all the way to the governor Utbah bin Ishaq in 238 Hijri.

But this wasn’t beautiful. This was wrong.

Because the figure below wasn’t moving its arms to strike the drum. And yet, thump-thump.

And no one else was on their balcony watching. No doors opened to greet the drummer with smiles or thanks.

And because now, slowly, the figure was turning its face upward. Toward Samir’s window.

Samir stumbled backward, letting the curtain fall. His breath came in short, painful gasps.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, forgetting himself. Then: “Astaghfirullah.”

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

The sound was louder now. Closer. Like it was coming from just outside his bedroom door.

With trembling hands, Samir reached for his phone. He’d check the local history again, dig deeper into the stories about Utbah bin Ishaq and his nighttime walks. Because something had been nagging at him, something in those old accounts that he couldn’t quite remember.

The search results appeared on his screen, bathing his face in blue light.

One account, written by a historian named Al-Masudi, mentioned that Utbah had indeed walked the streets of Fustat, calling people to suhoor. But Al-Masudi also wrote that in the year 238 Hijri, Utbah had been found dead in an alley before Ramadan even began, his body strangely preserved, his hands still gripping his staff and drum.

And yet, the awakening calls had continued that entire month.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

His bedroom door creaked open.

“Ibadallah, tasahharu fainna fissahuri barakah,” came a voice, dry and ancient, like sand shifting over stone. “O servants of Allah, it is time for suhoor. There is a blessing in suhoor.”

The silhouette in the doorway was tall and thin. In one hand, a staff. In the other, a drum that hadn’t been struck by human hands in nearly twelve hundred years.

Samir opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was a whisper:

“There is a blessing in suhoor.”

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

The figure moved toward him. Not walking, exactly. More like… gliding. As if carried by the shadows themselves.

That’s when Samir remembered the other detail from Al-Masudi’s account—the detail that had been carefully erased from most historical records.

Before his death, Utbah bin Ishaq had made a vow: that he would wake the faithful for suhoor until the end of time. That neither death nor darkness would prevent him from fulfilling his sacred duty.

And God help those who did not answer his call.

Thump-thump.

The sound now came from inside Samir’s chest.

Thump-thump.

One final beat.

Then silence.

The police would later report that when they found Samir Mason’s body, his expression was one of perfect peace. As if he’d merely fallen asleep. Clutched in his right hand was a half-eaten date—the traditional first food of suhoor.

And outside, just before dawn broke over the city of Fustat, the last echoes of a drum faded into the darkness, accompanied by a whisper that several neighbors swore they could hear:

“There is a blessing in suhoor.”

No one in the neighborhood ever missed the pre-dawn meal again.