The Bride Wasn’t Human

They said it was a wedding.
Not one of celebration, but of summoning.
We were a group of women performers, well-known and well-booked especially Noura.
That night was like any other.
A call came.
A voice polite, calm, inviting.
A request to perform at a grand wedding.
There was no reason to suspect anything strange until we arrived.

The mansion towered ahead like a forgotten shadow, its arches wide like open mouths.
Ornate, yet untouched by time.
Lights glimmered faintly behind old windows,
but the neighborhood was lifeless, empty, and silent.
Too silent.
A woman greeted us at the door.
Her smile was stiff, her eyes unreadable,
but her hospitality was flawless.
She ushered us in with warmth that didn’t reach her expression.

Inside, lavish pillows and carpets were arranged perfectly, incense burning in the corners,
lights casting golden halos across the floor.
The guests, women in veils, gathered quickly.
They sat with grace, but something about them… something felt wrong.
As Noura began to sing, their faces turned to us.
Their veils never lifted.
They clapped lightly.
They whispered.
Their bodies swayed to the beat,
but their motions didn’t quite match the rhythm.
Their energy was too still. Too rehearsed.

One of our bandmates leaned toward Noura, whispering in panic:
“Their cheeks… they’re burning up like fire.
Their faces feel like stone…
and their hands… they feel like men’s hands.”
Noura, always composed, whispered back, “Just sing. Don’t stop. Don’t look too closely.”
So we did. We kept playing.
But then came the dancing.
The guests moved strangely—gracefully, but stiffly. Their hands were oddly hairy.
One dancer’s veil slipped slightly.
Another’s dress lifted mid-twirl.
That’s when we saw it.
The legs. They were not legs.

They were limbs of lambs, twisted with forks and knives stuck into the flesh dancing as if stitched to life.
One being clapped with hands covered in fur.
Another howled softly, a sound between song and scream.
My breath caught.
My fingers shook on the drum.
Noura saw it too.
She looked pale but steady.
“We don’t panic,” she said.
“We finish. We leave."

But panic bloomed like wildfire in our chest.
The music began to crumble.
The veil of illusion started to thin. Then the bride and groom entered.

They walked in together but didn’t feel together. They moved like shadows on strings.
Their chairs were set inside a strange carving—a figure with an open mouth.
Its teeth were carved from ivory and stone.
It felt like an altar and a trap.
Everyone turned toward them. The hall vibrated with a silent hum, a low frequency beneath human hearing.
Noura slowed her rhythm. I stopped entirely.
Then everything went dark.
The lights vanished. So did the music.

A breathless silence flooded the room. In that instant, Noura grabbed her drum and bolted.
We followed, grabbing only what we could carry.
Our steps were soundless on the thick carpets,
but behind us, we heard breathing. Too many breaths.
Something was watching us go.
We sprinted out the front door, across the courtyard, and out to the street,
where the air tasted different—as if the outside world had returned.

A man stopped us not far from there. He asked what we were doing out so late.
We told him. Noura did. Her voice trembled as she spoke.
But the man looked at us, wide-eyed, and said, “That mansion?
That place’s been abandoned for over thirty years.”

He drove us home in silence. He didn’t ask again. None of us did.
That was the night Noura left her profession.
She never sang at a wedding again.
And yet, even now, sometimes the rhythm returns. During certain nights,
when the wind carries whispers and the moon hangs too low, a melody emerges out of nowhere.
It stirs your soul like it came from them. From that hall.
From that unspoken wedding.

They said it was a wedding. But it was never meant for humans.
It was a ceremony for shadows.
And we were the entertainment.

Even now, the scent of incense makes me flinch.
The memory is burned not just into my mind but into my skin.
Sometimes I feel the presence return—not visually,
but in a tremor behind my neck, in the strange stillness of 3 a.m.,
in the inexplicable chill when no windows are open.
Noura never spoke publicly about that night.
But the band members, those who stayed in touch,
sometimes send each other short messages. Nothing descriptive.
Just an emoji.
A drum.
A crescent moon.
A veil.
We know what it means.
They remember. Just like I do.