30% of the book — free to read
HER NAME WAS
NOOR FATIMA
Daastan Publishing
First Published in Pakistan by Daastan in 2026
www.daastan.com
www.meraqissa.com
Text copyrights © Noor Fatima
Book Design copyrights © Noor Fatima
Edited by: Huda Hashmi
The moral rights of the writer, illustrator and editor have been asserted. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or distributed in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN (Print): 978-627-526-094-3
ISBN (Digital): 978-627-526-095-0
For my best friend, Samrah Ali,
Who stood beside me through every doubt and every moment I almost gave up.
This book exists because you believed I could finish it.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE 1
Acknowledgments 125
Editor’s Note 127
PROLOGUE
You become what you hate.
We like to believe hatred is harmless, that holding a grudge, despising a trait, or rejecting a part of ourselves will protect us. But hatred does not disappear. It lingers. It settles quietly into the soul and begins to erode it from within. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it leads you down paths you swore you’d never take. You forget who you once were. You lose the person you promised yourself you’d remain. And one day, you find yourself trapped in a dark, abandoned place — one you never realised you were carving out within yourself all along.
The reflection you refuse to recognise in the mirror is the same person you once walked away from. The habits you despised, the behaviours you condemned — you deny them, bury them, pretend they don’t exist until life does what it always does. It leaves you the way you left others. Alone. Miserable. That is how life takes its revenge.
I have explored many genres through my writing — fiction, fantasy, science fiction, poetry, thrillers. But everything changed after I graduated and began working as a full-time psychologist. People did that. Their minds, their stories. They did that. I have met countless patients, each carrying a different disorder, a different fracture. Depression. Guilt. Regret. Trauma. Insomnia. Rage. Anxiety. Different faces, different lives, yet the same pattern always repeats itself. Every one of them became something they once despised. And some transformations are much more terrifying than others.
CHAPTER ONE
ANYA PENN
As the adrenaline kicked in, she sprinted through the dark woods like her life depended on it. It did. Her heart slammed against her ribs, as if it was trying to break free from her chest. Darkness swallowed everything in sight. Yet, she kept running. Terror crawled up in her bones. Her breath felt trapped; it clung to her lungs and wouldn’t come out.
“I’ve been here before, I realised, though I still ran, a feeling both past and present, blurring together.”
Words echoed in her mind, unsettling and heavy. Confusion and anxiety clouded her memories; nothing felt steady or safe in this moment. Instinct screamed at her: You’re running for your life. Again.
The surroundings felt too familiar. She hid behind a thick tree to gather herself. Silence rang in her ears. Even the faint sound of her breath felt loud. Every rustle sounded like footsteps. This silence wasn’t peace. It screamed terror. It yelled in her ears again and again.
“You’ve made a mistake.”
Wind whistled in her ear as if someone was behind. Her feet wouldn’t move, frozen in place. A whisper cut through the wind. Her name. Icy dread prickled her skin; she didn't remember telling her her name. Confusion tangled with rising panic. How does she know me? What does she want?
“You can’t hide from me…” she laughed manically.
She stepped out and ran, but slipped on damp soil and fell. Before she could rise, a cold, strong hand yanked her leg. The forest echoed with her screams.
I sighed and closed my laptop. My heart felt heavy. I walked to the window and opened it, despite not liking the cold. It makes my skin shiver. I don’t like that feeling. But at the moment, I really felt like I needed some air to ease my mind.
My thoughts drifted back to the nightmare I’d just typed, its discomfort still lingering. Still, I saw it as the seed for a plot. Writing out the dream seemed the best way to handle my insomnia and fear. I found myself lost in ideas for titles, characters, and storylines as I stood at the window. Before I knew it, I returned to my desk. The laptop lit up as I opened it, ready to face the manuscript anew.
My manuscript stared back, unfinished, unorganised, and abrupt. I’ve never felt this slow or disorganised while writing any story. I’ve written darker works, but now, self-doubt and unease weigh on my process. It’s as if the story resists me, or my own anxiety drowns the words.
A strange fear keeps me from digging deeper into the story. It's a heavy, persistent feeling I can't name, shadowing every thought and leaving me wondering if it's anxiety, intuition, or something else entirely. No matter how hard I try to ignore this feeling, it grows more and more intense with every passing day. My thoughts scatter before I can hold onto them. Even the simplest sentence feels heavier than it should.
What even is this case? It feels like nothing special compared to my previous work. Ever since this case came into my sight, it feels as if my mind is completely shut. I can’t create anything on my own. But as I close my eyes to sleep, the nightmares refuse to loosen their grip. They want to choke me in my sleep. Maybe the decision to write a true crime wasn’t right from the beginning. I scrolled back to the first lines.
“The woods remember more than us.”
I didn’t recall typing this. Maybe she was right.
CHAPTER TWO
ANYA PENN
3 WEEKS AGO
“Annie, for God’s sake, slow down! You have no idea what you’re getting into,” Callie responded, her eyes boring into me with that unique, urgent worry only she can conjure.
“Come on, Callie, give me some credit,” I shot back. “I’m tired of being safe. Thrillers are old news. I want something dangerous. I want to feel alive, really alive.”
“A true crime?”
“Unsolved, Callie.” A wild grin broke free. “I get to write the ending this time, my way, and no one’s stopping me.”
Callie’s eyes narrowed. “You’re insane. Do you really understand what you’ll uncover? Something authorities buried for a reason?”
“So…”
She stayed quiet, her eyes glimmering with worry as she leaned forward, hands clenched tightly in her lap. Even silent, her concern wrapped around me; she was more than a friend. She was all I had left. I felt the weight of her love pressing me, fierce and protective, and something ached at the thought of letting her down. Still, the thrill—
“Annie, listen to me. They close cases for a reason.” Her gaze hardened. Clearly, she thought I was headed for trouble.
“Like what, Cal? They quit because there’s nothing left to find. That’s not an answer, it’s giving up,” I snapped.
“Fine. You always were stubborn. If you’re so hell-bent on this, at least let me help you when it gets ugly.”
Her reluctant smile barely masked her anxiety. The night I began researching, one case instantly stood out. I opened my laptop. Uncertain, I scanned the manuscript, then, guided by instinct, opened a new tab.
Disappearance of Iris Hale. Ashpine.
The words tugged at me. Search results were predictable: old reports, missing teen, vague sightings. But one headline caught my attention:
“Teen Girl Disappears from Her Cottage—Ashpine Authorities Close Case, Cite Curse: Some things are better left untouched.”
I clicked. The article was dated a decade ago. The girl is named Iris Hale. The details were rough, with no names, exact places or suspects. Ashpine was the only location given. My right hand hovered over the touch pad while I bit my thumbnail. My foot tapped under the desk, restless. It was like my body remembered something my mind had long buried.
The article ended abruptly. Not a single picture. Just stark words, yet a chill knifed through my bones. My skin prickled as goosebumps spread across my arms; my breath shallowed, as if these words unlocked a darkness inside me, a secret meant only for me. A cold chill swept through me, leaving me rigid in my chair. Why did that name sound so hauntingly familiar? I whispered it aloud. “Iris…” It didn’t echo like a stranger’s name, yet it sank into me as a stone dropped in a lake. Like it had always been there. I tried to shake it off. It’s just a case. But my heart wouldn’t rest.
I copied the article and saved it in my research folder. Just in case. My eyes drifted to the window. I leaned back, closed my eyes, but calm wouldn’t come. My head buzzed like hornets. Suddenly, I shivered beneath a phantom hand pressing on my shoulder, a whisper threading through the dark, a scream swallowed by tangled woods. Was it memory, or just fear? Dread wrapped itself around my ribs, cold and suffocating.
“He’s watching, don’t breathe, he’s behind you”.
The words pressed forward in faint whispers, but the moment I reached for them, they crumbled and slipped away like sand. I breathed deep and looked at the screen. As I was scrolling through tabs, I felt as if I were being watched. My eyes flicked to the screen; a shadow seemed to move. The room felt airless, a tremor rattling my bones. Desperate to break the spell, I forced myself upright, each step sinking into the floor like it was trying to pull me back. My hand shook so violently that the fabric slipped as I flung them open. Sunlight stabbed my eyes, snapping me out of the dark fog. No one. I sighed. Whatever I’d stumbled into, it already had its claws in me. There was no turning back now. My intuition spoke. Again, I pored over the article. Even without detail, I couldn’t stop. I reached the end, only to scroll back up and read it again, as if repetition might change what it said.
“Ashpine,” I whispered. It sounded familiar. I thought, then it clicked. Isn’t this the place where Callie was brought up?
CHAPTER THREE
RHEA LAWRENCE
I spun my pen between my fingers; eyes locked on the case file that had made headlines. It practically came wrapped with a bow, a clear culprit, obvious motives, the kind of case that made detectives look good, which is exactly why it wasn’t going to be mine. Heavy footsteps thudded towards my desk. Before I could even glance up, a file slammed against the surface, loud enough to silence the entire department.
“Make yourself useful, Ms Lawrence.”
Liam snatched the high-profile file out from under my hands and walked away without another word. The urge to throw my pen directly at his arrogant skull was insanely strong. I stared at the abandoned file in front of me.
Disappearance of the Hale Family.
The edges were worn, faded, as if the case itself was trying to disappear, too. Only two measly pages inside. A joke, really.
A family living in a cottage at the end of the forest trail in Ashpine vanished eight years ago.
No witnesses.
No suspects.
Case closed.
Locals renamed the woods Cursed Pines. Cult rumors. Superstitions. The kind of nonsense cops laugh until someone turns up dead.
Family members:
Silas Hale — father.
Mother — unnamed, because apparently no one cared enough to remember her.
Daughter — Iris Hale, age sixteen.
My jaw clenched. I grabbed the file and marched straight to Liam’s office. I didn’t bother knocking. I demanded, my voice sharp enough to cut glass,
“What exactly am I supposed to do with a case that was shut almost a decade ago?”
He barely looked up from his desk, cigarette smoke curling lazily through the air, thick enough to feel suffocating.
“Solve it. Or quit. Whichever’s easier.” A lazy shrug.
The smoke curled like he was exhaling boredom.
“There’s no evidence,” I pressed. “No leads, no—”
“You’re a detective,” he interrupted. “Find what isn’t there.”
He leaned back, satisfied with himself, as he had just delivered some profound wisdom instead of utter garbage. I walked out before my mouth said something my career would regret. Hours blurred. Everyone else clocked out. The city outside fell into darkness, and I didn’t even notice.
07:00 PM.
My eyes throbbed, but my mind wouldn’t stop. If I stayed, Liam would think he’d won, so I packed up and went to the restaurant a few blocks away, where Amelia waited. Amelia’s face lit up when she saw me – the kind of smile that made the world feel bearable.
Amelia asked, “Bad day?”
“They’re all competing for the title,” I muttered as I sat down.
She laughed, convinced I was joking as always. I wasn’t. I leaned forward.
“You won’t believe what case that narcissist dumped on me. A family vanished in the woods. No clues. Nothing.”
“That sounds exactly like Anya Penn’s novel.” She grinned.
“You and your thrillers,” I groaned. “Everything’s a plot to you.”
“It is a plot. And you’ll figure it out. You always do.”
She nudged my arm, warm and steady, the opposite of everything else in my life. We talked, or rather, she did. She shared funny school memories and book stories, but my mind kept slipping back to Cursed Pines. No matter how I tried, I couldn't focus on her words. She noticed that her voice faded as my attention drifted. Dinner ended, and she stood first, concern on her face.
“Come on. Let’s get home. You need to rest.”
Outside, she offered me a ride. I refused.
“I need the walk,” I said. “Fresh air.”
Concern wrinkled her expression. “You sure?”
“I’ll live,” I replied.
She waved before driving off, leaving me with the November wind. Cold. Damp. A little too quiet. Now on the sidewalk, the city pressed around me. Cars rushed past in bursts of noise, but between them, it felt like the entire city was holding its breath. Every step echoed on the pavement. I tried not to overthink the case. I tried and failed.
A cottage hidden by trees. A missing family. A town that pretended nothing happened. The questions gnawed at me with every footstep. What if the woods weren’t cursed? What if something real was out there? Something that didn’t want to be found. I wrapped my coat tighter. No, I wasn’t scared. Not yet.
CHAPTER FOUR
ANYA PENN
The more I dug into the case, the more my unease grew with that constant feeling of “I shouldn’t be looking for something that seemed to be forgotten intentionally.”
The details were sharp, leaving nothing unnecessary, but something about that dark setting, which matches my narrative, was yelling at my face. It was more than a missing case. I could feel the depth of the lie under the cover of simplicity. Simpler things tend to hide deeper truths beneath them. Disgusting reality that waits for you to unfold the lies beneath it.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, just like before. It felt like I knew what I needed to put onto this blank page, yet the words won’t pass through me. Sometimes it feels like the story writes itself. I blink and see words that make my skin crawl, but I can’t really remember if I was the one who typed it. I sighed and scrolled through the unfinished draft when something caught my attention.
“Screams you ignore, never die. They stay. They stalk the dark. They wait. Because they know, one day, you will come back.”
My heart dropped. I couldn’t recall typing this. I pulled my hands away from the keys as if the letters burned. The sentence felt less like writing and more like a warning. I slammed the laptop shut. Closing my eyes only made it worse. Darkness wrapped around me, its tight grip closing in on me like a fist. My breath trembled. Eventually, exhaustion pinned my eyelids down and sleep slowly swallowed the noise of my thoughts.
“Found you!”
My eyes snapped open. 03:15. The digital red numbers glowed like fresh wounds. Again. My breath hitched in my throat. Sweat dripped from my forehead. It felt like I was being watched. I gasped for air as I tried to sit up to calm myself. A heavy weight settled across my chest. The silence was like death itself. Heavy, absolute and unmoving.
I reached for the lamp with a trembling hand. Light spilt across the room, but it didn’t feel warm. It didn’t comfort my restless heart. I slowly walked towards the main light switch by the door and turned on the lights. It wasn’t like me. I was never scared of the dark. But right now… It almost felt like it would choke me to death. I sat on my bed again. My breath slowly became stable, and all of a sudden, the power was out; darkness flooded the room.
Tap.
My head turned sharply toward the window. It was open. I never leave it open. I hate the cold. I never forget. The curtains fluttered like breath. I rose slowly, heart hammering like it was knocking on bone. I could feel my legs shaking. I was confused. Why all of a sudden am I so scared of everything? Yet with trembling breath and calculated steps, I walked close to the window. That smell…
I could feel the fear multiplying, the unease magnifying. Yet something was pulling me towards it. Curiosity.
As I got close, the wind brushed against my face ever so slightly. The touch was almost intentional, which sent a shiver down my spine. I took another step forward, and the surface felt sticky and thick under my bare feet. I hesitantly looked down—
“Blood.”
I blinked. That can’t be real. Before I could even begin to comprehend anything, I almost fell. Someone pushed me out. I woke up, hyperventilating. Dumbfounded, I looked around myself. I realised. Another nightmare.
The corners of the room looked darker than usual. I didn’t want to blink. It felt so real. My gaze shifted to my desk. The laptop screen was still on. I stayed up for a while, trying to bring myself to the present moment. Still drenched in fear, I scanned the room for something, anything out of place. I turned and switched on the lamp, and for the first time, I felt somewhat okay sleeping, but that too with the lights on. The warm light spread in the room, and I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. Before I knew, the world of dreaming had embraced me.
The morning light did little to lighten the weight of the dream. I barely slept, and what little rest I did get was filled with shadows. By the time the sun filtered through the curtains, I gave up.
I pulled my blanket aside and sat up slowly, my body still feeling the remnants of the nightmare. Am I sure that was just a nightmare? The tiredness clung to me like fog: thick and impossible to shake off. I pushed the curtains aside to let in the sunlight. The morning rays embraced me, and I closed my eyes to feel the warmth caress my face. For a moment, there was peace until…
“Behind you”
My head turned. Nothing.
“I’m going crazy. I should meet Callie.”
CHAPTER FIVE
RHEA LAWRENCE
The case slipped through my grasp, like a drawing in sand slowly erased by the returning tide. Every lead I seized unravelled instantly. No clues. No patterns. Only a silent void tightened around me. Still, I refused to let go. Not yet. I reminded myself, again, that the word impossible is often just the language of exhaustion. I sat at my desk, scribbling down everything I had, even if it felt pointless.
The list was small: the town, the woods, and only two names: Iris Hale & Silas Hale. Not much, really. It wasn’t much. The lack of answers frustrated me even more, but it also sharpened my resolve. I needed to prove something. To them. To myself, maybe to the part of me that still doubted.
The door creaked. I didn’t glance up; only one person enjoyed disturbing me this late. He entered, bearing that familiar smirk and swagger of someone untouched by failure.
“Oh, you still haven’t given up?” Liam said. Mocking, as usual.
“No,” I replied, keeping my voice calm. “And I’m going to the town tomorrow.”
For a second, he just stared like I’d announced something offensive.
“You’re seriously wasting your time, Rhea.”
I didn’t answer. Silence was easier than taking the bait. He scoffed and left without another jab. Maybe even he sensed that I wasn’t in the mood. Once he left, I noticed silence felt sharper, colder—an echo of my isolation. I’d never cared much about people’s opinions. Still, with this case, disquiet crept in—watched, judged, every step feeling perilous. The usual indifference was replaced by self-consciousness. I grabbed my things and headed home, rehearsing how I’d explain the trip to Lia. Except no matter how I framed it, every explanation felt flimsy and inadequate. And if I told her the truth, she’d try to stop me. She always does when she senses danger. So maybe I shouldn’t tell her at all. I’d go, come back, and explain later. Clean. Easy. Reasonable enough.
When I entered my apartment, I turned the lights on immediately. I hated admitting it even to myself, but now the darkness unsettled me more than anything. The lights flickered once before steadying.
I poured myself a glass of water. Loneliness wrapped itself around me, patient and heavy, as if it had always known where to find me. I set the glass down. Then came the fear- stomach churning, bones- chilling. Something about the room now felt off. Wrong. My eyes drifted toward the front door. Still locked. Deadbolt in place.
Cold crept up my spine, numbing me, slowing my heartbeat until worry settled deep in my chest. It wasn’t the door. It was the air. Still. Too still. Then the faintest sound—like a breath, not mine—curled from the hallway. I told myself it was nothing: fatigue, stress, imagination. But deep down, something inside me whispered the truth: I was alone in the apartment. And yet it didn’t feel empty. I exhaled slowly, forcing the tension out of my shoulders. Still locked. Still safe. Still fine. I tried my best to shake off the discomforting feeling. But I failed.
It doesn’t matter how much I pretend, I still feel her presence around me; the more I try to forget, the more it clings to me. Every room I walk into, I can feel her watching. She stares. She waits for me to lose it.
CHAPTER SIX
ANYA PENN
I kept my hands in the pockets of my leather coat. The cold breeze was a clear sign that winter was approaching rapidly. As I took a turn towards the cafe, a young woman stopped to greet me with a warm smile, flexing her fairly white teeth. Her tight curly hair made me feel a bit relieved. As much as they look beautiful, just thinking about maintaining them gives me anxiety. I forced myself to return the smile. I just don’t get why people like to interact with someone they only know from their media image.
“Can't wait for your next story,” she said, her voice warm and full of expectation.
“Soon,” I said with a smile, and walked forward before she could say anything else.
I walked into the cafe. I used to work here, and now it's the only place I visit almost daily. The coffee and food are not very good, but I can tolerate them. The place is close to my apartment building. And it’s not usually crowded here. The atmosphere felt quite nice; the aroma of coffee filled the area. The soft sound of people chatting casually eased my brain after that fretful night. I waited for her. As always, she was late. A few moments later, the door opened with the bell sound drawing my attention towards it. She walked inside and waved at me as she approached the table I was at.
“Sorry. I got caught up in traffic.”
She said while taking off her coat and taking the seat in front of me.
“Did you sleep last night? You look tired.” She continued.
That’s the end of the free sample
You have read 30% of Her Name Was- Best Psychological Thriller Novel. The full e-book picks up right where this stopped.
- Unlocks the moment your payment clears
- Reads in any browser — nothing to install
- Noor Fatima earns a royalty on every copy
Login with Google
