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| By Kamal Ghazal |
Ayman returned to Aleppo after a long time away. An expatriate for years, he believed that only walking through the alleys of his childhood and breathing in the scent of laurel soap and wild thyme from the old markets could quench the aching nostalgia.
It was winter. The cold crept in through the stone walls of the old houses, straight to the bones. His cousin welcomed him warmly:
“ Let’s go to Yelbugha Hammam. It’s still running, and nothing beats the warmth of its steam for someone just back from abroad. ”
Ayman hesitated, but eventually gave in. Perhaps the hammam could wash away the weariness that neither travel nor sleep ever could.
They entered on a gray afternoon. Steam was already rising, curling around the ancient arches and slipping through the opening in the domed ceiling. It shrouded the space in a strange aura timeless, still.
Inside, all was cloaked in a heavy silence, broken only by the drip of water and the squeak of wooden buckets. Ayman and his cousin moved through the inner chambers, chatting softly, soaking away their exhaustion. But after a while, Ayman asked to be left alone. He wanted quiet time to let the steam unravel the knots inside him, maybe even to hear his own thoughts again after years abroad.
One of the bath workers approached and pointed silently toward al-Jawwani—the deepest, most secluded chamber. The steam there was thick, the water warmer, the silence… total.
Ayman undressed and stepped in alone.
He sat beside the stone basin, letting the hot water embrace his tired limbs. He closed his eyes.
Then , it began.
A sudden chill passed through the steam, unnatural in that heat. He opened his eyes… and saw it.
A long strand of black hair floating slowly across the surface of the water.
He flinched. Later, he would tell himself it must have belonged to someone who bathed before him. But it moved—slid away on its own, as if pulled from below.
A soft laugh bubbled up with the steam. Feminine. Delicate. It echoed from the dome above. He glanced up… and saw the shadow of a woman. Not clear—her form was shaped of mist and a strange, pungent perfume.
As he leaned closer to the basin, a whisper brushed the back of his neck:
“You’ve returned? I never left…”
Ayman trembled. He turned around—no one there. Just steam… and the water, now hotter, almost boiling.
He tried to rise, but something held his leg beneath the water. A hand. Cold. Smooth. Fingers long and pale. A twisted copper ring on the middle finger.
He gasped and leapt out, crashing into the stone wall but barely feeling it. He wrapped himself in his towel and fled, heart pounding.
At the entrance, the worker asked, casually:
“What’s wrong, sir? You look pale.”
Ayman could only whisper:
“She… was in the pool.”
The worker chuckled.
“Ah… al-Jawwani. It’s not for everyone. Some feel nothing. Some… see. There are spirits that never leave. Especially those who died waiting for something.”
Ayman didn’t understand then.
A week later, he returned to the country where he lived.
But sleep abandoned him. His mind grew cluttered, more chaotic than the old city’s crowded streets. He began to question his sanity. His coworkers noticed: his distant gaze, hesitant steps, the way he flinched at the sound of running water—even from a closed tap.
Curiosity led him to research that memory, to dig into the history of the hammam that shattered his peace. One night, he found a translated digital manuscript attributed to Ibn Shaddad. In it, a cryptic mention:
“ The Princess Zayn… fiancée of a Mamluk prince, last seen bathing in al-Jawwani before her wedding day. ”
She never emerged.
Some claimed she slipped and drowned. Others believed her jealous handmaid poisoned her. But strangest of all—no body was ever found.
Only… a strand of her hair, floating quietly.
It was said the water absorbed her. Her soul trapped in the vapor and stone, held captive by an unfinished ritual.
At that moment, Ayman understood the harsh truth:
He wasn’t the first to see the hair. To hear the whisper. To feel the hand.
And he wouldn’t be the last.
What he didn’t realize was that something deeper had been set in motion—beyond human comprehension.
In 2011, as war shattered Aleppo’s heritage, Yelbugha Hammam was not spared. The domes collapsed, the walls cracked, and the tiles of al-Jawwani scattered—as though something ancient had finally been released.
And it wasn’t just rubble that was freed…
The spirit that had lingered so long inside al-Jawwani was no longer bound.
She had slipped through the fissures. And with the first breath of steam, she began searching for the eyes that once saw her, for the skin that once recoiled from her touch, for the man who unknowingly opened the door.
From that moment on, Ayman was no longer alone.
In his dim room, in the night’s hush that echoed the silence of the hammam, another breath now joined his own.
And then… the signs began:
Mirrors clouding with mist for no reason. Water droplets on the floor, a faucet turning on by itself. A black strand of damp hair resting on his pillow.
At night—he saw her.
A faint silhouette, gliding past his bed. Visible only from the corner of his eye. When he turned to look, there was nothing only her laugh, her whisper, in the familiar accent:
“ Did you forget me?
But I… will never leave you. ”
THE END
Historical Background
I was born in Aleppo, one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world, is rich with centuries of architecture, traditions, and hidden stories ,none more mysterious than those whispered behind the steamy walls of Yelbugha Hammam, a public bathhouse dating back to the 15th century.
Built in 1491 during the Mamluk period, the Yelbugha Bathhouse, also known as Hammam Yelbugha an-Nasiri was commissioned by the Mamluk Emir Saif al-Din Yelbugha al-Nasiri. Located near the entrance to Aleppo’s famed citadel, the hammam was a marvel of its time, a communal space where the city’s merchants, warriors, and poets once gathered under domed ceilings and stone arches.
Its architecture reflected both function and beauty, designed with intricate mosaics, star-shaped skylights, and chambers that progressed from cold to warm to hot.
But over the centuries, as empires fell and time wore on the stones, whispers began to take root rumors of unseen presences, echoes of footsteps, and shadows in the steam.
Locals spoke of “al-Jawwani”, the deepest inner sanctum of the bath, where time seemed to stand still… and where not everyone left the way they came in.
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