In the barren stretches of the Moroccan desert, beyond the bustling cities and the crowded souks, lies a village so old, so forgotten, that its name is barely whispered anymore: Tazoulte. It sits alone, crumbling under the weight of centuries, half-buried beneath the dunes. The sands shift constantly, swallowing roads and erasing paths. Few venture near it, and even fewer return to speak of it.
Legends of Tazoulte have always been ominous. The locals from nearby villages speak of cursed sands and whisper of a force that once made the village thrive but later destroyed it. Some say the land itself is cursed, while others insist that the curse came from below.
But no one knew the truth. No one except for Driss.
Driss was a nomad, traveling from town to town, selling trinkets, leatherwork, and rugs from his caravan. He had no family and little need for one, for the desert was his home. He'd heard the stories about Tazoulte, the tales passed down through generations, the warnings to stay away. But to Driss, it was an old wives' tale—just more nonsense used to frighten children.
He had been passing through a nearby town when he overheard a conversation in the corner of the café. Two old men, their faces creased with time, spoke of Tazoulte as if they had once known it. Their voices were low, strained, as if the village's name itself carried weight.
"They say the sand eats more than flesh," one of them whispered, his voice shaking. "It takes your soul."
Driss smirked from the shadows. He had traveled many parts of the desert and had seen the graves of many who feared shadows. He wasn't afraid of myths.
Later that evening, after setting up his tent by a distant dune, Driss decided he would visit Tazoulte. It was close, maybe just a day's walk. If there was anything left in the ruins, perhaps he could salvage something to sell in the market. Besides, what could be so dangerous about an old, forgotten village?
The following morning, Driss set off, walking under the oppressive heat of the sun. The dunes stretched endlessly, their golden peaks shimmering in the distance. As he approached what was left of the old trail leading to Tazoulte, a faint breeze began to pick up. It was strange. The air had been still all morning, but now, a soft wind whispered across the sands, tugging at his clothes.
By midday, the wind had grown stronger, howling through the dunes, and the skies darkened unnaturally, casting an eerie shadow across the desert. Despite the growing storm, Driss pressed on, determined to reach Tazoulte before nightfall.
Finally, he saw it—the village, or what was left of it. Broken walls jutted out from the shifting sands like the bones of some great beast, long forgotten. As he approached, Driss could feel the weight of the place. It was as though the village exhaled a deep, tired sigh, its streets abandoned, its homes hollowed out by time.
Yet, something about Tazoulte felt wrong.
The air, thick and stifling, carried a faint, metallic smell, like rusted iron and old blood. And the silence—it was too complete, too final. There were no birds, no insects, not even the distant murmur of wind. Just silence.
Driss wandered through the broken streets, kicking aside pieces of pottery and shards of what looked like once-grand furniture. He wondered what had happened here, why the village had been abandoned so suddenly. The walls of the buildings were etched with old Berber symbols, faded by the relentless sun but still recognizable. Symbols of protection. Warding off evil.
But from what?
His answer came as he neared the center of the village.
In the middle of the square stood a well. Unlike the crumbling ruins around it, the well was pristine—its stones polished and smooth, untouched by the passing years. A low hum seemed to emanate from it, so faint it could've been mistaken for the wind. But Driss knew better.
As he approached the well, he felt a sudden chill run through him, despite the heat of the desert. His instincts screamed for him to turn back, to leave Tazoulte and never return. But curiosity pushed him forward.
He peered over the edge, expecting to see only darkness, but instead, he saw movement. Ripples in the water below, as if something had disturbed the surface. His heart quickened. There shouldn't have been water here, not in the middle of a village abandoned for centuries.
But there it was—clear, cold, and shimmering.
And then, a face.
Pale and distorted, just beneath the surface, staring up at him with wide, empty eyes.
Driss recoiled, stumbling backward. He blinked, his breath shallow, but when he looked again, the water was still. No face. Just a trick of the light, he told himself. Or his mind playing tricks on him.
But deep down, he knew. Something was watching him.
The shadows in the village began to lengthen as the sun sank lower. The air grew colder, and the sense of unease in Driss's chest turned into a gnawing fear. He decided it was time to leave. Whatever he had come for wasn't worth staying in Tazoulte any longer.
As he turned to leave the square, the ground beneath him shifted. The sand… it moved.
At first, it was subtle, like the wind was gently pushing it, but then the movement became more violent. The sand began to swirl, forming a vortex around the well. Driss backed away, panic rising in his throat, but the sand beneath his feet felt alive, pulling him back toward the well.
He tried to run, but his feet sank deeper into the shifting dunes. It was as though the desert itself was swallowing him, dragging him down. He clawed at the ground, but the sand was relentless, pulling him toward the edge of the well.
From deep below, he heard the whispers. Voices, countless and overlapping, rising from the depths. He tried to cover his ears, but the voices grew louder, filling his mind, choking his thoughts.
"We are waiting," they hissed. "We are hungry."
Driss's legs buckled as the sand dragged him to the mouth of the well. His fingers scraped against the stone as he was pulled closer, closer to the edge. He glanced down into the water again, and this time, he saw them—faces, hundreds of them, just beneath the surface. Their eyes were wide, their mouths open in silent screams, and they reached up, desperate, their fingers clawing at the air.
"No…" Driss whispered, struggling, his hands slipping on the stone.
But the faces were rising, closer and closer to the surface. The water began to bubble and churn, and the voices from below intensified, a chorus of anguish and hunger.
Before he could scream, the sand surged up, swallowing him whole, dragging him down into the well.
The desert was quiet again.
Tazoulte remains forgotten, buried beneath the shifting sands. The villagers in nearby towns still speak of the cursed place in hushed tones, warning travelers to stay away.
Sometimes, when the wind howls just right, they say you can hear the whispers. The voices of those who wandered too close.
And if you listen closely enough, you'll hear Driss's voice among them.