Hazine 2153, s.38a, by Siyah Qalem, from Topkapi Palace, Istanbul. Source: Middle East Eye The other night, I fell asleep listening to a podcast episode about ghouls (ghul) and the folklore behind them. The creator traced the mythology back through Islamic tradition, exploring how isolation in dark deserts might birth such creatures in the collective imagination. There were references to the Arabian Nights (Alf Laylah wa-Laylah), to Alibaba, to the historical threads that weave through these stories. But it got me thinking: why do these stories grip me so fiercely? I've always been drawn to Middle Eastern folklore, yet I can't pinpoint where that fascination comes from. Even a short story is enough to give me that specific kind of creep, that feeling of immersion. Maybe I read these tales as a kid. But I've read different types of horror as I've grown up anyway, so it's hard to trace exactly when this particular pull started. I don't have a religious background. I was born into one but don't practice it. I have friends who practice Islam, but I'm not an insider to the faith. Yet somehow, when horror taps into Islamic contexts, it resonates with me in a way that feels almost personal. It's immediate and undeniable -- I get fully immersed and spooked, especially when jinn is involved. This is part of why Indonesian horror films captivate me. Indonesia's cinema weaves supernatural elements into Islamic contexts, exploring demons, shapeshifters, spirits, and ideas about the afterlife and divine punishment tied to the religion itself. These movies hit different than Western horror based on Christian theology. So that's what's been on my mind lately. Curiosity about why certain settings have such a hold on me. Why ghouls in deserts feel more menacing than the devil Valak disguised as a nun in the convent. Why a folklore I can't trace back to a specific moment in my own history still feels like home. That's enough to write about. Off to bed.