Hafiz Ayman and the Black Azif: A True Moroccan Testimony: An Account of the Daughter of Iblis Through the Black Necronomicon 

BASED ON A TRUE STORY 

Free Excerpt — Hafiz Ayman and the Black Azif (Chapters 1-2)
Cosmic horror from Morocco. Full novel available on Amazon.
© 2025 Dahman Beroba

Chapter One: My Grandfather's Death

[Ayman's voice: What you are about to read is my testimony, retold in English exactly as I lived it.]

Ta-Ha, Ma Anzalna Alayka Al-Qur'ana Li Tashqa.

Ta-Ha. We have not sent down to you the Qur'an that you be distressed.

Qur'an 20:1-2

To you, it might be just a verse.

To me, it was a sun. The only light that pulled me out of darkness.

Whenever I lay my head down now, the same questions come.

How did I do it? How did I dare?

Even now, I cannot fully comprehend what I lived through.

Greed can drive a man to sell everything — his principles, his convictions, even his faith — for a handful of coins.

Only at the end does he understand that his profit was nothing but the loss of his entire life.

My name is Ayman. My story began in 2010, in the city of Taza.

I hesitated for a long time before telling it.

Should I speak? What will happen to me if I do?

In the end, I decided to tell it. Perhaps it will serve as a warning.

It started on an ordinary morning.

I woke to go to work when my phone rang. It was my father.

That alone unsettled me — my father never called at that hour.

I said, A'udhu billah, and answered.

My instinct was right.

His voice was broken.

"Your grandfather is dead."

It is the worst sentence I have ever heard.

I tried to hold myself together. I prayed Duha, made du'a for him, and rushed to his house to stand by my father.

I was raised in my grandfather's arms.

From the day I opened my eyes to this world, I saw no one but him. He cared for me more than my own father did.

His name was Hajj Ali Abdul Ali. He had one son — my father. And my father had one son — me.

I was his only grandson.

The greatest gift he ever gave me was the kuttab. He enrolled me himself and made me memorize the Qur'an.

I had completed it by the age of seven, and to this day, I still carry it in my chest.

My grandfather died on a Friday.

We prayed the funeral prayer over him at noon, buried him, and returned to receive the mourners.

It was a grand gathering. People came from all over Morocco. Each one had a story about him.

Some had studied with him in the south, others knew him from his charity work.

He was known for his love of doing good, for giving without measure.

With every story, my grandfather grew larger in my eyes.

I wanted nothing more than to become like him. He was a true role model.

And yet, it was the strangest funeral I have ever attended.

Grief and pride and an inexplicable joy were all tangled together.

Except for one man, whose tears never stopped.

Mr. Omar — my grandfather's friend since childhood.

They had studied together, grown up together, lived through the sweet and the bitter together.

Until death parted them.

I sat beside him.

He embraced me tightly.

"My boy, you are like a son to me. More than a son. If you ever need anything, come to me."

Then he told me of their adventures, and I listened, astounded by a kind of loyalty that has almost vanished from our time.

When the call to Isha prayer sounded, he rose to leave. Before he did, he took my hand. His grip tightened.

He looked at me and said a sentence I did not understand that day:

"You have so much of your grandfather in you, Ayman. You will become just like him, Allah willing.

But be careful, my boy... be careful that the Devil does not deceive you and lead you down the wrong path."

I did not understand what he meant. And I did not dare ask him then.

The mourning ended. The people left.

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Chapter Two: Finding the Black Azif

My parents prepared to return to our house, but I told them, "Leave me here with Grandma. I don't want her to be alone in this empty house."

In the first few weeks after, I tried to adjust.

My grandfather's death left a deep mark on me. Every day I thought of following his path — studying fiqh as he had, continuing his charitable work.

I had started reading books of jurisprudence after memorizing the Qur'an, then stopped. Now, I thought, it was time to return.

I went to my grandmother and asked her for the key to my grandfather's office.

There, in his library filled with religious texts, was the best place for me to begin.

She was overjoyed when I told her my intention. Her face lit up that I wanted to follow in my grandfather's footsteps.

She handed me the key and tried to get up to help me.

"Rest, Grandma," I said. "I'll take care of everything."

I opened the office door.

The moment it swung open, an old, beautiful scent greeted me — bukhoor, musk, and oud, as if it had been trapped within those walls for months.

I opened the balcony to let the place breathe and began dusting and organizing the books.

The library was vast, blessedly vast, stacked all the way to the ceiling.

I wondered how my grandfather had ever managed to read it all.

Days passed like that.

I would come straight from work to his office. I would sit, read, and take notes.

Understanding came easily. If something in a book of fiqh eluded me, I found its explanation in another.

And if I didn't, I would find a note in the margin in my grandfather's own handwriting, explaining everything.

They were quiet, orderly days. I thought I had finally found my path.

I did not know that this tranquility was only the paradise that precedes hell.

One day I came back from work exhausted. I sat in the office as usual, opened a book, read a little, and sleep took me.

And I slept.

I had a dream that turned my life into a nightmare.

I was standing in the very same office, but it was pitch black.

Then a faint sound reached me. The crying of a little girl.

I started searching for the source. It was coming from below. From one of the wooden drawers at the bottom of the desk.

I drew closer. With every step, the crying grew louder, until it became a shriek.

I reached out and opened the drawer.

Thick black smoke exploded from it. It rushed into my chest, choking me.

In the dream, I was truly suffocating.

I jolted awake in terror, drenched in sweat, my heart nearly bursting from my chest, my head splitting with pain.

I had never dreamed anything like it......

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