Speaker 1: Most people don't know about the ICD, the Integrated Contamination Division,
and that's exactly how they like it. They've been around forever,
quietly cleaning up the world's loose ends, the things that
don't make sense, that don't belong. They're scoop top, locked
away and forgotten. Officially, the ICD handle's biological hazards and
experimental preservation. Unofficially, they're in the business of making the
impossible disappear. I worked for them long enough to know
better than to ask questions. Facility one twelve wasn't my
first assignment, but it was the last. Places like that
aren't for the curious. It's a simple job, a good
fit for someone like me. I was used to it.
You don't work for the ICD without learning to accept
the strange. You hear things, rumors of living shadows, creatures
with too many teeth, things I vanish. If you look
directly at them, you don't get attached, you don't wonder,
and you definitely don't ask what's in the sealed containment pods.
You just keep your head down and follow the rules.
The facility has tucked away when no one would think
to look. It's not glamorous, and it's where they send
the most dangerous and valuable finds. My job was to
keep people out and things in. I'm not a scientist
or an analyst, just one of the guards who patrols
the halls, checks badges, and watches security feeds. The day
they brought it in, the whole place felt wrong. Facility
one twelve was usually quiet, sterile, almost for that day.
There was this heavy tension in the air, like everyone
was waiting for something bad to happen. I was stationed
at one of the checkpoints when the transport team rolled through,
eight people in hazmat suits wielding a massive containment pod,
and no one was talking. It wasn't the usual protocol.
It was fear. Even the scientists who normally treated these
things like interesting puzzles, looked like they'd rather be somewhere else.
I wasn't supposed to see it. My job was to
check their clearance, make sure the path to containment Wing
Sea was clear, and move on. But I lingered just
for a moment, and when they opened the pod I
saw it. After that I couldn't stop staring. The thing
was enormous, at least twelve feet tall, Its wings folded
against its body like dark shimmering curtains. The surface caught
the light in strange ways, shifting like oil on water.
Its body was covered in thick, dark fuzz, almost soft looking,
but its eyes, its eyes were alive, black, unblinking and endless,
like staring into a void that stared back. The moth
didn't move, not once, not even when they locked it
in the chamber. I hated looking at it. The longer
you stared, the heavier it felt, like the air around
it was pressing down on your chest. It was beautiful,
but not in a way you could admire. It was
the kind of beauty that made your stomach twist. It
took some deep instinct in your gut telling you this
thing wasn't right, that it wasn't supposed to exist. I
told myself it was just another anomaly. That was the
only way to get through it. You pretend these things
don't matter, that they're just part of the job. But
the moth wasn't like the others. You could feel it
even from a distance, like it was waiting for something.
You weren't supposed to care about the things they brought in.
That was rule number one. But the moth made that impossible.
I couldn't stop thinking about it, even when I wasn't
on shift. It wasn't just the size of those unblinking eyes.
It was the way the air felt heavier around it,
the way it seemed so perfectly still but alive at
the same time. I'd seen plenty of weird things come
through Facility one twelve, but this was different. It wasn't
just contained. It felt like the moth was letting us
hold it, like it wanted to be there. It started
to bother me more than it should have. On patrol,
I passed by containment wing Sea, glancing toward the reinforced doors,
like I was expecting something as shift in the air,
as sound anything. The moth never moved, but its presence
was constant, oppressive. I couldn't stop myself from wondering where
it had come from, how the ICD had managed to
capture something so alien so massive. Curiosity got the better
of me, and I broke my own rule. I asked questions.
It wasn't a big direct interrogation, just quite conversations off
the record when no one else was around. I started
with the other guards, guys I knew wouldn't report me
Most of them shrugged it off, muttering things like big
wig orders and above my pay grade. But then I
got lucky. Henderson, one of the transport team members, was
still stationed on site. He'd been part of the group
that brought them off in. He wasn't supposed to talk
about it, but he liked the sound of his own voice.
You really want to know, he asked one night, leaning
in conspiratorially during our shared break. His voice was low,
and the hum of the vending machines was the only
other sound in the room. This one's a special case.
Came from deep in the Appalachia hillbilly country. You wouldn't
believe the mess they found it in. He didn't wait
for me to answer before launching in. Henderson never needed encouragement.
Couple of hillbillies caught it, he said, smirking, like the
whole thing was a joke. They found it just sitting
there in the middle of the night in their barn.
Can you believe that, as big as it is, just
perch there, wings all folded up, didn't move a muscle.
They thought he was some kind of demon. Chained it
up and threw a tarp over it. Didn't even fight back.
I frowned. It didn't move at all now once, he said,
not when they tied it up, Not when they started
poking it with sticks. They were trying to see if
it was alive. You know. Even when we got there,
it just sat there. The locals didn't know what to
do with it. Claimed it was some kind of omen,
said it showed up after the livestock started getting bigger.
I hesitated bigger, how faster, stronger, muscles bulging. The farmers
thought it was the feed of something until the horses
started disappearing. Then the family started acting weird, didn't want
to leave the barn, wouldn't eat anything that didn't come
from the farm. By the time we got there, they
were half feral dragging raw meat into the barn in
the middle of the night. The words stuck in my throat.
And the moth it just let you take it, folded
its wings up real neat, like it was helping, Henderson said,
shrugging like it was no big deal. Didn't resist, didn't
make a sound. Weirdest damn thing I've ever seen. He
said it so casually, but his words churned in my head.
Long after creatures brought a facility one twelve were usually
terrified or aggress if. I'd seen things the rash and
containment pods and heard them screech and wail as the
iced He's handlers wrestled them into their new cages. But this,
this was different. The moth hadn't been captured. It had
let itself be taken. Why and the family? I asked,
After a long pause. Hennerson's smirk faded, his tone shifting
like he realized he'd already said too much. Scrambled, he said, quietly,
tapping his temple. Wipe clean. Like everyone else in that town,
they didn't remember a thing, just thought. The horses got
spooped and bolted. No, aren't done typical ICD work. But
I started, but he cut me off with a sharp
shake of his head. Look, man, you're better off not
knowing the rest they handled. Okay, the locals, the farm,
all of it. His gaze darted toward the door, as
if someone might be listening. Forget I said anything. He
stood up, rushing imaginary crumbs off his pants, and left
the break room without another word. For a moment, I
sat there in silence, staring at the empty chair he'd
left behind. I wanted to stop thinking about it. I
wanted to convince myself he was exaggerating, or at least
then it wasn't my problem. That night I didn't sleep.
I couldn't shake the image of a twelve foot creature
calmly folding its wings, letting itself be captured. There was
something wrong about that. Every time I closed my eyes,
I saw those black, endless staring back at me, unblinking,
like they already knew how this would end. Facility one
twelve always had this sterile, chemical tang in the air,
like bleach and burnt circuits. You got used to it
after a while, to the point where you didn't even
notice it anymore. But lately there was something else, faint
but persistent, a metallic edge, sharp and clean, like the
coppery taste you get when you accidentally bite the inside
of your mouth hard enough for it to bleed. It
hung heavier in the corridors near containment wing Sea, subtly
enough to ignore it if you tried, but it was there.
People noticed it. I could see it, and how they
paused for just a second too long, nose twitching, glancing
around like they couldn't place it. Then they'd shake it off,
keep walking, keep pretending. Many of us had been at
Facility one twelve for years, and you don't last that
long without learning how to pretend. But pretending only worked
for so long. I noticed other things, too subtle at first,
but impossible to ignore once you knew what to look for.
Wilson was the first. He wasn't exactly subtle. He'd always
been a loud guy, the kind of person who filled
the silence with stories about his kids or the lake
he was building a dock for. But over the past
week something about him had shifted. It wasn't like he
stopped talking. It was how he spoke. His voice was steadier,
more deliberate, like he'd stripped out every unnecessary word. It
was a natural. It was a fear, and it wasn't
just his voice. One day I caught him hauling a
crate of equipment that usually took two people. He carried
it like it weighed nothing. When I pointed it out,
he gave me this tight smile. But there was something
about the way he looked at me, like I was
the one being weird. Feeling good lately, was all he said,
before setting the crate down with a soft thud and
walking off his stride, smooth, almost too smooth. Then there
was Ramirrors. She was sharp, always had been, but lately
her sharpness had taken on a different edge. She moved faster, quieter,
like she'd been practicing. I caught her during her patrol,
walking the carridor outside containment wing Sea. Normally you'd hear
a boots echo against the concrete, but this time I
didn't hear her until she was right in front of me.
She nodded as she passed, and I nodded back. There
was this brief moment when her eyes met mine. It
was in a look exactly, It was more like she
was assessing me. Even Henderson, the guy who never stopped talking,
wasn't the same. He still ran his mouth, but there
was an intensity to him now, I called energy that
hadn't been there before. When he spoke, he leaned in
too close, his words clipped and precise, like he was
trying to convince you of something without outright saying it.
And then there was me, and I felt it too,
not in the same way, not yet, but enough to
make me uneasy. Every time I passed by the observation window,
I'd catch myself slowing down like my feet were stuck
in honey, staring at the monitor feed. The moth never moved,
but it didn't need to. Its presence was enough. Its
wings shimmered under the lights, the patterns and them twisting
ever so slightly, like they were alive, And those eyes,
black bottomless, seemed to pull you in if you looked
too long. One night, during a patrol, I heard them, voices,
low and urgent, coming from the storage room near containment
wing Sea. I paused outside the door, my heart hammering,
and listened Henderson and Ramirez, their words muffled but clear
enough to make out pieces of their conversation. You felt it,
haven't you, Henderson was saying, his tone sharper than usual.
It's like like it knows you're there. Ramiro replied, her
voice tight, almost breathless. And when you're close enough, she
cut herself off, her words, breaking into a low laugh.
It wasn't the kind of laugh I'd heard from her before.
It was soft and warm, like she just told a joke.
Only she understood. Don't fight it. Henderson said, you've seen Wilson.
He's better, stronger. You will be too. I stepped back,
careful not to let my boots scrape the floor. Even
a tiny squeak threatened to reveal my location. My chest
felt tight, my pulse thudding in my ears. I didn't
know what they were talking about, not exactly, but it
was enough to make me realize I wasn't imagining things.
Something was happening that night. I kept seeing them, Henderson
and Ramirez, walking down that corridor in perfect step, their
faces calm but unreadable. It wasn't just strange. It was
wrong in a way I couldn't put into words. My
mind kept circling back to Henderson's words, you've seen Wilson.
He's better, stronger. You will be too stronger. I've been
trying to ignore it, but it was true. Wilson had changed,
They all had. I kept replaying the moment he lifted
that crate like it weighed nothing, The way his movements
were so smooth, almost efficient. It wasn't normal. None of
it was. By the time my next shift rolled around,
I'd convinced myself to stay out of it. Whatever was
going on, it wasn't my business. I'd seen what happened
to people who dug two deep at Facility one twelve.
You didn't get answers you just disappeared. I told myself
to focus on the routine patrol the hales, check the monitors,
and keep my head down, nothing more. This is how
it's always been. But it wasn't that easy, not when
the signs were everywhere. My next shift started at midnight,
and by then I was exhausted, the kind of tiredness
that makes you jump at shadows and second guess every sound.
My patrol route was the same as always, down the
main corridor, past the labs, and then a sweep of
Containment Wing Sea. I started dreading that part of the route,
but skipping it wasn't an option. The moth was always there,
motionless behind the thick glass, its wings folded neatly against
its massive body. It never moved, but the air in
that corridor always felt heavier, like walking through water. A
metallic tang was stronger there, too, clinging to your skin
long after you walked away. But to night something was different.
I caught Wilson again in front of the observation window
to Containment Wing Sea. He wasn't supposed to be there,
his shift had ended hours ago, but there he was,
staring into the chamber like he was waiting for something.
His hands were by his sides, fingers twitching slightly. I hesitated,
watching him from the end of the hall for a moment.
I thought about calling out to him, but before I could,
he turned and walked into the chamber, his steps quick
and purposeful, as though he'd known I was there the
whole time I followed him. I shouldn't have, but something
about the way he moved, so deliberate, so precise, drew
me in. He didn't stop until he reached one of
the storage rooms. The door clicked shut behind him, and
I crept closer, staying in the shadows. The observation window
for the moths chamber came into view, and I froze inside.
The lights were dim, casting long green shadows across the walls. Henderson, Ramirors,
and Wilson were there, standing in a loose circle around
the moth. His wings shimmered faintly under the low light,
the patterns on them seeming to ripple, as if they
were alive. I should have turned back, I should have
called it in, but I couldn't move. I stayed there,
my breath caught in my chest, watching as Wilson stepped
closer to the moth. His movements were slow, deliberate, almost graceful.
He reached out his hand, brushing against the moth's thorax.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then I saw it, a thick,
golden drop of liquid welling up from the point where
his hand made contact. He clung to his fingers like honey,
glistening in the dim light. Wilson raised his hand to
his mouth and drank. I bit down hard on my
lip to keep from making a sound. My heart was
pounding so loud I was sure they could hear it.
Ramirez was next. She knelt before the moth, Her head
tilted back as she reached for another bead of that
golden liquid. Her face was lit with something I could
only describe as bliss. It made my stomach churn and
Vomit threatened to crawl up into my mouth. Henderson went last.
He didn't hesitate, didn't pause the thing. He stepped forward,
his movement smooth and practiced as though he'd done this
dozens of times before. When he drank, his body shuddered briefly,
like a ripple passing through him, and he straightened his face,
eerily calm. They stayed there for a moment, silent, their
head slightly bowed. It was like watching a ritual, something sacred.
The moth didn't move, didn't react, It just was its stillness,
more commanding than any motion could have been. I stepped
back slowly, my head spinning, my pulse raising. But I
couldn't let them see me if they knew I was there.
I didn't want to think about what they'd do. Once
I was far enough away, I turned and hurried back
to the break room, my hand shaking. I kept seeing it,
Wilson drinking from his fingers, we Mirror's kneeling like she
was in a prayer, Henderson's face as calm as stone,
and the liquid, that golden, syrupy drop that seemed to
glow in the light. I sat down, my mind raising
whatever was happening in that room. It wasn't just them.
The moth wasn't just sitting there. It was feeding them,
and whatever it was giving them, it was changing them.
I didn't know what to do. Reporting it felt useless.
If the higher ups didn't already know, they wouldn't believe me,
and if they did, well, they'd probably just raised me
like they raised everything else that didn't fit. I glanced
at the clock. It was just past three a m.
The rest of my shift dragged on, but I couldn't
shake the feeling that I crossed the line, that there
was no going back now. Whatever was happening in Containment
Wing Sea, it wasn't going to stop, and part of
me wasn't sure if I wanted it to. The next
few days were unbearable. I couldn't look at Henderson, Ramirez
or Wilson without seeing them in that chamber, kneeling before
the moth, their hands slick with that golden liquid. They
weren't trying to hide it anymore, not really. Wilson, who
was hauling equipment meant for forkliffs, his movements smooth and effortless.
Ramirez had an intensity about an hour. Her eyes were
sharper and her reactions were faster. Henderson had taken on
a strange authority, his voice steady and commanding, like he
knew something the rest of us didn't. And the changes
weren't just physical. They moved together now, in unspoken coordination,
no words, no signals, just a silent understanding that made
my skin crawl. If one of them started walking, the
other followed without hesitation. If one turned their head. The
others seemed to already know what they were looking at.
It was unnatural. The moth's chamber became the center of
their world. They spent more time there, sometimes even during
shifts they weren't scheduled for. No one questioned it. Maybe
they didn't notice, or maybe they were too afraid to
say anything. I couldn't blame them, and I didn't want
to talk about it either. But the thing that scared
me the most was the way they started looking at me.
It was subtle at first, a glance that lingered too long,
a faint tilted their head like they were studying me.
Then it became more obvious. Henderson would brush past me
in the corridor, his eyes locking onto mine just long
enough to make me break out in a cold sweat.
Ramirez started showing up during my shifts, leaning against the
wall near the observation window, watching me instead of the
monitors and Wilson. Wilson smiled, not the warm, easy smile
he used to have, but something else, something empty. By
the time I realized what was happening, it was too
late to stop it. It was a little after midnight
when the alarm went off. A low, droning sound that
meant a breach in one of the containment chambers. I
was halfway through my patrol when it started. The red
emergency lights casting along flickering shadows across the walls, crackled,
voices overlapping in the chaotic mess. Wing Sea compromised, containment faded.
I didn't need to hear the rest. I knew exactly
where the breech was, the moth's chamber. I ran, my
boots pounding against the floor, my chest tightening with every step.
The corridor leading to wing Sea was empty, no guards,
no text, no one responding to the alarm. The door
to the moth's chamber was wide open, and the reinforced
glass observation windows shattered. And inside, Henderson, Ramirez, and Wilson
were no longer themselves. Their bodies had changed, their limbs thicker,
covered in a soft, dark fuzz that shimmered faintly under
the emergency lights. Their eyes were black, now endless pools
that reflected everything and nothing, and the movements they weren't
just coordinated, they were precise, mechanical, like parts of the
same machine. The moths stood in the center of the chamber,
its wings fully opened for the first time. They were massive,
filling the space with patterns that seemed to shift and
ripple in a way that made my head ache just
looking at them. Its long tongue extended, dripping that golden liquid,
feeding into something at its feet, the cocoons. There were
three of them, each the size of a person, wriggling
faintly as the moth's tongue dipped more sap into the surfaces.
The air in the room was thick, buzzing with an
electricum that made my skin crawl. I stepped back, my
hands shaking. I didn't know what to do, run, hide,
report it. But before I could decide, Henderson's head snapped
toward me, his black eyes locking onto mine. Romiries and
Wilson followed the movements perfectly synchronized. For a moment, none
of us moved. The only sound was the low hum
of the moth's wings, a sound that seemed to vibrate
in my bones. Then Henderson smiled, the same empty, knowing
smile Wilson had given me days before. You shouldn't be here,
he said, his voice low and steady. It's not your time.
I didn't wait to find out what he meant. I
turned and ran my legs burning as I sprinted down
the corridor, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Behind me,
I could hear their footsteps, perfectly in sync, echoing in
the empty halls. I didn't stop until I reached the
security room. I slammed the door shut, my hands fumbling
with a lock, and turned to the monitor feeds when
I saw my stomach drop. The cocoons were splitting open,
thick strands of golden sap dripping onto the floor as
something inside began to emerge. The mouth loomed over them,
its wings fluttering faintly, stirring the air in the chamber.
One by one, the cocoons tore open, revealing creatures that
were almost human. They had the same dark fuzz covering
their bodies, their limbs elongated and strong, the black eyes
shining like mirrors. They moved with a terrifying grace, stepping
forward in unison, the heads tilting as they took in
their surroundings. The moth moved for the first time, its
wings spreading wide as it led out a low resonant
hum that shook the walls. The hybrids turned toward the sound,
the heads bowing in perfect synchrony. The radio crackled to life,
a panicked voice shouting orders. I couldn't make out. The
big wigs must have seen what was happening, because the
chamber was flooded with gas. A moment later. The hybrids
didn't flinch. They turned toward the door, moving as one,
and I realized with a singing feeling, that they still
remembered the access codes. They stayed frozen in the security
room for what felt like hours, staring at the monitors
as everything spiraled out of control. The hybrids were everywhere now,
moving through the facilit like they builded themselves. They weren't rushing,
weren't scrambling. No, they moved with purpose, room to room,
hallway to hallway, methodically and terrifyingly precise. It was like
they didn't even need a check. They already knew where
everyone was. I could feel the air tightening around me.
It wasn't just the hybrids or the alarms. It was
the moth. Even from here, I could feel its presence
pressing down, like it was watching through the cameras, through
the walls, through me. My hands were shaking so badly
that I could barely keep them steady on the console.
I couldn't stay. The ICD would be sweeping through soon,
probably trying to gas the whole damn place, hybrids or not,
and if I stuck around, I'd either end up dead
or with my memory scrambl just another loose end tied off.
I scanned the monitors, searching for anything anywhere that wasn't
crawling with hybrids or swarming with clean up teams. That's
when I noticed it, the maintenance tunnels. They were old,
barely used, and not part of the standard patrol roots
yet untouched by the hybrids. I slipped out of the
security room, my heart pounding in my chest. The corridors
were bathed in that eerie red glow from the emergency lights,
shadows flickering along the walls. My boots barely made a
sound as I moved, but every little creek, every faint
arm of the facility systems made me flinch. I could
feel my pulse in my throat, thick and heavy, drowning
out everything else. The air was different down here. The
facility's usual sterile tank was still there, with that metallic
edge was stronger and sharper. It clung to everything, the walls,
the floor, my skin My head was spinning, my stomach chining,
but I kept moving. The axis ladder to maintenance level
three was just ahead. When I reached it, I hesitated,
my hand hovering over the cold metal rungs. Climbing down
felt like stepping into a grave. But what choice did
I have. I gripped the ladder tightly as I began
my descent, the faint squeak in my boots and the
rungs echoing in the shaft. Every sound felt too loud,
like it was bouncing back to me tenfold. The maintenance
tunnels were worse than I remembered, tight, damp and dark.
My flashlight barely cut through the blackness, the beam wobbling
as my hand shook. The air was thicker down here,
heavy with the smell of rust and stagnant water, and
the faint hum of the pipes sounded like whispers. The
service hatch wasn't far, just at the end of the corridor,
a faint sliver of moonlight visible through the cracks. I
quickened my pace, my boots splashing through shallow puddles, The
sound too loud in the oppressive silence. My breath was
ragged now, every inhale sharp against my chest, but I
kept my eyes locked on the hatch. I could see
it my way out, so close I could almost taste
the fresh air waiting on the other side. Then I
heard it, a soft clicking sound, faint at first, like
nails tapping on metal. My flashlight swung wildly toward the noise,
my beam catching on a shadow that shouldn't have been there.
My stump dropped as one of the hybrids stepped into
the light. Its black, mirror like eyes caught the beam,
reflecting it back in a way that made my chest tighten.
Its head tilted slow and deliberate, like it was studying me,
deciding what to do next. I didn't want to find out.
I ran. The hatch was only a few feet away,
but it fell like miles. The clicking behind me grew louder, faster,
almost rhythmic, like it was matching the beat of my
panicked footsteps. My lungs burned, my legs screamed, but I
didn't stop. I hit the hatch with full force, my
hands fumbling for the release lever, my fingers slicked with sweat.
The hybrid was right behind me. I could feel it,
his presence crawling up my spine like static electors tricity.
With a desperate heave, I yanked the lever. The hatch
swung open, the cold night air hitting me like a slap.
I scrambled through, hitting the ground hard, my palms scraping
against the rough dirt. My breath came in short, ragged
gasps as I twisted around and slammed the hatch shut,
twisting the emergency lock into place, just as something heavy
slammed against the other side. The metal groaned, the hatch
vibrating under the force of the hybrid's blows. I stumbled back,
my legs barely holding me up, and turned toward the forest.
The trees loomed like shadows, the branches clawing at the sky,
the moonlight barely breaking through the dense canopy. I didn't wait,
I didn't think. I just ran. It was at a
flea market, of all places, the kind you go to
wonder aimlessly, pretending you're looking for something very specific, knowing
that chances are you will probably leave with nothing. Rows
of mismatched tables stretched over the cracked pavement under the
afternoon sun, piled high with old tools, scratched up, yellowing furniture,
and junk people had dug out of their garages. The
air smelled like kettle corn and cheap sunscreen, with a
faint tang of rust from some vendor's collection of scrap metal.
My apartment was still mostly empty. I just moved in,
and the empty walls and bare corners were starting to
really bother me. I wasn't on the search for anything specific,
just something to make the place feel less like an
abandoned storage unit and more like a home. A lamb maybe,
or an interesting piece of furniture, cheap preferably. It didn't
take long to find something. At one of the stalls,
tugged behind a pile of well worn tools and broken frames,
I saw a bunch of mismatched furniture, a side table
painted with white with chipped corners, a small stool, and
an old couch that needed a wash or two. It
was a random assortment, tied together with fraying twine, but
it was solid enough for what I needed. Hundred bucks
for the lot, the vendor said, catching me looking. He
was older and looked like he'd been sitting in a
folding chair for his entire life. Before I got a
chance to respond, he added, take it and I'll even
throw in that painting over there. I followed his nod
and saw it propped against the back of the chair leg.
The painting it was half hidden behind a stack of
dented cans. Its edges were frayed, and its frame was stretched.
A woman stood alone in a vast field of wheat,
her figure poised in a strange way, almost reverent. The
wheat behind her stretched endlessly, But it wasn't as golden
and vibrant as you might expect. It was gray, lifeless
and brittle, burnt to a crisp Each stalk bowed under
a phantom wind. The texture of the wheat was so
vivid that I almost felt the dry rustle of it
brushing against my fingertips. The sky roiled with movement as
still as it was a violent storm of colors crashed
into each other, waves of pigment and brushstrokes. Deep purples
melted into streaks of orange and crimson, shot through with
veins of sickly yellow. The horizon was blotted with heavy
bruise like clouds, threatening to open and bleed. Yet despite
the chaos of it all, there was a balance to it.
Each hue blended seamlessly into the next, like the canvas
had been alive once and was now frozen mid motion,
like pausing a video. And then there was the woman.
Her pale dress rippled faintly, as though caught in the
dying breath of the wind that had long since left
the wheat around her motionless. The fabric clung to her
frame in a way that should have made her seem fragile,
Yet she didn't look it. She was still a statue
carved from soft light. She stood with her back facing me.
Her face was turned just enough to reveal some of
her profile, the curve of her cheekbone, and the point
of her chin. But her eyes held me. It wasn't
fearful or defying, and it wasn't pleading either. Her gaze
was resigned, mellow and accepting. It's part of the bundle,
I asked, sure is, the vendor said, dipping back a
can of soda. Take it off for a hundred. The
painting stayed tied up in the bundle until I got home.
I carried it all into my living room and untied
the twine, letting it all tumble onto the floor. The
painting was the last thing I pulled free. It was
lighter than I expected. I set it against the wall
and stepped back, letting myself take it in fully. Again,
the details came into sharper focus. I hadn't really wanted
the painting to begin with, so I placed it against
the corner of the wall and left it there. Truth
be told, I didn't like it too much. It was
eerie to look at, but couldn't bring myself to throw
art made with such care away. It wasn't to my taste,
but maybe I could find a home for it to
someone who could appreciate it. For three days, the painting
sat in the corner. I couldn't bring myself to hang it,
but I didn't want to hide it either. Every time
I passed by, I caught myself glancing at it. Then
on the fourth day, I finally decided to hang it
above the couch. The news came a couple of days later.
I was scrolling through my phone over breakfast my TV
murmuring something in the background when I saw the headline
wildfire ravages Kansas farmland, one fatality. I tapped the art
and the image of the blaze filled my screen. The
fire had consumed acres upon acres of farmland, leaving nothing
but ash and blackened stalks of wheat in its path.
The sky above was hazy, streaked with deep purples and
reds as smoke billowed and faded, leaving behind traces of yellow.
I stared at the photo. It looked eerily familiar, but
it wasn't exact. There was no woman, no dress, just
an empty field and the fire ravaging it. I shook
my head and put the phone down. It had to
be a coincidence. Fields burned all the time. The painting
wasn't unique. It was probably just an artistic take on
a generic disaster. All the stress that had been building
up over my move and my all new long commute
to work was just making me overthink things and making
the painting more special in my head than it actually was.
Still I didn't like it. I put the painting back
in the corner, thinking of disposing of it as soon
as possible. The second painting arrived about a week after
the wild fire. This time I didn't find it at
a flea market. I didn't look for it at all.
It was delivered straight to my mail box. The container
a tube was unmarked. There was no return address, posted, stamp,
or anything to suggest where it had come from. But
there it was in my mail box, sitting among the
pile of junk mail, like it belonged there. I almost
didn't even open it. I considered throwing it away. I
got the first painting by pure coincidence, but now I
was scared it in the mail I thought about going
back to the vendor I had initially gotten the first
one from, but the flea market was seasonal, so I
had no way to find him even if I wanted to.
So I unrolled it. It showed a train. The perspective
was striking painted from the inside of some sort of
vehicle looking toward a train, but the location was not discernible,
and train tracks were laid out in the distance, where
the silhouette of a train sat derailed, his frame twisted
and broken like a crushed can. Cars careened off the rails,
some split, others piled on top of each other in
jagged heaps of metal. Flames spat from the wreckage, consuming
wood and broken glass. Thick and black smoke curled into
the sky, walking out the pale blue above. Yet the
focal point wasn't the wreckage, but the figures. A woman
in a red scarf was on her knees at the
edge of the tracks. She was close to one of
the train cars, her arms stretched out toward a child
dangling from a broken window above. The child's miniature body
teetered on the edge, tiny fingers reaching desperately towards her,
but she was stuck. The fire illuminated their faces with
painful clarity. The woman's face was painted with desperation, her
mouth half open in a cry I could almost hear
if I strained hard enough. Her scarf fluttered in the heat.
The child's expression was frozen in wide eyed terror. She
was so close to the woman, yet so far, And
the scariest of all, the train car seemed as if
it would tip over at any moment. The details were
so vivid and precise that it did not feel like
a painting, but a picture of a moment it happened.
The next day, I was driving home from work, dragging
myself through traffic on a suburban road when I heard it.
At first, it was just a distant sound, a strange
screech that didn't belong in the hum of rush hour
at all. Then it became the screech of metal against metal,
a sound that would make your teeth ache. The sound
was distant still, but it grew louder with every passing second,
raw and visceral cutting through the air. The railroad ahead
was already crowded with cars, and brake lights glowed in
the evening haze. Beyond the train barrel toward the intersection.
I watched as the te trains swerved violently, sparks flying
as the wheels left the tracks. The first car tip sideways,
dragging the rest of the train with it in a
cascade of catastrophe. I stopped the car, instinctively, gripping the
steering wheel as the chaos unfolded in front of me.
The derailment was horrific. Passenger cars crumpled and people flew
out of the train cars as they collided with one another.
The force of the crash sent debris flying into the
air with a loud bang. The engine smashed into the
support beam near the crossing, igniting an explosion that lit
up the sky with orange and red flames. It was chaos,
And then there they were, the woman in the red
scarf and the child. She was kneeling by the air
to the wreckage, her arms stretched out in a feeble
attempt to rescue the dangling child. It was exactly what
I had seen from the painting. The firelight danced across
their faces, their expressions frozen in the same raw clarity.
I sat frozen in my car, my hands gripping the
steering wheels so tightly I could hear it groan in protest.
I wanted to move, get out, and help somehow, but
I couldn't. And then it happened. The train car, which
was balancing on its side, tipped over in slow motion,
and I watched as the child was eaten up by
the flames, and the woman's legs crushed, now trapped as
the fire ate or away. I couldn't look away. I
felt tears running down my cheeks as I finally regained
my senses, the screaming around me breaking me out of
my trance. The painter hadn't just known this would happen.
They'd known where I'd be and what I'd see. I
don't remember driving home. The crash broke something in me.
I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I
saw the woman and the child, frozen in that terrible moment,
just as the painting had depicted it. The fire's light,
the scarf, the desperation, and the reaching out. It was
all burned into my mind, replaying over and over, like
a punishment I could do nothing to escape from. I
was in purgatory. I didn't go to work the next
day either, or the day after. At first I called
in sick, telling my boss I had the flu, until
I stopped answering my phone all together. I threw the
painting away, but it did little to numb my thoughts.
I let the dishes pile up and clothes scatter across
the floor. Everything in my fridge went bad, and the
stench of rotten food filled the apartment, aiding in my misery.
I didn't care about it. All I could think about
was how, even though I knew I was powerless, I
blamed myself for not at least trying to save them.
But then I realized I owed it to them. At
least I needed answers, and the fog of guilt finally
eased a little. I was consumed by they need to
know why this was happening. I scoured the internet, searching
for everything and anything that could explain the paintings. I
posted and obscure forums, and I searched for artists and
local galleries, but I found nothing. Even the paintings themselves
offered no hints. I still had the original painting of
the field, so I picked the first one up from
the corner and inspected the entirety of it. I looked
for a signature, a date, or a stamp, but still
there was nothing. The more I searched, the more questions
consumed me. I kept asking myself why I was the
one who had to find these and how they accurately
depicted things unseen. I tried putting a stop to the
next painting I received, to no avail When it arrived,
a flood swallowing a small street. I tried memorizing every detail,
the crack sidewalk, the cars in the middle being submerged
by muddy water. A then stop signed in the corner.
I sifted through maps and my memories searching for streets
that matched the one in the painting. I spent hours
driving around, hoping to stumble across it, but I never
found it. I hadn't even stopped to consider how I
would prevent a flood of that scale, because if I did,
it made me feel all the more powerless. Days passed,
and the dread gnawed at me, growing heavier with each
day that passed. In wait. When the flood finally happened,
it was nowhere near me. I dreaded the rare times
I would receive a painting, But soon they started appearing everywhere,
in my mailbox, propped against the front door, even in
the passenger seat of my car. They all came without warning.
A bridge collapsing into a river, Cables snapping like aged
threads as cars plunged into the waters, the faces of
passengers visible in their final moments. A tornado ripping through
a tiny farmhouse, the roof torn away to reveal a
petrified family huddled inside. The aftermath of a sinkhole appearing
below an apartment building. The details were always painfully vivid.
I could almost feel the heat of the fire, smell
the smoke, and hear the screams. Each one stayed on
my mind like a deep scar. I woke up to
find one leaning against the foot of my bed. I
felt the tube before I saw it. As I got
out of bed, my feet brushed against something and tipped
it over. Another painting, except this one was not a disaster.
It showed a small and dilapidated house with a sagging
roof and boarded at windows. The yard was overgrown and
the porch steps were broken. In the foreground stood a figure.
The man wore a jacket identical to mine. His hands
were shoved in his pockets. Then his posture was stiff,
his face was obscured, but there was no mistaking who
it was meant to be me. In the corner of
the painting was a street sign, Ashwood Lane, And in
the bottom right corner, scrawled in the dark paint, it
was a signature e V. The signature seemed to be
there purely to mock me, a final taunt from the
person who had been controlling my life without permission. This
wasn't a prediction, It was an invitation or a trap.
I was furious at finding a painting in the sancte
of my room. The guild and fear had built up
and exploded into a rage that stripped me of rational thinking.
Ashwood Lane wasn't hard to find. It was on the
outskirts of the city, a forgotten road, choked with weeds
and lined with houses that looked like they'd been used
in the set of a bad zombie movie. Regardless, it
was still on my car's GPS. So I took this
invitation as a challenge, and I wanted this all to end.
The house was exactly as it had been on the canvas.
The roof sagged in the middle and the windows boarded up.
The air was thick with the smell of damp earth
and petroka. I pulled the car to the curb and
stepped out, my legs unsteady beneath me. In my dash
to come here, all the emotions that were running through
me were now fading, replaced with a sense of ease.
I was about to face with whoever had been doing this.
I knocked thrice, and with each knock the door opened wider.
The inside of the house was horrific. The walls were
lined with canvases, some stacked too deep, some stacks six deep,
some leaned against the furniture, and others piled on the floor.
They were all disasters, hurricanes, earthquakes, and wildfires. Each was
as vivid as the ones I'd seen. The colors roar,
violent and impossibly sharp. At the center of the room
was a person ev He sat hunched over his back
to me, a brush moving steadily across a canvas, who
was still taking shape swells of black and crimson, and
dancing in an abstract chaos that I could not decipher
nor care to. His frame was thin, almost non existent,
his hair wiry with spots of gray. He didn't turn
when I stepped inside, didn't seem to notice me at all,
or simply didn't care. You found me, he said, without turning.
His voice was dry and ashy. I stepped closer, anger
taking hold of me. You knew I would, of course.
He dipped his brush into a smear of gray, dragging
it across the canvas. Everything follows a pattern. You are
always going to end up here. Why me, I demanded,
my voice starting to crack. Why send the paintings to me?
He finally turned, his dark eyes, locking unto mine. Yet
there was no malice in his gaze, no insanity, just
the cold, detached clarity. Because you were paying attention, he said,
matter of factly, Most people don't, you see. They go
through their days blind to the cracks in the world,
ignoring the inevitable until it happens to them. But you
couldn't look away. You saw the patterns, even though you
could not understand them. I refused to flinch. You're saying
all this was inevitable, that nothing I did could have
stopped it. Exactly. He finally set his brush down, folding
his hands in his lap. The world is unraveling, one
piece at a time. I just record it. There's no
magic here, no divine inspiration. You people are just so
stupid that it makes me seem prescient. He continued, record it,
I repeated, my voice starting to rise and my anger building.
You paint people dying, children falling into fires, buildings collapsing,
and families getting wiped out. You call that recording. What
would you have me do? His tone remained steady, his
calmness maddening. Stop painting? Would that save anyone? Would it
change something? My work makes it all visible, finds the
beauty in it all. I clenched my fists and fumbled
with a zippo in my pocket. You could warn people,
do something, Ivee chuckled softly while shaking his head. Warn them.
You can't fix what's broken, and even if you could
do you think they'd listen. People don't want to see
the end. They'd rather stumble into it blind, believing they
have the control. I thought of the woman and the child,
the fire and the crash. There has to be a
reason for all this. There really isn't, Evie leaned back,
his bony frame, casting long shadows in the dim light.
You want there to be meaning, a purpose behind it all,
because the alternative has too much to bear. But the
truth is simple and you already know it. The room
felt smaller and the air heavier. My gaze flicked to
the paintings surrounding us, each one laced with despair. I
thought back to the things I'd seen again and my
inability to take action. His voice cut through my thoughts.
You just can't accept it. You've spent your life believing
you're in control and that your choices matter, But they don't.
You're just the witness, just like everybody else. You think
you're angry at me, but you're just angry at the truth.
Stop it, I muttered. The only question is how long
you'll keep fighting before you accept it. Stop, I repeated, louder.
You think you could change anything, he mused. You're wrong,
I growled. You're just a coward that sits here painting
misery while the world falls apart. Evee smiled faintly. The
corners of his mouth barely twitching. And yet here you are, watching,
just like I knew you would. That was it. My
hand shot into my pocket, pulling out the zippo. My
fingers trembled as adrenaline rushed through me while I thought
about what I was about to do. You think I'll
just let you do this? You think I'll let you
keep making these monuments the suffering. At this point, he
wasn't even looking at me. He turned back to his
work and kept painting. I grabbed the nearest painting off
the wall, the tsunami ravaging homes and families, and held
it over the flame. The canvas caught quickly, The edges
curled as the fire spread, licking at the vivid colors.
The smell of burning paint filled the air around us,
sharp and acred. But I was not going to stop.
I tossed the painting on to the floor. The fire
spread as I tore more canvasses from the walls. One
by one. I fed them to the flames. Floods, fires,
and earthquakes, all of them consumed as EV kept painting.
You really think the Stranger is anything? He asked quietly,
his voice now barely audible over the crackle of the fire.
I don't care. I spat, tearing another painting from the wall.
I'm done watching undone, letting you use me as an audience.
EV tilted his head but still didn't look at me.
You can burn the paintings, but it's all still there.
I ignored him. The heat of the fire scorched my
skin as I grabbed another canvas. It wasn't until I
turned back toward EV that I saw he had completed it.
The painting on the easel he was working on it
showed what I thought, No, what I knew, was the
end of the world. Not a single disaster, not one
moment of tragedy frozen in time, but everything. The sky
was fractured, great jagged tears ripping through the heavens, the
endless skies folding into each other, exposing a blackness so
deep it felt like staring into an open grave. The
earth was in chaos, split into monstrous, gaping chasms that
bled molten fire and bellowed smoke. Entire cities tipped and
crumbled into the abyss, the skeletons of steel and iron
twisting as they fell. The oceans boiled, great clouds of
steam rising into the air as colossal waves slammed against
crumbling coastline lines. Ships torn in half or capsized in
their entirety, dotted the horizon like discarded toys. In the foreground,
or was supposed to represent a vast forests was reduced
to an expanse of blackened stumps, each one smoldering between them.
The skeletal remains of animals lay scattered among the wreckage,
pressed against the shattered windows of the crumbling cities, floating
lifelessly in the boiling oceans, with thousands of faces frozen
in terror, their mouths open in silent screams. And in
the center of it, the audience was me. I stood
on a jagged outcrop of rock, my silhouette illuminated by
the fiery abyss below. My pasture was slack, and my
hands lay limply at my sides. But it wasn't just me.
Around my feet were smaller figures clutching at my legs.
A child reached upward, had tiny fingers brushing against my hand,
and I knew who that was meant to represent. You
See now, if he said you are the audience, everyone is,
I turned away from him. The fire was everywhere now
climbing the walls, defiring everything. The heat was unbearable, despite
how fast the old wood of the house carried the flames.
There was always time to get out. Nothing physically locked
him too his chair, Yet he remained there, carrying on
with his magnum opus without a care. You're still a witness, eve,
he said with finality. He was wrong. As the flames roared,
he would fail to predict anything ever again. So I
turned and ran, the heat chasing me out of the
house into the cool night air. I didn't look back
as the flames consumed the building, the firelight flickering against
the darkened sky. I reached my car, slumping into the
driver's seat and gripping the steering wheel like it was
tethering me to reality. I stared through the windshield, the
house on Ashwood Lane burning behind me. It didn't feel
like a victory. I drove home in silence, the weight
of exhaustion pressing down on me. My apartment was still
how I left it empty and silent, and I entered
my bedroom and picked up the house painting once more.
I inspected it one last time, the way to my
actions sinking in. But before I had time to think
about anything. When I flipped the painting over, I saw
another one, a silhouette running from a burning house. The
perspective was distant, but unmistakable. My figure was small, silhouetted
against the inferno. The flames roared behind me, consuming the
house and everything inside. It was proof that once again
I had failed to change anything. The house was burned
because it was always meant to burn. I ran because
I was always meant to run. Everything played out exactly
how it was supposed to play out, and I was
the witness. I travel a lot. Without getting too in
depth about the particulars of my life and career, I
will say that my job ends up taking me all
over the world. I've been to just about every continent
on the planet, with the exception of somewhere like Antarctica,
and the number of countries I haven't stepped foot in
rapidly shrinks every year. It's absolutely amazing as I've been
able to see and partake in so many different customs,
cultures and lifestyles. And one thing I always love to
do is purchase a souvenir to take home with me,
a sort of keepsake to mark my first time in
a new country that I can take down for the
shelf and look at when the nostalgia hits me. It
can be anything, whether an ornamental figure, a glass, or
a book. That's where the reason I'm posting here comes in,
you see. A few months ago I was sent to
Algeria to help oversee a business deal that a client
was involved in, the main dealings had wrapped up, and
after a few days of exploring the capital city of Algiers,
I decided to take a final stroll through one of
the many bazaars I had come to a door perusing
in my off time the day before my flight left
back to the States. I'd already had it in mind
to find something to buys some memento, and so I
strolled past the vendors selling fruit and various foods looking
for something interesting. And as I passed the table which
was selling various bits and bobs, it caught my eye.
It was an old leather bound journal, clasped tightly shut
with what appeared to be a belt closure of some kind.
The leather looked extremely weather beaten and worn, as if
it had sat in the burning desert sun for decades,
and the edges of the pages I could see were
yellowed with age. My curiosity piqued, I pointed to it
and asked the cellar about where it had come from.
Rather strangely, he seemed weary of saying exactly where and
when it had come into his possession, instead only saying
that he stumbled across it during his travels. My curiosity
now firmly in the red zone due to its mysterious nature,
I inquired to its price. He had no sooner quoted
me a price than I was pushing the money into
his hand. It was practically as steel. However, I admit
one thing which unnerved me, to say the least. As
I hurried back in the direction of my hotel, I
chanced a look over my shoulder and found that the
man was watching me leave, a strange, almost intense look
on his face. That night, my bags packed and lying
in bed, I found myself unable to sleep. After trying
to tempt the Sandman for a few hours, I finally
gave up, and, wanting something to pass the time, I
picked the journal up, unbuckled it and opened it to
the first page. To my surprise, I found the entries
were in English. The journal had belonged to a British
explorer and adventurer whose name, according to the inscription on
the back cover, was Liam Wentworth. The date and side
ranged from the late nineteen forties through the early fifties,
and I read each page with rapt attention, extraordinary images
swirling in my mind. As Liam narrated to me expeditions
which range from continental Europe to Africa. I couldn't help
but smile as the infectious excitement in his writing pulled
me further and further into the past, and I must
wished I could be transported back in time to join him.
That was until I began to read the last expedition
log in the journal. From the very first entry, I
could tell there was something different about this particular journey.
Something about the man's words filled me with an unexplainable
sense of unease, and as the entries went on, I
felt any sense of excitement and wonder wash away like
a flood victim. The initial uneasiness first replaced with tension,
then a strange sense of paranoia, and finally, as much
as I hate admitting it, fear, a palpable sense of
fear and existential dread I've never felt before, one which
raised all the hair of my arms, and even in
the safety of my hotel room, made me turn on
every single light, vanishing away any shadows in the corner,
especially because the final written pages are stained with long
dried liquid that God, I still hope isn't what I
think it is. And when my plane took off from
HAIRI Bermardine the next morning, my window giving me a
clear view of the sprawling Algerian desert stretching out away
into the distance, I involuntarily shuddered. For months, I was
unsure what to do. I considered taking the journal to
a historian or museum to verify its authenticity, but I'm
worried that it will be simply written off as a
hoax or a forgery. A few friends and acquaintances of
mine I have shared a little of the contents with
I've met it with the same response, it has to
be a stunt, just something to scare whoever bought it.
Worse still, I've had some of the worst nightmares of
my life, horrible dreams that wake me up covered in
a sheen of sweat even months later. Finally, though, I've
decided to just share it. This is transcribed exactly as
originally written, and are all relevant entries from William's last expedition.
Let me know what you think of it, and if
there is any shred of truth to what is written here.
As much as it might cost me work in the future,
I may never step foot in that part of the
world again. Monday, twenty third of June nineteen fifty two,
after a four month rest, another adventure is at hand.
A fortnight ago, I received a call at home from
a wealthy American, a business magnate by the name of Tally. Apparently,
mister Danvers had boasted of my qualifications and invaluable help
during his expedition to Mauritania at luncheon with him, and
when told of a similar endeavor that the man wished
to embark on in the nearby country of Algeria, he
instantly recommended me to him. I was already interested when
he told me of his intentions, and after he quoted
me the fee he would pay, I hastily accepted. The
amount of money offered is the kind that not even
many film stars in the country receive. Indeed, it is
triple what Diana Dawes was reportedly paid recently for a
part in the last page, and with my dear sister's
health always in flux, it is an amount I would
be a fool to refuse. So after much planning and
subsequent connecting flights from London, I am now in the
city of Algiers, where the rest of our party have assembled.
I first met Tally as he met me just outside
the airport, A tall, lanky chap with thin and black hair.
He instantly struck me as inexperienced with such expeditions. It
set me a little on an edge, if I may
be frank, too, many parties have tragically failed due to
such sponsors. Yet, as I was taken to a nearby
cafe and introduced to the rest of the team, I
felt somewhat relieved at the faces that greeted us. Three
of the expeditions nine members are ones I've worked with before, Soign,
a hulking giant of a Dane, Richter, a quiet yet
intimidating German, and Mouretti, whose boastful demeanor sometimes hides how
brilliant of a leader the Italian can be. Three of
the four, excluding myself and Tally, are people who have
heard spoken of in similar circles. Blake is the group's archaeologist,
a fellow britt and alluring brunette who seems as if
she should be on a movie screen instead of here.
Krin the group's meddic, a bloke who earned the scars
on his face from his time in the war. And
Tamir is one of our two guides, a man whose
wild hair and beard doesn't seem to match the intelligence
that I see behind his eyes. The final member of
the group is our second guide, an almost gaunt young
man no older than twenty, whose name I was told
is Tarik. He did not speak when introductions were given. Instead,
he merely nodded at us. I find he gives me
an uncomfortable sort of aura. But according to both Tally
and Moretti, he is indispensable to our all to mcgaul,
which is when discussions shifted over to our ultimate aim.
In a hush tone, Tally leaned in and told us
of a tale he had stumbled across during his dealings
in the area. It had hinted about a great treasure
lost in the desert decades ago over the phone, But
as I listened to him extrapolate, I felt my jaw
drop open. According to accounts, a decade and a half
or so ago, a group of soldiers belonging to the
French Foreign Legion, searching for a safe haven, had stumbled
upon a fortress built into a vast mountain range centuries old.
The structure had been abandoned, and after discovering that a
pump connected to an underground water source of some kind,
the soldiers had set up a base camp, complete with
radio and arsenal. They stayed in contact with their superiors
for approximately five months, reporting back here periodically and requesting supplies. Then,
on the sixth month, the forts went silent. No matter
how long it was hailed, no one ever answered the
radio calls. A reinforcement group had been sent to try
and ascertain what had happened to them, but they seemed
to disappear into the desert as well. Eventually all of
the men were declared lost in action. It wouldn't have
been the first time that soldiers had met their end
on the receiving end of the local swords and guns.
After all, fearing further casualties, the fort was declared a
hostile's own, and any further attempt to reach it was forbidden.
As the years went by and with the outbreak of
the war. The fort's location and the reports on it
were lost in the shuffle, further hampered by the fact
that it seemed some one in a high position had
stricken it from all maps and public record. But somehow,
after hearing the stories, Tally had used his connections to
obtain one of the only remaining maps which marked its location.
As he finished, I cocked an eyebrow and asked him
how this all connected to what he had lured me
with here the reports of a vast lost treasure. An
almost childish smile spread across Taly's face. You han't heard
the best part yet, my dear boy. That was when
the penny dropped. According to a radio report that the
fort's commanding officer had made, they had found in the
bowels of the fort a room which, when breached, had
revealed a staggering amount of jewels, coins, and other treasures.
The exact monetary value it had had never been calculated,
but seeing how most of the horde was dated back
to the Ottoman Empire, it had to be a tremendu
this amount. By this point, our sponsor had our undivided
attention and dreams of being forever logged in the history books,
danced in our heads. That's when Tally let us in
on the most important fact of this expedition. If we
locate the fort and find the treasure was only a tale,
or failed to find it at all, you will all
be paid the exact amount I quoted you, he began,
his eyes twinkling. But if we do find it, each
of you will receive an equal share of the treasure,
in addition to your name's for ever written as the finders.
To say that you could have heard a pin drop
amongst us would be a grievous understatement. For a moment,
nobody spoke. I was the first to open my mouth. Yes,
bloody hell, yes. As if my words had been a
sort of catalyst, everyone else piped up with their own agreement.
Tally beamed. He knew he had ensnared us, and he
reveled in it. He told us that we would board
a plane bound for Cellah in the next day. From
there we would continue on land rovers into the desert itself,
and with that he bid us good night, retiring with
Moretti to their hotel after a few drinks. The rest
of us disbanded as well, and now here I sit
staring out the window at the rising moon with my
pen in hand. I am beyond thrilled. The prospect of
becoming wealthy, beyond my wildest dreams, of being able to
afford all of my sister's medicine and procedures, to say
nothing of my own frivolities and fantasies, is intoxicating. And
yet I can't help but feel a strong sense of
trepidation over what I was as well. The fact that
two different groups of soldiers seem to simply disappear without
a trace. It gives me pause. Even though I attempt
to push it away, A small whisper of dread climbs
over me. I picture the men carrying at night guns
frantically aimed into the dark as something moves towards them.
But surely anything that happens to them so long ago,
any people who did them harm surely have moved on,
which means we should be perfectly safe. I worried too much. Tuesday,
twenty fourth of June nineteen fifty two. I write this
entry by the firelight next to my tent, and the
only thing that banishes away the almost impenetrable darkness that
stalks the edges of the flickering am. Early in the morning,
just before the sun rose, our team bordered a charted
plain and flew south to Insulah. There we found two
land rovers, paint shimmering and fresh off the production line
in Soliul. They had been specially ordered by Tally for
the journey. Supplies and enough fuel to last us a
fortnight were loaded on board, and after wedging ourselves inside
the space that remained, we set off in a westerly direction,
following the road past towns with names such as Ghar
and Olaf. Finally we passed through Regane, and after a
last look back at civilization, we left the road and
headed out into the desert itself. Saying that the intense
heat would rival the flames of Hell itself would not
be much of an understatement. The sun beat mercilessly down
upon our vehicles, turning them into saunas, and as we
were attempting to conserve our water supply, soon we all
felt the first inklings of heat exhaustion. After stopping to
quench our thirst quickly and following the blessed liquid with lunch,
we continued on. As the sun did lower into the
sky as I was riding with Tally, I had the
opportunity to ask him about Tarak. The man still gave
me a bad feeling, and I inquired as to why
he was so important to our expedition. After all, I asked,
would simply somemear not make a decent enough guide. It
was then that he revealed to me the secret surrounding
the man. Tarrek was one of the few men left
alive who had seen the fort with his own eyes,
or so he claimed. He had told Tally of a
time as a small boy, traveling through the desert with
his father and grandfather and spying on the horizon the
upper Mountain range like a sentry, the imposing structure. Both
of his elders had warned him away from it, telling
him that it was a cursed place, load of local
superstitious bull. Tally said to me, waving a hand as
if to physically repel the words. For my part, I
too did not believe in such things, and yet that
his words, I was unable to suppress the shiver that
flew up my spine slightly. It felt too coincidental, too
close to the feeling of dread that fell over me
last night, A second thought came to mind, as if
pushing away the emotions, I asked, with not knowing if
the young man was telling the truth, how he could
be sure he was not simply luring us into the
desert for a sinister purpose. With a small, almost concealed wink,
he raised his shirt, revealing a hid pistol underneath in
a holster informed me that several others were armed as well,
and a shotgun and ammunition were among our supplies. Liam,
my boy, relax, I have thought of everything. We'll be ready,
whether the locals of any surprises in store for us,
or either of our guides. Do just enjoy the trip.
In the meantime, I pray that his confidence is not misplaced.
We are a long way from where anyone could help
us if things were to go barely up, And that
is in all I am the only member of our
groups still awake. All the others have retired to their tents, or,
in the case of Tarrak and Samir, into the land
rovers to sleep. The only sounds I hear are the
crackling of fire and the soft, almost lonely sound of
the wind whistling in the darkness. And yet I can't
help but feel watched, even though we are certainly the
only people for miles. I feel as though eyes are
upon me, upon all of us. It is a feeling
that is most unwelcome, and it makes me again wonder
about the fate that befell the French soldiers. I find
myself shooting the looks out into the dark. Every few
lines I write, almost convinced I will see eyes staring
back at me from the blackness. As much as I
don't want to, I must retire to my own tent.
Dawn will be here soon enough, and we will need
all of our strength for the next few days. Thursday,
twenty sixth of June nineteen fifty two, after a second
day of driving straight and following both the map and
directions that Smir tells us Tarik had given us, as
the man speaks no English, we seem to have finally
arrived at the base of a mountain range. According to Tarik,
these are the mountains in question, and we are not
far now, less than a day away. I crane my
neck to look at the imposing walls which rise higher
over our heads. I'm not a good estimator of such things,
but I would not be surprised if the top lies
hundreds of feet above us or more. If the fort
is real, then how are we to get to it
from down here? All questions that will have to be
answered soon. For now, though, I will go and sit
with the others, eat supper, and go to sleep. If
we are being told the truth, tomorrow will be the
day Friday, twenty seventh of June nineteen fifty two. It's real.
I find that even as I write these words, I
feel I'll suddenly wake up from a dream. And yet
right there in front of my eyes is the bloody
thing Terracles, indeed telling the truth. And it looks exactly
as tally heard. The structure is perfectly nestled atop and
similarly among the mountains, surely built there by some Ottoman
architect or soldier with a perfect idea of strategic planning.
The fort has a clear view down the desert where
we stand below, and is set far enough back that
the surrounding land acts as a sort of natural shield.
It is the perfect choke point, to say the least,
Churchill himself would be impressed. According to Blake, the style
and architecture is indeed indicative of the Ottoman Empire, either
Arabic or North African. The three front turrets rise imposingly
above the rest of the complex, their windows dark and
unrevealing their secrets. Surprisingly, and thankfully as well, there will
be no need to worry about climbing. Tarrek pointed us
to a set of steps carved into the mountains themselves.
They are fairly steep, but they surely beat the alternative.
As it is late, we will make camp here at
the base tonight, and in the morning we will pack
all our supplies and make the climb to the fort
itself Omittedly, I must admit that the feeling I had
in the desert two nights ago remains. In fact, it
almost feels stronger in a way. But with the excitement
palpable amongst all of us, are refuse to let it
sour the mood. It will be stored away in the
recesses of my mind. Tomorrow we begin to take a
step towards both history and possibly fortune. Saturday, eighth of
June nineteen fifty two, I write from inside the central
courtyard of the fort itself. I was correct in my
assessment that it would be a steep climb, but aside
from a few scrapes among all the bloody knuckles suffered
by soreiron, we reached the top uneventfully. From there we
found a path already made, albeit almost hidden by the
ever sweeping sands, but the cracked wooden rail that marked
the edge of the cliffs showed the way. After a
trek of about a quarter of an hour, we found
ourselves at a gate which marked the outer rim of
the complex. The top was wrapped in barbed wire, and
an unlocked gate sat half open in front of us. Richter,
feeling that we would be better off closing it behind us,
walked into a neighboring guard post and lowered a barrier
to prevent anyone from entering. When our backs were turned together,
we made our way up a steep path to the
front to the fort itself. At the front gates, we
discovered a relic from the First World War, a French
ft tank sitting empty and half buried in sand. The
turret faced away from us, back the way we'd come,
and I wondered both how it had gotten up here
and what it had been put in place for. With
a last look at the armament, we pushed open one
of the two colossal wooden doors and entered the fort.
We found ourselves inside an expansive courtyard that stretched out
before us to both sides. To the right was what
appeared to be a smaller courtyard of some sort, embellished
with a few small bushes and date palms. Wandering over
to it, I found that the far end of the
smaller space was a fountain, a rusted pump set into
the back corner. Tentively, I put my hand out, gathered
some water from the fountain, and raised it to my lips.
The water tasted somewhat stagnant, but otherwise was fine. Reaching
out and operating the pomp, I found it readily supplied
fresh water. Turning, I found Maretti beside me. He smiled,
hit a water garden. Well, then this solves any concerns
of running out of water. There must be an underground
lake or river somewhere beneath us. I agreed with him,
and after a last look around at the peaceful scene,
we returned to the others. After telling them of our discovery.
We set our supplies down and began as a group
to explore. Aside from the water garden, there were two
main buildings inside the fort, The largest building, according to
the rickety wooden sign hung by the front door, declared
it to be the living quarters, while the second sunken
building was dead the arsenal. After a small deliberation, we
chose to enter the main building first. The interior showed
that nature had taken its toll on the fort. Beams
had collapsed from their upper levels, and sand rose up
in small mounds, making us have to navigate around the debris.
The rest of the quarters were in much the same condition,
though with much more signs of life. Pillows, rugs, and
other furniture were around. There were also plenty of candles
and lamps hanging from beams above, all of which we
lit as we passed. We located the radio room, which
I noted with a pang of her knees had been vandalized.
Both the radio and telegraph machines had been destroyed. Clearly
someone had not wanted anyone to send any messages or
calls for help. What made the scene worse was the
obvious signs of struggle, which are ever present throughout the
whole building. Some of the group didn't notice, but I
saw that Soren and Richter, along with myself the three
who saw the most combat in our lives did. The
spilled chairs, crumbled blankets, and broken glass and wood all
told a tale, and it was one that made the
feeling of dread rear its head in my mind, and worse,
the feeling of eyes on me was at a feverish pitch.
As we made our way through, My head swung about
like an owl's, looking not only to the shadows, but
up into the rafters as well. At one point, as
I brought up the rear of the group, I felt
as though fingers as slipped along the nape of my neck,
and my pulse quickened, my breathing going shallow as I
froze on the spot, terror filling every fiber of my being,
I whirled around and found no one. All I could
hear was the soft creaking of the building and the
whistling of the wind outside. Not wanting to remain alone,
I hurried after the others. After leaving the main quarters,
and with daylight fading fast, we made a quick pass
through the arsenal, where we discovered a grisly scene. In
the Ford's jail, we discovered the remains of a man
dressed in one of the old uniforms, which designated him
as part of the French Foreign Legion. His body seemed
to cower in the far corner of the cell, away
from any of the bars. Stranger still, Samir pointed out
that he had locked himself inside a set of keys
could be seen by the desiccated corpse's hand. From what
we could tell, the man hadn't died of any injuries either,
Mouretti summarized, he must have either perished from hunger or third.
We retreated back to the courtyard afterward, where we set
up camp in the water garden. For this, I'm eternally grateful.
While the living quarters may offer more shelter from the
elements than the tents, I would not be able to
sleep a wink inside. I feel constantly on edge after
what has been seen today, and I pray to the
Lord that in time they will fade from memory. And
I still feel we are watched. In fact, the feeling
is stronger than it ever was, as if whatever is
doing the watching is almost directly over us, staring down.
I wonder if the feeling has anything to do with
the corpse in the arsenal jail. After all, what good
driver a man to such terror that he would rather
face a slow death from lack of food and water
than it. Perhaps I hope to never find out nor
where the rest of the soldiers disappeared to. I hope
we can find the fable treasure quickly and be gone
from this place. As much as I love adventure, I
long for being back in the bedroom of my home
in Maidenhead. Monday, thirtieth of June nineteen fifty two. Two
days have passed since my last entry. We've continued to
work to locate any hint of the treasure, but have
failed to find any trace of it anywhere in the fort.
I'm beginning to think it may never have existed. Tally
is trying to bolster all our spirits, but I can
sence him begin to grow weary like the rest of us.
The foreboding feeling that has hung over my head like
a noose seems to have spread among the expedition. I
see it in all their faces. It increased when we
found more signs of a struggle around the fort. Fingernail
marks edged into the walls as if someone were dragged away,
spent ammo casings, and more. I catch others swinging around erratically,
as though they had sent somebody near them. I caught
some mere Tarrek and corn huddled together, whispering softly to
one another. When I approached, hearing words about leaving spoken,
they stood up straight and gave me a strange look
before moving quickly away. I also find that Blake tends
to stick close to me now. She says it's because
she feels safest with another from Britain, but I know
there's a deeper reason. She would not admit. Back in
the war, my sergeant had told me that paranoia is
one of the forces that whittle men down the quickest.
I do believe he is right. Tuesday, first of July
nineteen fifty two, we are trapped. During the night, I
awoke to hear a thunderous crashing sound, but in the
darkness I didn't know what it was. When daylight broke,
we set out for the steps down to the land rovers.
We found that during the night something had caused a
large section of them to give way. Whether it be
a crack in the rock which caused the landslide of
some sort, it doesn't matter. The section is too vast
to be able to safely jump down from a gap
of over two hundred feet, and without rope we couldn't
climb down. We are stuck hundreds of feet above the
desert floor with no signs of people anywhere. Fortunately, Tarag
informed us through some ear that he believed, as a boy,
he had seen a way down further down the ridge.
After her quick deliberation, it was decided that Samir, along
with Richtor, would set out and try and find it.
The weapons we had brought were finally broken out from
our supplies, and the two men were given a pistol each,
along with a small supply of extra ammunition and two torches.
They said they would attempt to return at nightfall if
they could not find a way down. It is dusk
now and they have not returned. I worry that they
might have slipped and fallen to their deaths, or worse,
may have successfully made it down and bolted well. I
may have worked with Richta before and heard good things
about Samir. In a situation like this, even the most
rational men can do the wrong things. I wait, I
thought I heard something has fallen again over the fort.
But for a second, as the wind had died, I
almost swore I heard a cracking sound in the distance
two three times, then nothing, but it sounded too small
to be gun shot. It can't have been. I hope
they come back soon. Wednesday, second of July nineteen fifty two,
Samir and Richter never returned. At dawn, I volunteered to
try and set out to find any trace of them.
Blake asked to accompany me, as did Coorin, who said
if they were injured, they would need his training. So,
gathering the medical kit, we prepared to leave when Murti
stopped us. I want you to take this, he said,
Reaching into a supply, he withdrew the shotgun, when I
instantly recognized as a Winchester Model eighteen ninety seven, handing
it to me. He also pulled out a box of
shells and passed them to Blake, who placed them in
a pack. Be safe and God be with you, he said.
I nodded, and holding the gun tightly in both hands.
The three of us stepped out of the fort, and,
after locating two sets of footprints, set out following them.
None of us spoke a word as we followed the
trail along, occasionally having to navigate around boulders and passed
treacherous narrow paths in what I hoped would lead to
our compatriots, our friends. But as we continued on, the
footprints seemed to endlessly continue. I began to feel as
though we three had, like them, seemingly slipped into an
alternate reality where we would be trapped forever alone. That
was when we discovered the end of the tracks. I
don't mean to say that they led to a way down,
or even to the edge of the cliff. Rather, both
sets came to a halt in the middle of an
open space dominated by low hanging cliff faces behind us.
This doesn't make any sense, Korin said, as he looked around.
Where the hell did they go? Neither of us could
answer him. But as I focused again on the tracks,
I noticed two small details I hadn't before, ones which
made my heart begin to beat quicker in my chest.
The first was that the footsteps, one so oddly and
in rhythm with one another, suddenly began to erratically dance
around each other, almost as if the men had begun
wildly spinning around, looking in all directions. The second was
the glint of brass I saw hidden among the sand.
I reached out with one hand and brushing away the
top layer that had settled over it the night before.
Found myself looking at several spent bullet casings. There were
approximately three or four of them, all clumped together as
if someone had emptied a revolver on the spot. I
picked one up, rolling it over in my fingers. The
beating sun made it almost too hot to handle, but
I could instantly tell they were fresh. Wariness and dread
began to gnaw at my insides. Something had happened here.
That was when I heard Blake gasp. Turning, I found
a staring at a section of wall behind and to
the left of us, a section which had been obscured
by an overhand before. Her face had gone as white
as a sheet and her eyes wide as saucers. With
a trembling hand, she pointed at something and moaned out
three words, Mother of God. A single smear of blood
ascended the rock face. It wasn't a lot, but it
was enough to spite my dread into full blown terror.
Quickly arching my neck, I could see where it led to,
but it was obvious that its owner had been dragged
upwards and in a violent manner. Instantly I raised the shotgun,
feeling my hands go cold and Clammy Blake and Corn
huddle behind me. As we looked around rapidly, both at
the overhang above us and farther down the path, all
I could hear was the whistle of the wind, nothing more,
and that fact alone horrified me to no end. That whistle,
that silence, it all seemed to hold her threatening edge
to it, now a prelude to something horrific to come.
I motioned silently for the others to begin to back
up behind me, alternating the shotgun's same between the area
above us and in front of us. Trying not to
make any noise, we slowly began to move back to
the fort. As we retreated, I swear I thought I
heard a small pitapat sound of pebbles moving. I thought
I saw a slight blur of motion just beyond my
line of sight. My heart was raising in my chest,
and my mouth turned as dry as cotton. In my
time during the war, I'd bore witness to many horrific sights,
many atrocities. More than once I was sure I was
about to die, And I swear on my sister's soul
that I never felt as terrified as I did in
those moments. My hands holding the gun beginning to shake.
Despite feeling as though whatever had taken Samir and Richter
were lurking just beyond our field of view, we made
it back to the fort unharmed. As soon as we
were inside, I dropped the shotgun too the ground, and
I found what must have been the board to barricade
the doors. I picked it up and slammed it into
place in the large metal hooks. As I did so,
the others raced out from the water garden, demanding to
know why we were sealing them inside. Korin turned to
them as we finished, his eyes wild and face ashen
in the fading light. Because Samir and Richter are dead.
That's why his tone slammed the words home, and I
saw horrified looks cross everyone's faces, even Tarrex, even if
he couldn't understand us that well. Trying to remain calm,
I stepped forward and, with as much rational clarity as
I could, muster explained in crystal clarity everything we had seen,
everything we had come across. As I finished, a deathly
silence settled over us. All. In those moments, all we
could hear was the wind, which had now risen from
a whistle into a howl. The sun was beginning to
set on the horizon, and it cast eerie shadows over
the fort's courtyard. Nobody dared speak, as the implications of
our predicaments sunk in, until I began to hear a
low whine. For a moment, I was unable to discern
where it came from, but as I looked around, I
realized it was coming from Tarak. The Algerian looked, if possible,
petrified to death, and beyond his face held the expression
of one which had just had a death sentence passed on.
The wine intensified, and he suddenly began to babble, speaking
rapidly strings of sentences. I didn't understand. What is he saying?
Tali demanded. Moretti, knowing a little Arabic, raised a hand
to silence him and stepped forward, asking a question to
the panicking man. In response, Tarak babbled to more at him,
and after a moment, I saw Maretti's brow furrow in confusion.
He asked another question and received another panicked response. Tally
stepped forward. What did he say? Please tell me? Moretti
continued to look at Tarak for a moment, then turned
towards us. I'm not sure, but I think he says
that they are in the mountains. They hunt in the mountains,
and they are wise. Father and grandfather warned him to
stay away from here. Suddenly, and without warning, Tarek turned
and bolted for the fort's living quarters. I saw Maretti
begin to take a step after him, but then stopped.
We watched as the man slammed his shoulder into the door,
rushing inside and slamming it shot behind him. Fortunately we
did not hear it lock. After a moment, Tali turned
back to us. He took a deep breath. Right, everyone,
we need a plan. The man's words seemed to bolster us,
and we quickly and quietly began talking among ourselves. We
decided he was no longer safe to stay out side,
and following Tarak's footsteps, we would shelter at night in
the living quarters, barricading ourselves inside. We would also try
to repair the broken radio to try and send a
call for help. Blake, in addition to being an archaeologist,
was also proficient in repairing equipment. Our plans set in motion.
We grabbed our supplies from the tents and moved inside.
And now we all huddle trying to sleep in shifts.
In one of the main bunk rooms. Blake sleeps beside me.
I can hear her uneasily rolling over. As I write,
Corn is doing the same a few cuts away. Sorry
and Moretti patrol the holes of the building with two
of our four remaining guns. Tally holds onto the third,
and in the meantime, I've traded Moretti the shotgun for
a pistol of my own. I should try to rest
my own patrol shift will be in a few hours,
and yet I cannot. I feel as though my dreams
will be worse dreams seeing what happened to Samir and Richter,
seeing them dragged upwards to a fate. I feel it
is a blessing not to know. And I'm terrified that
if I close my eyes I'll open them to find
something looking at me, half hidden in the shadows from
the dull light of the lamp over our heads, ready
to leap, and in my existence in a blister of
pain and horror, God, please save us. Thursday, third of
July nineteen fifty two, I write to day with what
feels like for the first time in an eternity, a
shred of good news. Blake has given an initial inspection
of both the radio and telegraphs and has come to
the conclusion that while he will take a small amount
of time, the damage dealt to both is within her
means to repair. She told us that he will take
with her combination of supplies found within the living quarters
and from our own bags, a maximum of two to
three days to get them back up to snuff. I
can also report that during Soeign and Moretti's watch, as
well as accompanied by Corn my own, we saw and
heard no trace of whatever lies out there. I hold
no delusions that they may have left, though all throughout
the night I could feel their eyes upon the fort,
especially when I passed the window. Several times I would
stop in front of them, my head around and squint
into the blackness. Of course, I saw nothing but the
hair that rose in my arms every single time. Assured
me that if the night were able to withdraw and
allow the secrets it covers to be visible, I would
have borne witnessed to a sight both blood chilling and
macarb in its appearance in the past. I often wish
that God had given us the night vision that large
predators were bestowed with, but now I'm beyond thankful he
did not. For the most part, we have remained inside
the living quarters, only venturing outside for brief periods of
time to fetch water from the water garden. The fear
and tension felt when doing so, though, is palpable enough
to slice with the bloody razor, especially as it sits
directly next to the main wall of the fort. When
it was my turn to refill our canteens, my head
swiveled around my neck, not unlike an owl's, turning this
way and that, and feeling that if I allowed even
a second to glance away from a particular spot, I
would turn to find the last thing I would ever
see gazing into my eyes. Fortunately, due to the material
the fort was built with or its position against the mountains,
the interior remained relatively cool, even as the noonday sun
beat down to the point I could see, both up
close and in the distance, the air itself shimmering from
the temperature. I do have to mention one thing, ever,
since Tark fled inside the building the other day, he
refuses to try and help us in any way. When
asked by Moretti, all he would do is shake his
head and repeat the words he spoke to us the
other day, the words about the ones who live in
the mountains. Before retreating into a supply closet, he remains there,
only coming out briefly for food or water before returning
to it. One other important thing to note. As we
had some free time on our hands, I used it
to further explore the living quarters, thoroughly checking every lock
box in supply case for anything we could possibly use.
In most I found only medical supplies, and in the
upper levels of the building two cannons, along with fuses, gunpowder,
and half a dozen cannon balls. However, as I further
explored the upper areas, I found a metal lock box that,
after breaking the h lock with the bottom my revolver,
held two flare pistols within, each one as a single
flare already loaded inside, with no sign of additional flares nearby.
I showed them to Moretti and the others, who agreed
that they should be stowed away to be used if
any sign of lack life was spotted in the desert below.
These may be what end up saving our hides. Tally said.
The sun is setting now and with the descent of
the orange almost blood red sun over the horizon. It
feels like whatever safety we felt in the daylight is
disappearing before my very eyes. I pray you make it
through the night Friday, fourth of July nineteen fifty two
the screams. I find it a struggle to put ink
to paper the abject horror and shock that I feel
this morning. But I must, if only to try and
help reserve the fleeting sanity that almost seems to precariously
cling to me. Last night, Sorron and I were tasked
with taking the first watch, patrolling the halls and rooms
until half past one in the morning, when we would
rouse and be relieved by Moretti and Coron. Sarren carried
the shotgun while I remained with my pistol. Slowly, silently,
we moved through the building, occasionally convening to confirm no
sign of trouble, and poking our heads into the bunk
room to check on the others. The only sound I
could be heard, aside from the whistling wind and creaking
of the ancient building, was the soft ticking of the
watch on my wrist, its unstoppable march seeming to bring
a little comfort to me. That was when I heard it.
At first, I couldn't identify the sound. It was too
far off in the distance and too muffled to properly
make out. It barely carried on the wind, almost being
whisked away completely. But as the moments spilled over into minutes,
I realized that it was slowly growing louder, which meant
whenever it was who was getting closer. Feeling my heart
begin to raise in my chest, I raised my revolver
and pulled back the hammer, my eyes straining to sea
in the darkness. The sound continued to increase in volume,
and for a moment I froze. For a moment I'd
almost recognized it. A shiver passed through me as I
gripped the window sill tightly in one hand, the other
shaking slightly as I aimed the gun into the black.
That was when a hand fell on my shoulder. I
nearly jumped out of my skin, whirling around a vine
Sorens standing beside me, the shotgun raised toward the ceiling
in his free hand and an intense look upon his face.
He looked at me. I hear it too, he said, simply,
in response to my unspoken question. For another moment, the
two of us stood there, straining our ears as we
held by the window. The sound continued to grow nearer,
and I felt another shiver pass through me. I couldn't
understand why, but I almost swore I recognized the sound.
Finally I whispered back to Saron, what is there? He
remained silent for another moment or so. Then I saw
his face go slightly pale in recognition, his expression changing
from stone to clearly unnerved screaming. There was another stretch
of silence between us as we both strained our ears.
I prayed for a moment that he was wrong, but
as the wind fell for a moment, I felt the
blood in my veins turned to ice as it came
again clear. This time it was indeed screaming. What's more,
the sauce was unmistakably human. I had heard far too
many men to count scream on the battlefield during the war.
Heard men shriek their last after they had stepped on
a land mine and lay blown apart and rapidly bleeding
out on the ground with it too dangerous to try
and retrieve them. I heard the screams of captured Germans
and the bunkers as operatives went to work extracting information
on them. These screams not only rivaled them, but surpassed them.
They were the most horrible, panicked, and pained sounds I
had ever heard a human being utter. It sounded nothing
less than if the screamer were being flayed alive, feeling
every single cut and peel of their skin. And then
the terror I felt compounded as the rose up a
second scream, one which rose and fell beside the first,
occasionally overlapping it, until it sounded as though we were
hearing the damned souls of Hell itself crying out for release.
His eyes wide saw and turned to me and said
only three words, roused the others. Soon we were all
standing by the window, every expression a mirror of fear
on the other as we listened to the infernal sound
that now almost sounded as if it were coming from
just beyond the sealed front doors of the fort. Blake
clasped the hand over her mouth, closing her eyes, and
leaning against me, wrapped an arm protectively around her, pulling
her close to me. As I looked at the others.
Karin looked as though he were about to faint from terror.
Jesus Mary and Joseph. He breathed. I saw Talie swallow hard.
But it was a look that swept across Marette's face
that drew my attention. It was one of recognition. He
fought to find his voice for a moment, then softly spoke,
his voice almost lost to the shrieks outside Sameir. Everyone
turned to look at him. At the single word he uttered,
I felt a small wave of confusion wash over me. Then,
if possible, I saw Soren's face grow even paler than
it already was. God Almighty, that is Samir, and that
oother scream. I remember how Ricky yewled as he broke
his angle a few years ago. That's him. Fresh ways
of horror rolled over us like the sea as the
information sunk in. I had been on the same expedition
with the two men when Rich had broken his ankle
climbing a rock. I prayed to the God I hoped
was listening that they were wrong, But in my bones,
I knew they weren't. I knew we were hearing the
screams of our two lost compatriots. Tally suddenly began to
turn towards the stairs to the lower floor, yanking his
own pistol from his holster. We have to help them,
he yelled, beginning to sprint away. Just as quickly, Sorron
and Moretti began to chase after him, telling him to wait.
Still holding on to Blake, I jerked my head for
carr And to follow, and hurried after them. When we
descended the stairs, we found Soren restraining Tally, his face
enraged in the flickering light of the lamp above. Like
go of me, damn you, he yelled, attempting to kick
the larger man to free himself. Moretti leaned forward towards him.
Lucy brain, your stupid fool. There is a reason why
it's coming from just outside the fort. It They whoever
or whatever he's out there, wants us to go out there.
It's a trap. Tally kicked at Sarn again, but this
time he was weaker. You don't know that, he protested.
They could have fought their way back. Soren shook his
head after what Liam and the others found. No, they couldn't,
especially not after two days. I'm sorry, mister Tally, but
Alessandro's right. They are counting on our emotions to get
the better of us. It's designed to lure us out
into the open. Tally closed his eyes and turned his
head away, almost in denial of what I had realized
was true myself, but I could see the words sinking in.
He slowly slumped Sarren, releasing the man and allowing him
to crumple to the ground, pulling his knees towards him
and wrapping his arms around them. Standing in the narrow hall,
we all listened to the screaming of our two friends
continue outside for a few minutes. Then, as he began
to feel as though the sounds would drive us all mad,
they slowly began to move away. The screaming grew fainter,
the sound of the wind beginning to mask it again,
until finally he couldn't hear it at all. For a moment,
nobody moved. I glanced at my watch, seeing that it
was a quarter to three in the morning. I hadn't
realized how long the terrifying ordeal had really lasted. Finally,
Tally stood up. He refused to meet any other eyes
and slunk back upstairs. Karen followed closely behind him. I
felt a sense of worry at what I saw in
the second man's eyes. The look was akin to one
a corn animal. Weares and revealed that he was close
to the edge. Soon all of us had returned to
the upper levels, Moretti relieving me of my watch and
ordering me to try and rest. But sleep is the
last thing I feel I could obtain right now, not
when the horror of what we'd experienced is still so
fresh in my mind. Blake has somehow managed to drift
back off, though I can tell her dreams at nightmares
by how she moans and wriggles and are caught. So
I write, not knowing what else to do, I pray
for the rising sun to come soon and banish away
the small taste of hell that I witnessed tonight. One
last thing I only noticed once we returned from upstairs.
But not once during the entire ordeal did Tarrek join us.
I only saw him when we returned upstairs, peeking out
from the clauset to stare at us with wide eyes.
The look on his face is what I remember well
from the medical tents, on the faces of wounded soldiers
who knew they were about to die. It was the
look of a man who has resigned himself to his fate. Saturday,
fifth of July nineteen fifty two. Whatever lives in these
god forsaken mountains, it will not allow us to make
a call for help. Blake finished repairing both the radio
and telegraphed today. For a few moments, we clung to
a tiny scrap of relief, like a shipwrecked victim to
a life ring. We crowded around her as she began
to send a distress call, tuning to the proper frequency.
Something answered us, but not what we had hoped. Almost
as soon as she hit the transmit button, a sound
spilled from the speakers. At first, it was too soft
to make out, but soon grew in intensity until we
could clearly recognize it. Whispering voices, dozens of them or more,
all whispering in a language none of us could ascertain
or understand. It was not Arabic. I doubt it's a
language any human has spoken in a millennia, if ever
at all. The sound made chill after chill shoot up
my spine. I could see horrified looks in the other's faces.
The whispering continued, soon joined by screaming, and I swear
I heard some mirror and Richter's screams among the others
the same screams we heard the other night. Finally, the
radio just seemed to die completely, the glow dial dimming
to black. No matter how much Blake fiddled with it,
she couldn't get it to turn on again, and no
sooner had she turned to the telegraph, using Morse code
to type out an S O S than we received
an answer far quicker than anyone could possibly respond. I
remember the look of confusion on her face as she
reached out and pulled the small piece of paper from
the machine, raising it to her eyes and reading it.
When she lowered it, she looked to be on the
verge of tears. What does it say? Moretti asked her gently.
She took a moment before answering, swallowing hard, no saving.
I find myself terrified now, not just for my life,
but my very soul. Sunday, sixth of July nineteen fifty two,
Soren is gone. I was roused shortly before dawn by Moretti,
who gazed down at me with an expression which shocked me.
Throughout the entire ordeal, the man had attempted to remain calm.
Now as he pulled me to my feet, I found
myself staring at an almost panicked face, trying to keep
his voice level, he explained that when he had not
seen Soren crossing his path after doing so thrice before,
he had gone looking for the man. He discovered the
shotgun leaning against the wall near one of the cannons,
with no sign of him at all. What's worse, as
there was not a single sign of a struggle. It
was as if he had been ambushed and simply lifted
up and out of the world with nearry a splash
of blood or scream. He handed me the shotgun, asking
me to help cure the building with them. Quickly, and
with the worried eyes of the others turning on us
as they awoke, we swept through the living quarters, our
guns at the ready and eyes darting around. To my dismay,
we discovered that the door to the courtyard was still
bolted from the inside, indicating that Sirren hadn't walked out,
which meant whatever had happened to him had happened in here.
Every shadow cast by the flickering candles and lamps now
seemed threatening whatever safety we felt inside, torn away like
a favorite blanket from a child, I wanted to say,
my eyes were playing tricks on me, But I fear
that as I moved through the living quarters, my eyes
occasionally would spy something moving swiftly and silently among the
rafters over our heads, only stopping for a moment to
watch us, before darting out of sight. When storm broke,
and despite the door being locked, we left the living
quarters and moved out into the courtyard. We still found
no trace of the man, and the front doors were
still barricaded. We made a quick pass through the armory,
still finding nothing, before quickly stopping to refill our canteens.
While water is obviously not an issue, we will soon
begin running low on food, but I fear it is
not starvation that will be the end of us. Sunday,
sixth of July nineteen fifty two, at Dendem, the scream
is back. It came just after nightfall. It is still
some here and read to screams sounding almost exactly as before,
only now I hear sorens, deep or cries among them. God,
I don't want to die here. I don't want my
fate to be whatever theirs are now. Monday, seventh of
July nineteen fifty two, Derek is dead. At first when
we awoke, nothing new seemed out of place. The same
creaking of the building could be heard, but nothing more
screamed of the change until I went to try and
bring the Algerians some water and food. I found the
door to the supply closets standing wide open, and when
I peered inside, it was empty. Feeling tensions suddenly erupt
from my body, I turned and began calling for the man,
attracting the attention of Moretti and Tally, who were on
their patrols. Once I showed them the empty closet, the
three of us fanned out, all calling the man's name,
and Moretti calling out what had to be soothing words
in Arabic, but there was no response at all, aside
from the confused calls of Korin and Blake as they
awoke and joined us. That was when I saw the
open front door. The sight of the living room stoor
hanging wide open, gently waving in the breeze, and showing
the sand outside the sun just beginning to spread across
it filled me with a sense of dread. Quickly I
called the others, and after a quick discussion, Moretti and
I moved outside. More Tally closed and bolted the door
behind us. ME instantly spotted a set of footprints in
the sand, moving away from the building out into the
center of the courtyard. We followed them, seeing that they'd
stopped near the steps of the armory, as if the
man had contemplated running to it, before turning and headed
towards the front doors of the fort itself. Even from
here I could see the board had been pulled down.
It now lay haphazardly on the ground, and one of
the great wooden doors had been pulled slightly open. Gripping
the shotgun tightly, the two of us moved and looked outside.
Nothing moved in the stillness, and beside the wind, no
sound could be heard. I looked to him, and he
gave a short nod before stepping outside. Instantly I felt
far more vulnerable with other buildings around me, just as
when I had gone looking for Samir and Richter. My
hands turned cold and clammy, and I nervously eyed the still,
shadowy areas around us. Every sense was unalert. We followed
the man's footprints as they continued forward, and with a
sinking feeling, I realized that they were heading for the
edge of the cliff. Moretti seemed to have realized it
as well, and I saw him intentively take a few
steps forward, putting one hand on the rickety wooden rail
and peering over the side. For a moment. He said nothing,
then he closed his eyes lay hell. Quickly. I hurried
to his side and looked over. A small sense of
vertigo overwhelmed me, and I felt dizzy looking down at
the straight drop, But I instantly spied what the other
man had seen. Tarrek's body lay far below us, His
arms and I explayed out in various directions right crimson
blood splashed out around his body. Even from here I
could tell he had not landed on the sand, but
had instead slammed into one of the boulders at the
base of the cliff. The man had jumped, only taken
his own life. I whispered a silent prayer for the man,
hoping that God would of mercy on him for such
a terrible sin. Then I looked at Moretti. All he
could do was shake his head. As we stood there
attempting to process it all. The noise behind us caused
us to turn around. The pit, batter of sand and
small loose rocks being shifted aside. Instantly, all thoughts of
Tarak vanished as the sensation of eyes on us returned
with a vengeance. Terror began coursing through my system, and
we aimed at just about everywhere possible. Nothing moved now,
but I knew he could feel us being observed being stalked.
Without delay, the two of us ran for the fort,
rushing inside and pushing the door closed, before again setting
the barricade just as quickly as we moved to the
door to the living quarters, banging on it and yelling
to be let inside. To our relief, the door unbolted,
revealing the ashen face of Blake as she yanked the
door open. We hurried inside as she closed and redid
the lock. Before we could tell her what we had found,
she pointed back towards the hallway to the stairs. You
need to see this, she said, before leading the way
back towards the main bunk room. Moments later, we found
ourselves at the supply closet that Tarak had hidden in.
The others crowded around it, and I noticed something I
hadn't before. In my haste to locate the man, I
hadn't noticed that using a small, sealed kind of black
paint and a brush which had been left inside. He
had written something hastily on the wall in Arabic. Dally
turned to Moretti, asking him if he could read it.
He stood in silence for a time, either unable or
unwilling to answer. Then he turned towards us, his face grim.
Roughly translated, it says that death is better than what
fate awaits those who are taken. It is dark now,
night has fallen again, though mercifully the screaming is not returned.
All I can think, as I sit here writing is
that whatever lies out there, whatever watches us from the
shadows in here up in the rafters, that I now know,
isn't a trick of my eyes. It is slowly toying
with us and picking us off one by one. They
have taken our strongest members first, a strategic move that
reveals their intelligence, and drove possibly the only person in
our party with any knowledge about them, to the point
he chose to take his own life rather than face them.
Whenever they are They will not until we are all dead. Tuesday,
eighth of July nineteen fifty two, I saw them, Dear
sweet merciful God, I wish I hadn't. I wish I
hadn't decided to take a torch with me. When I
was roused by Tally to take a second watch with Coran,
I wish i'd ignored the urge I'd had to turn
and look out the window. I wish so much, But
if wishes were horses, it happened just a little before
four in the morning. I'd just finished speaking briefly with Corain.
Ever since yesterday I grow more concerned for the medic.
The man looked nearer and nearer to insanity, and I
fear with a loaded pistol he may do something brash
or violent if he snaps. But he assured me that
he was still as sane as he could possibly be
in such a situation. And feeling somewhat relieved, I moved
off to patrol the outer hallways again. As I passed
the window which looked out over the courtyard, the ceaseless
sensation of being watched suddenly spiked. I felt the biggest
shiver yet shoot up my spine, and I reached down
for my belt. I chosen to take a torch with
me to light up any dark corners. I flicked it on,
turning and aiming it out toward the window into the dark,
towards the armory, and I saw it. It crouched almost
felinelike on the roof of the armory, arms and legs
wrapped around a section of stone for support. As my
light fell upon it, it looked towards me before quickly
leaping out of sight, but not before I had time
to see the details. The sunken eyes, sunken so far
back that it almost looked as if it had none,
the recessed nose almost entirely erased from its face, the
mouth filled with jagged, razor sharp teeth that could easily
tear a man apart. All of this filled me with
in existential horror I only ever felt when hearing about
hell during church sermons. But it was the one additional
detail that slammed me like a freight train, the torn,
tattered and decaying uniform that hung of its emaciated body.
It was a uniform I instantly recognized I had seen
an identical, albeit much more intact one on the corpse
of the man in the armory jail. The uniform won
by the soldiers in the French Foreign Legion during the
First World War, and into the nineteen thirties. As my
mind scrambled to process the information, another shape darted in
view of my torch beam, and this one nearly caused
me to scream, because it wore a different, much fresher uniform,
the same one that Richter had won when he set
off with Samir that day. It is midday now as
I write this, I have not told anybody what I
have seen. I know I must, and yet I cannot.
I cannot bear to share the horrible truth that I
now know what Tarek almost certainly knew, and what made
him choose death by his own hand over it. Even
though I now know that none of us will leave
this mountain alive, I feel that it would be too
cruel for them to know those things out there. They
may have been hidden in this mountain for lord knows
how long, when the fort was first built centuries ago.
They may have watched as it was constructed. But the
horrible part about them was that when they came for them,
the same as they came for the French soldiers stationed
here decades ago, as well as the rest Scow party,
is that they did not kill them. They did not
devour them as horrific a fate as that might have been,
it would have been a mercy in comparison. They dragged
them off and they changed them. They somehow turned them
into more of their own. And they have done the
same thing to those of our team who they took Samir,
Richter and Soeign. That's why the screams we heard always
came back, because even though they're not the same men anymore,
they're not even human anymore. Their souls have been stripped away,
leaving what I can only describe as demons spewing from
the mouth of Hell itself to wear their bodies. They
still retain enough for their intelligence to know how to
lure others to them, like a dock hunter with a
call to draw their prey out into the open. Tally
says he wants to try and use one of the
flair pistols to signal anyone who might be nearby. I
haven't had the heart to tell him that even if
anyone human is nearby, they know better than to approach
this place. They know it is cursed. It is only
a matter of time before they come for the rest
of us, God of Mercy, and all of our souls. Wednesday,
ninth of July nineteen fifty two. These will be the
final words I'll ever write. The others are all gone,
and I the only one who remains. Night is coming fast,
and if I do not act quickly, I know they
will return for me as well. So even if nobody
finds this journal of mine, I feel I must put
to paper how it ended, if nothing more than to
serve as a warning for anyone who hears the tale
of this accursed place and finds themselves one part brave,
two parts full to try and reach it. What awoke
us was not the hell spawn that lay in wait
for us. It was the sound of arguing, of babbling, screams,
and finally the sound of a weapon of some sort
being discharged. I remember the look on Blake's face as
she awoke, looking at me with wide doll like eyes.
I snatched at the shotgun from beside me, seeing Maretti
pulling his pistol from his waistbend as he shot to
his feet in unison. We sprinted for the hallway outside
the bunk room, and we opened it. It was to
a truly grisly sight. Tally lay on his back on
the floor, a shocked look was permanently affixed to his face,
his wide eyes glassy and forever staring at the ceiling.
The sparks from the flare that had been shot into
his mouth still skewed from inside, the horrific smell of
buying flare filling the hallway. Standing in front of him,
still pointing the flare gun was korn. When he turned
towards us, I instantly knew the man had snapped. An
insane grin was plastered on his face and his eyes
flew about in their sockets. Instantly, Mauretti and I raised
our weapons, but before anything could be done, Coorin had
shoved past us and raced down the stairs. We heard
him unbolt the front door, and running to the windows,
saw him sprint across the courtyard to the armory, disappearing
down the stairs. A moment later we heard the faint
sound of the door slamming shut. Nobody could speak. When
I turned back, he was to find Blake standing over
the body of our sponsor, unable to stop crying. Quickly,
I raced to her and embraced her, allowing her tears
to soak my shirt. After a few minutes, her crying
had reduced the sniffles, and she pulled back, wiping a
nose with her shirt sleeve. My Looctor Moretti. The man
looked beside himself with shock and confusion. He hadn't realized
how close to the edge his medic had been. Then
he regained his composure, looking towards me with a steely
edge in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was
deadly calm. We have to go after him. I was
unsure as to why after murdering our sponsor, the man
wanted to pursue him, Whether for a twisted sort of
retribution or a sense of duty to those under his
leadership even in such extreme cases, I'll never know, but
I didn't dare argue with him. I knelt down, gently,
prying the pistol from Taly's hand and trying not to
look at his face. Standing up, I handed it to her.
Can you fire a gun? She looked at me and nodded.
After a moment, nodding in return. I quickly retreated back
to the bunk room, picking up the pack with the
still held shotgun shells and slinging it over my shoulder,
Returning at the others and together we headed downstairs and
out the front door. The wind howled as fiercely as
a banshee as we made our way across the courtyard,
all three of our guns shifting around aim I remembered
what I had seen the night before and felt my
muscles tents gaze shifting to the tops of the ridges
high above the fort, I felt I would see the
demons climbing quickly down towards us. Thankfully, I saw nothing
reaching the steps. We descended to the front door of
the armory and found it unlocked. Stepping inside the gloomy interior,
we moved slowly, occasionally calling out Korn's name. Not a
soul answered, and for a moment I wondered if the
man had been taken as well when his back was turned.
After all, we had barely explored the building, choosing to
huddle inside the living quarters. As we rounded a corner,
though I saw signs that he was still here. Barrels
of gunpowder lay on their sides, the black grains spilling
out onto the floor. A workbench had its tools scattered about.
That was when I noticed the hole in the floor,
one I hadn't seen previously. I would have ignored it
completely if it hadn't been for the sparkle that came
from something lying next to it. As we approached, I
realized it was a diamond, one of the largest I'd
ever seen in my life, And when I peered into
the hole, I couldn't help but feel my mouth drop
open as I saw precious gems and gold coins that
filled the entire hole, piled into what I could tell
was a hidden room below. The treasure had been real,
even in our predicament. The three of us couldn't help
but look at each other and laughed softly. Well, at
least we know that the stories of the treasure was true.
Tally was right, Blake said softly. For another moment, we stared,
and we slowly tore ourselves away from the treasure, moving
on and calling out Korran's name. Still nobody answered, and
I began to feel that we should simply leave the building.
As much as I understood to a degree Mouretti's reasoning
this was being dangerously foolhardy, But I never had a
chance to voice my thoughts. As we rounded the final
corner to the jail, a shot rang out, the bullet
striking the wall not a foot from Marette's face. The
three of us leapt back, pressing up against the wall
for cover. Another shot rang out, then another. For a moment,
an eerie silence fell over the hall. Then I heard
Corns scream, the insanity audible in his voice, stay away,
I found the treasure. It's mine, mine, not yours. Maretty
chanced to look around the corner, snapping his head back
as the third shot rang out. His managed to get
the keys from the dead man in the cell and
locked himself inside, he told us, and he's got some
of the treasure scattered around him. He looked at us,
and I already knew what he would say before he
opened his mouth, scrim We have to go quickly. The
three of us backtracked through the armory to the front door.
We slipped outside and began to run across toward the
living quarters. They were waiting for us. We had barely
made it half way across the courtyard and what I
can only describe as a blur of motion flew down
from the window of the Living quarters. I saw Moretti
look up at the shape rocketing towards him, screaming, saw
him raise his pistol to fire. He never even had
a chance to let off a single shot, the creature
slammed into him, knocking him to the ground and sending
the revolver tumbling from his fingers. The beast looked at me,
and with a horrified realization, I recognized the blue eyes
set deep in the already recessed sockets. Then gripping Marette's
shoulder with one of its clawed hands, it leapt off
the ground, pulling the screaming man with him as it
rapidly climbed the rock and out of sight. We had
no time to grieve or process any of it, because
the rest came for us. Everything blurred together in those moments,
much as it does in war when adrenaline and reflex
takes over. I cannot remember anything clearly, only faintly recall
the sounds of deafening gunshots as we fired at all
We could see the motion of reaching into the pack
for extra ammunition for Blake and myself, the sound of
the two of us shouting and screaming, and the pain
enraged cries of the creatures as our shelves and rounds
slammed home. I was dimly aware that we were moving
towards the water garden. Next thing I can recall is
the silence, I found Blake and I slumped against the
wall near the fountain. She pulled me closer to her.
She cup some water in her hands, using it to
sprinkle over my brow and drip into my mouth. The refreshing,
blessed liquid brought me back fully, and when I asked
what had happened, she told me after a time, they
had all retreated. None had died even after we fired
at them, but they still retreated. As I looked around,
wondering for a moment if we succeeded in frightening them off,
my eyes fell on a sight which wrenched whatever hope
I had left from my soul. The sun was beginning
to set in the sky. I instantly knew that the
only reason they had retreated was to wait until darkness
fell again. It had been a strategic move. They would
wait until night blinded us and they could still see perfectly,
and then they would come again, either to kill us
or drag us off like the others, like I'd seen
the beasts sor and had done to Moretti to make
us like them. In those moments, any remaining thoughts were
surviving fled from me. I said nothing, However, I climbed
to my feet, looking around. Then I looked down at Blake.
She gave me a strange smile. Even still, it made
her look beautiful. I smiled back. Finally, she sighed and
pushed the mousy hair behind her ear before looking up
at me. What do we do now? I didn't answer her. Instead,
I simply shook my head to indicate I didn't know.
I waited until she had lowered her head and closed
her eyes. Then, before she could open them again, I
swung the bowl of my shotgun and aimed. I find
a sort of peace in that she never knew what
was about to happen. And now that I am done
writing my account of all this, I have but one
thing left to do. I refused to let the demons
change Blake into one of their own. As much as
I know, my soul is damned to hell for the
unforgivable sin I have committed against her, and it is
the same mercy I will give myself. I am going
to follow the same path that Tarak Tuk i wild
jump from the cliff. I will face my own death
at the hands of the rocks below, rather than the
fate that is befallen the others, that is beyond all
shadow of a doubt, her worse fate than any death imaginable.
I pray from my own soul, I pray for Blake's,
I pray for talies, I even pray for corns. I
hope that, like the soul told you before him, it
is thirst or hunger that takes him. Please heed the
dire warning this journal contains. While there is treasure above,
you do not attempt to climb and retrieve it. You
will not live to spend a single bloody shilling of it.
The beasts above have claimed it, and the fort is
their own. Let it be if you value not only
your life, but your humanity and very soul. For if
you don't, you will find yourself facing a fate that
is more horrific than written about in any tone. And please,
if you find this, get word back to my sister
in maiden Head. Tell her I'm sorry. God forgive me.
My great grandfather was the kind of man who always
seemed unshakable. He had lived through a World war, raised
four kids of his own after his wife passed, and
ran a small town diner until arthritis stole his grip.
He was a figure of quiet strength, with the eyes
of someone who'd seen the world and survived. Growing up,
I knew he'd served as a nurse during the war,
but that was about all I knew. Most of his
stories gathered dust in his memories, just like the medals
that stood on the living room shelf. He'd sometimes joke
about trading cigarettes for coffee or patching up cowdly soldiers
who shot themselves in the foot, but there was a
line he would never cross. He always kept their heavy
memories locked out of sight. It was late past midnight
and the house was quiet except for the hum of
the old refrigerator in the kitchen. Accompanied by grandfather, clock,
Great Grandpa, and eyes sat at the table, the dim
yellow light above us casting long shadows across his worn,
withered face. He poured himself a whiskey, the one indulgence
that remained, and handed me a coke, a gesture that
made me feel much older than I was. He was
quiet at first, staring into his glass like it held
something he'd been trying to figure out. Then, without looking
up at me, he spoke, you have a wonder why
something stick with you? Boy? He asked with a low
and steady voice. I blinked and adjusted my posture. Caught
off guard. What do you mean? He took a sip
from his glass and set it back down, carefully, his
hand lingering on it. The war. I've seen a lot
of things fixed, a lot of people up better rid
more than my share, too, He paused and glanced at me,
before setting his gaze back down to his glass. But
there's one man I've never been able to forget. He
leaned forward, careful not to break the moment. Great Grandpa
rarely talked like this, and I respected him too much
to even think about interrupting. Private Andrew Mallory, he said,
his gray eyes sharp but distant, as if reliving the
memory in front of me. I waited, letting him find
his words. He came to us in the winter of
forty four, Grandpa began. We were stationed at the hospital,
just behind the front lines. It was freezing, the kind
of cold that would kill you if you stopped moving
for too long. The air stank of smoke, blood, mud,
and gunpowder. He paused, his jaw visibly tightening. The hospital
wasn't even much of a hospital, he said, with a
dry chuckle. A few canvas tents and a whole lot
of desperation. We worked with no brakes, patching up the
ones we could, and making the others comfortable until they
no longer needed the comfort. He picked up his glass
again and took a slow sip. That's where I first
met Mallory. They brought him in late one night, carried
on a stretcher by two boys who didn't look much
older than he was. Shrapped, no wound to the gut.
It was bad, son, real bad. We tried to save him,
but his voice trailed off and his hand tightened around
the glass. He died on the table. I was holding
his hand when it happened. I remember clear as day,
the way his grip loosened, the look in his eyes
when he realized he wasn't gonna make it. He was
just a kid, scared alone, dying in the middle of
a frozen hell. He fell silent for a moment, his
gaze fixed on the table between us. What happened after that?
I asked quietly. Great Grandpa exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping
as he leaned back in his chair, the same thing
as always. We cleaned him up as well as we could,
tagged him and sent him to the Morgue tent. Then
we moved on. There wasn't time to dwell on anything
back then. Too many men coming in and not enough
hands to save them all. We had no time to mourn.
We just did what we could and hoped it was enough.
I nodded, even though I couldn't imagine what sort of
pressure he must have felt. The next morning, he continued,
his voice softer, now almost ghostly. I walked into the
Triarch tent, same as always, and there he was. I frowned.
Who Mallory, my great grandfather said, his eyes meeting mine,
standing there like nothing had ever happened. He was fine,
better than fine even, no wounds, no blood, not a
scratch on him, just standing there, confused as hell, but
in better condition than anyone in that hospital. A sly
chill ran down my spine. I never heard my great
grandfather tell a story like this. I didn't even think
he believed in anything supernatural. And what did you do?
What could I? He said? I thought I was losing
my mind. I went over to him, my eyes wide
as dinner plate. I clearly scared the kid with the
way I walked up to him, but I half expected
him to collapse or disappear into thin air the second
I touched him, but he didn't. He was solid, as
real as the kid i'd watched die the night before.
He rubbed his hand over his face. The other nurses
thought it had to be a mistake, that we'd misidentified
the body or mixed up the tags. It wasn't too uncommon,
but I knew I held his hand when he died.
What did Malory say? I asked, curiosity, gripping me tightly.
Not much, He admitted he was confused, disoriented, said he
didn't remember anything after the explosion. The doctors checked him
over and he was fine, with no wounds or signs
of trauma. They got him ready and sent him back
to the front. Just like that, I asked, my voice rising,
Just like that, boy, great Grandpa said with a bitter tone.
Orders were orders, and he was a soldier. If he
could stand, he could also fight, and that's all that mattered.
He fell silent again, his gaze drifting toward the darkened
window to our left. The kitchen felt colder than it
had a moment ago, and I realized I was holding
my breath. I couldn't let it go, he said with
a subdued tone. After I saw Mallory there, alive and well,
I couldn't just move on. I tried to talk about it. Hell,
I had to. Who did you talk to, I asked,
Mary Ellen, He said, a faint smiled, tugging at the
corners of his mouth. She was one of the senior nurses.
She was hard as nails, but she had a good
head on her shoulders. A damn fine woman she was.
I figured if anyone would listen, she'd be the one.
He let out a long sigh. I caught her between shifts.
She was smoking behind the supply tent, trying to get
some minutes to herself before the next truck pulled up.
Great Grandpa's voice softened once more, and I could also
see the scene in my head as he described it.
She stood there, leaning against the tent pole, staring at
me like I told her the world was ending in
just a few minutes. What do you mean he walked
back in, She asked, I told her everything, just as
I had told you. And what did she say? I asked,
louder than I'd meant to. She laughed, He said, flatly,
the kind you give someone when you're too tired to
deal with nonsense. I told her I wasn't crazy, and
I knew what I saw. I said Mary, that kid
was dead. He died in front of me. But she
just shook her head and said, dead men don't walk, Harold,
maybe you tag the wrong boy. We've all made mistakes.
His hand trembled slightly as he reached for his glass,
the liquid inside never seeming to end. I asked her
if she'd at least take a look at him see
for herself. She took one last drag of a cigarette,
blew the smoke out, and said, we don't have time
for this. There's a truck coming in with twenty more boys,
and a doubt half of them will make it longer
than a night. I frowned, trying to picture the situation
in my head. That's it. She just shrugged it off
like that. War doesn't leave room for questions, kid, he said,
with a heavy voice. Not questions like that, anyway. I
knew that myself. We were barely keeping up as it was.
Solers pouring in faster than we could treat them. Supply
is running out. When you're drowning, you don't stop to
wonder why the water is rising. He set his glass
down hard, the sounds sharp in the quiet kitchen. She
told me to get back to work, and that was that.
Mallory was just another name, another body. Nobody cared where
he'd been or how he came back. They just cared
that he can hold a rifle. The bitterness in his
voice cut deep, and I didn't know what to say
for a moment. Did he come back? I asked finally,
already knowing the answer. He nodded slowly. Yeah, he came back.
He stared at the ceiling for a moment before looking
at me with kind eyes. But that's enough for tonight.
I'm tired. I opened my mouth to protest, to ask
just one more question, but I realized Great Grandpa wasn't asking.
He was telling me the conversation was over for now.
I'll tell you the rest tomorrow, kid, he said, rising
from his chair, followed by the faint creak of the
old wood. That night, sleep didn't come. I lay in
bed and stared at the ceiling, replaying great Grandpa's words
over and over, the gravity in his voice and shivers
down my spine. I wanted to know more. Images of
a war torn hospital filled my mind. The smell of
antiseptic and blood, the groans of the dead and dying,
the frantic shuffle of nurses trying to save lives, and
then malory. The thought continued to gnaw at me the
next day at work, I tried my best to focus,
but my mind kept drifting. I ran through everything great
Grandpa had said, wondering how it could be possible. I
was still lost in thought when my phone rang. The
vibration in my pocket snapped me back to reality. The
voice on the other end was rushed and panicked. You're
great grandfather has been hospitalized. The woman and the other
end said heart attack. My stomach dropped. I barely remembered
grabbing my keys, talking to my boss, and driving to
the hospital. When I got there, he was lying in bed, pale,
and hooked up to more machines than I could count.
His eyes opened when he heard me enter, and he
gave me a weak smile. Great Grandpa's hand trembled as
he reached out, beckoning me closer. The hospital room was quiet,
save for the rhythmic beeping of the monitors and the
faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. His voice was
hoarse and strained, but its urgency left no room for argument.
Didn't think you could get rid of me that easily,
did you, he rasped. I laughed softly. He scared the
hell out of me. Grandpa, Ah, sit, he said, his
eyes locking unto mine. I need to finish the story, Grandpa,
it's fine. You need to rest. No, he interrupted, his
tone firm unexpectedly. So I don't know how much time
I have. Just listen, I nodded, pulling the chair closer
to his bedside. His hand gripped mine, the warmth contrasting
with the cold sterility of the hospital. I listened without
saying a word, leaning forward to catch every syllable. Something
in his tone demanded my full attention. After Mallory came
back the first time, Grandpa began once more, his eyes
fixed on the ceiling. I just couldn't stop thinking about it.
It made no sense. I tried to keep going, hoping
the world would explain itself later. His fingers tightened around
the edge of the blanket. I tried, thinking back on
what Mary had said, that he was just a mix up,
a mistake, but deep down I knew better. He paused,
his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Time went by,
weeks past and I didn't see him again. I figured
that was the end of it, But then they brought
him back. He shifted slightly, wincing as he adjusted his position.
I remember the look on the Meddick's face when they
carried him in. They said he stepped on a mine.
His leg was gone, blown clean off, shrapnel had ripped
through his chest, and his skin was burnt so badly
he didn't even look human. What happened? Then? I asked,
my voice barely above a whisper. Great Grandpa shook his head.
We tried to stop the bleeding, pulled the shrapnel, did
everything we could to keep him alive. But it was
a losing battle from the start. We all knew it.
His heart gave out half way through, and he died again.
His voice trembled, and he turned his head to look
at me. Do you know what it feels like to
fail someone twice? Boy, to watch a kid die in
your hands, knowing there's nothing you can do. I was
unable to find the words. We cleaned him up, tagged
him again, and sent him to the morgue tent. It
had to be over, and I hoped it was for
his sake. The next morning, Grandpa said, his voice growing quieter.
I walked into the tree tend to start my shift,
and there he was again, his expression darkened. The first
time I saw him come back, I thought I was
losing my mind. This time, I didn't quite know what
to think. He was sitting on one of the carts,
staring at the floor like he didn't know where he was,
and he looked fine, just like before. Did you talk
to him, I asked. Grandpa exailed, his hands, clenching the
blanket tighter. I froze for a moment. I just stared
at him. Part of me wanted to run up to
him and ask what the hell was going on, but
I didn't. Why not because the tent was a madhouse,
he said bitterly. More men had been brought in overnight,
and there were too many fires to put out. I
didn't have time to sit and ask questions, as much
as I wanted to. His eyes clauded over, his voice
turning softer. I did manage to catch's eye, though, for
just a second, and you know what I saw fear.
He was scared out of his mind, but confused. They
sent him back to the front line. Later that day,
Grandpa said, I could feel the frustration radiating off him
as he spoke. I wanted to stop him, he admitted,
to pull him aside and make him tell me everything.
But I didn't get the chance. I didn't even see
him for a long time after that. The war moved on, unrelenting.
He looked at me then, his eyes heavy. But I
couldn't stop thinking about him. Every time I closed my eyes,
i'd see his face, a fear, a confusion. And I
kept wondering, wondering what Grandpa hesitated, his lips pressed into
a thin line. I kept wondering where he went when
he died, what he saw, what it was that scared
him so much. The door opened suddenly, and a nurse
stepped in, her voice soft, I'm sorry, visiting hours are over. Wait,
I said, turning back to Grandpa. You said there was more.
What happened next? Did he come back? Grandpa lifted her hand,
his fingers weakly, waving me off. Later, he murmured, his
voice barely audible. I'll tell you the rest later, Grandpa,
go home, he said, his eyes fluttering shut. We'll finish tomorrow.
The nurse gave me a sympathetic smile as she ushered
me out, But something about Grandpa's final words left a
pit in my stomach. As I walked out of the hospital.
I couldn't shake great Grandpa's words, and a small part
of me began to question it all. His story about
Private Mallory was by all means impossible. People do not
just die and come back, let alone multiple times. Maybe
I thought it was his way of coping with his
own mortality, a metaphor for something he couldn't quite explain
to me. Or maybe he was trying to teach me
something about resilience and sacrifice. Still, the way he spoke
and the emotions in his voice all felt real. There
was a sincerity to it. The morning after, I thought
about calling the hospital to check on him. He was
old and tired and needed rest, but I planned on
seeing him after work. Given the seriousness of the story,
he would prefer to tell it in person. I had
just gotten home from work when my phone rang. The
number was from the hospital. Your great grandfather has just
passed away. It was sudden, but peaceful. The voice on
the other end said, I'm so sorry for your loss.
She sounded comforting, but with so much unanswered. I was distraught.
I asked them to repeat it, hoping I'm misunderstood, but
I hadn't. My great Grandpa was gone. I went to
the hospital to sign off documents and pick up his
remaining things. Deep down, I hoped to find some clues
to the ending of his story, or maybe even a
manifesto explaining the rest. But all he had with him
was the clothes on his back. I left the hospital
feeling lost, both emotionally and physically. One way or another,
I hinted up at the diner where great Grandpa and
I used to go when I was a kid, the
one I used to own back in the day. It
was a place that felt safe and familiar as setting
to remember him by. I slid into the booth where
Grandpa and I always sat. Then I stared at the
familiar chipped lamon at tape as the hum of the
diner's lights buzzed faintly in the background. I did not
even notice the waitress asking if I wanted coffee, and
I just nodded along. When two mugs hit the table,
I looked up and froze. Sitting across from me in
front of the other mug of steaming coffee. It was
my great grandfather. He looked tired, his face exhausted and withdrawn.
For there was no mistaking it. He raised the mug
slightly like a toast. Don't panic, son, he said, in
a calming tone. I internalized my reaction to scream and
got up, slowly, keeping my eyes on him as I
slid into the sea to cross from him. You're a light,
I know, he interrupted, as he sipped his coffee. You
wanted to know what happened the third time Malory came back,
he added, I kept staring at him, my mind the
swirling pit of confusion and disbelief. How I got the
call you? They they said you died, Grandpa said, finishing
the sentence for me. I did, son. That's the problem.
It's my second time now, so this is when things change.
Before I could press further, he leaned in. The last
time Malory came back, he was different. They carried him
into the tent, half dead, with burns, shattered bones, and
parts of him barely held together. But he didn't die.
He should have, God knows he should have, but something
did not let him. Grandpa slumped back in his chair,
his expression turning dark. But he hung on barely. The
damage to his body was Grandpa traveled off, shaking his head.
Everyone said it and knew it. The other medics looked
at him like they were waiting for his heart to stop,
but he just never did. He lay there, breathing shallow,
his eyes wide open. I stayed quiet. They got him stable.
Eventually he continued, stable enough to move him to a
recovery tent. I had to know more, son. I couldn't
get it out of my head, the look on his
face when we were working on him. It wasn't just pain.
He scratched at his forearm, wincing slightly. I couldn't sleep
that night. I kept thinking about him, wondering if he
was still alive, still hanging on. So I broke protocol,
slipped out of my bunk, and went to see him.
Grandpa's voice dropped lower and his hands tightened around the mug.
When I got there, I saw it. His wounds. They
weren't healing, they were getting worse. But it wasn't just
blood and burns anymore. There was something else, this black
goo seeping out of his injuries, spreading over his skin
like it was alive. I felt a chill creep up
my spine. He saw me standing there, Grandpa continued, and
his eyes locked onto mine. He looked at me like
I was his last chance. He reached out, barely able
to lift his and and said, you have to end it. Please.
I can't go back again. I can't let it take me.
Grandpa swallowed hard, his voice trembling. Now. I told him
I couldn't, that I wouldn't. I was there to save people,
not kill him. But he kept begging, tears streaming down
his face, his voice breaking. It's in me, he said,
it's going to take everything. Please don't let me turn
into it. My chest tightened. What did you do, Grandpa?
I didn't want to do it, Grandpa admitted, But I
knew he was right. Whatever was happening to him, it
wasn't natural. He wasn't going to stop. It was spreading.
I didn't have a choice. I had failed to save
the twice. I wouldn't fail again. Grandpa looked up at
me then, his eyes filled with quiet, terrible guilt. I
pressed my hand over his nose and mouth and held
it there until he stopped breathing. Grandpa leaned back in
the booth, his hands trembling slightly as he rested them
on the table. I thought it was over. After that,
I thought I'd done what needed to be done. Whatever
was in him was tenacious, It didn't want to go
with him. What seeped out of him like a noose
fizzled as Malory's heart stopped, and before I could get away,
it burst into a mist. I managed to back away
from it, but I breathed a bit of it in
only a bit, but it was enough. A look of
defeat crossed my grandpa's face, a rare look to see.
I was found still, declared dead on the spot when
I walked in the next day. There was too much
chaos to investigate, so it was just reported as a
clerical error. No marks were found on me, so my
medical records just show an undetected heart murmur. That was
my first Grandpa's side. Since then, I've lived carefully. I
don't know how many chances I have, but this heart
attack was the second. I can't risk you or anyone
around me. Before I was desperate to know what Mallory knew,
but seeing it myself, I know why he craved death.
He lifted his arms slightly, pulling back the sleeve of
his shirt. Just above his wrist, A small patch of
black oily substance clung to his skin. It got to me,
he said, simply. Whatever was inside Mallory passed to me,
and now it's waiting. I can feel it spreading little
by little. But I don't know what I'll turn into,
but I know it won't be me. I was stunned
hearing this story was just words, but seeing the strange
substance in person made it all too real. I'm sorry, kid,
Grandpa said, his voice breaking. I didn't want you to know,
but I could leave without telling you the truth. You
deserve that much. I stared at him, my pulse pounding
in my ears. That there has to be a way
to stop it, Grandpa, I pleaded. Grandpa gave me a sad,
tired smile. Maybe, son, but it's not a risk I'm
willing to take around you or anyone else. He pushed
back from the table, his movement slow. Take care of
your siblings and your mother for me was the last
thing he said. I wanted to stop him, to say something,
but the words caught in my throat. I could only
watch as he walked out of the diner and the
weight of everything that had transpired came crashing down on me.
Working as a park ranger was a big deal for me.
I've always loved the outdoors, and getting paid to patrol
hiking trails and check on campsites felt like a dream.
It was only a seasonal job, but I was still
content with the allocated time I was given. I'd been
assigned to a remote national park, miles from anything resembling civilization.
My station was a tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere,
surrounded by dense forest. There was an even sell service
most of the time. First day in the job was
pretty standard. I met ed my supervisor. He's this older guy,
maybe in his fifties, with a kind of weathered face
that says he's been out here way too long. Nice enough,
but kind of distant. He handed me a basic book
full of PROTI calls how to check the trail damage,
what to do if you encounter a bear, how to
handle lost hikers. So off you'd expect, but then tucked
in between the normal sections there was this page titled
special Procedures. The front looked older, like it hadn't been
updated in years, and it stood out immediately. The rules
on the page. Well they were different. Ignore the screaming
after midnight. Never acknowledge the lake when it reflects the moon.
If you hear footsteps behind you, do not turn around.
I actually laughed when I first read them. I thought
it was some kind of joke the older rangers played
on the newbies. But when I asked ed about it,
he didn't laugh, he didn't even smirk. He just said,
follow them and you'll be fine. That's it. No explanation,
no elaboration. I even tried pushing him a little, asking
why these rules are in there and if this was
some kind of hazing thing, but he just shrugged and said,
you'll see. So I put the book down and figured
maybe it was just some weird tradition or superstition the
Parksteff kept alive for fun, maybe a way to freak
out new hires. Whatever, right, But my first few nights
of the cabin started to change my mind. You ever
stay somewhere so quiet that it almost feels loud, That's
how it was out there at night. It was like
the forest itself was holding its breath. Sometimes the only
sound was the wind pushing through the trees. Other times
there wasn't even that. The stillness made me jump at
every creak of the cabin, every rustle in the bushes outside.
And then there was this feeling like I wasn't really alone,
even when I knew I was. It was my third
day in when I first heard the scream. I was
sitting at the tiny table in the cabin, half way
through a lukewarm cup of instant coffee. My eyes were
glued to the book of Rules again, trying to make
sense of it all. It was late past midnight, but
I wasn't tired. Something about the cabin made it hard
to relax. Maybe it was how the floor creaked randomly,
even when I wasn't moving all the way. The wind
outside never quite sounded like just wind. I was flipping
through the rules when it started. At first it was faint,
I thought it was the wind again, but then it
got louder, a sharp, piercing scream that cut through the
stillness like a knife. It sounded human, a woman maybe,
or a kid. My stomach dropped, my froze, my hand
gripping the edge of the table so hard my knuckles
turned white. My eyes darted back to the rules, to
that stupid yellowed page. Ignore the screaming after midnight. Ignore
it easy to write, harder to do when it sounds
like someone's out there begging for help. I sat there
for what felt like forever, just listening. The scream would rise,
hold for a few seconds, and then fade. Then it
would start again. My heart was raising, and before I
knew it, I was standing by the cabin door, my
hand on the knob. I told myself it had to
be something explainable, a hiker in trouble maybe, or an
animal that just sounded like a person. I mean, I'm
a park ranger. It's literally my job to check these
things out right. I stepped outside. The cold hit me first.
It wasn't a normal cold. It was biting, the kind
that sinks into your bones. The forest was pitch black
except for the faint cone of light from my flashlight.
The scream came again, louder now, and I swung the
beam in its direction, trying to see through the trees.
My throat was dry, and every step I took felt
heavier than the last. Then it stopped, not just the scream, everything,
the wind, the rustling of leaves, the distant sound of
nocturnal animals, it all just cut out, like someone hit
the mute button in the world. The silence was so
thick I could hear my own breathing, quick and shallow.
I don't know how long I stood there, frozen in place,
but eventually I turned back toward the cabin. Whatever I
thought I was going to find out there, it wasn't
worth it. My skin crawled the entire way back, like
something was watching me, just beyond the edge of the
flashlight's reach. When I got inside, I locked the door twice.
The next morning, I asked Lisa about it. She's another ranger,
works the mainstay closer to the visitor center. Lisa's the
kind of person who always seems upbeat, like nothing rattles her.
But when I brought up the scream, her face changed immediately.
She went pale, and her eyes darted around the room,
like she was checking to see if anyone else was listening.
You didn't follow it, did you, she asked, her voice low.
I hesitated, not sure how much to admit. I stepped outside,
I said, finally, didn't go far. Lisa's expression darkened. She
looked at me like I'd just signed my own death warrant.
That's how it starts. She muttered. Then she stood up
and walked out of the room like I wasn't even there.
Later that day, I went out to patrol one of
the popular trails near the It was my first time
on that route, and for the most part it seemed normal,
just trees, dirt, and the occasional squirrel. But about halfway
through I noticed something hard. The ground had these scuff marks,
like someone had been running off the trail. The branches
and the bushes nearby were broken, and the dirt was
churned up. I gave me in a struggle. I followed
the marks for maybe twenty feet before I found it.
A single boot, muddy torn, just sitting there in the
middle of the forest. There was no sign of its owner.
My stomach twisted as I stared at it. It wasn't
just the boot itself, it was the way it was
sitting there, like it had been dropped deliberately. It didn't
feel like something someone had just forgotten. It felt wrong.
When I got back to the station, I told ed
about it. He barely looked up from his paperwork. The
forest takes what it wants, he said, shrugging. Then he
went back to his coffee like that was the end
of it. The first time I broke a rule, I
told myself it didn't really count. It was maybe a
week in and i'd almost started to feel like I
heard a routine down. Sure, the rules are weird, and yeah,
the nights were unnervingly quiet, but I'd convinced myself that
things weren't as bad as I'd made them out to be.
Then the footsteps started. It was late, probably around one am,
and I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep.
At first I thought it was just the sound of
branches tapping against the cabin, but then I realized it
was rhythmic, slow, deliberate. Someone was walking around the cabin.
My froze, my heart was pounding, but I kept telling
myself to stay calm. I remembered the rule if you
hear footsteps behind you, do not turn around. Okay, fine,
The footsteps weren't exactly behind me, but the logic seemed
the same. Just don't engage. Right. The pacing continued. It'd
circle the cabin, slow and steady, and I swear whoever
or whatever it was would stop right by my window.
I could feel it lingering there, just out of sight.
The sound and went on for hours. I tried covering
my ears, but it didn't help. I couldn't shake the
feeling that something was waiting for me to look. I
held out as long as I could, but by three
a m My nerves were shot. I figured if someone
was actually outside, I needed to know. What if it
was a hiker I got lost? What if I was
in danger? I pulled back the curtain, just a crack. Nothing.
There was nothing out there, just the trees, the dirt path,
and the faint glow of the moon. But the second
I looked, the footsteps stopped, like they'd been waiting for
me to break. The silence that followed was even worse.
It was thick, pressing down on me, like gravity was
being turned up on a dial. I didn't sleep that night.
The next morning I noticed something was off. My boots
weren't by the door where I'd left them. They were
in the middle of the room. My radio, which I
left off, was on, hissing with faint static, and when
I glanced at the window, I swear my reflection didn't
move in time with me. It lagged just a split second,
but enough to make my stomach drop. I told myself
it was nothing, just my mind plain tricks. But then
I patrolled the lake. A few days later, I was
out patrolling the trails near the lake at dusk. The
sky was this brilliant orange and the moon was just
starting to rise. When I got to the water's edge,
I noticed the moon's reflection. It was too much, too bright,
too vivid, almost like it wasn't just reflecting the moon
but amplifying it. I stood there for a second, hypnotized,
before the rule clicked in my head. Never acknowledge the
lake when it reflects the moon. I snapped out of
it and took a step back. But as I turned
to leave, I saw a ripple in the water. There
wasn't any wind, no fish jumping, just that ripple spreading
out from the center, and for a split second, I
swear I saw a hand, pale and thin, reach up
toward the surface. I didn't stick around to see what
came next. I stumbled back to the trail and didn't
stop until I was half way to the cabin. That night,
I had a dream. I was back at the lake,
standing at the edge, but the Moon's reflection was shattered
like broken glass. I could hear something crawling out of
the water, slow and deliberate, dragging itself towards me. I
couldn't move, couldn't even scream. I woke up drenched in sweat,
my heart raising. But it wasn't just the dream. When
I swung my legs out of the bed, I felt cold,
wet fabric. My boots were soaked, caaked with mud, and
there were footprints, muddy, unmistakable, leading from the door to
my bed. Looking back, I think the first real warning
sign wasn't the footsteps or the lake. It was She'd
been one of the first people I'd met on the job,
and while she wasn't exactly friendly, she was present. She
cracked a joke now and then talk about the hikes
she liked to take. But after the footsteps and the lake,
she changed. She was still around technically, but she wasn't
Lisa anymore. Her skin looked pale, like she'd been sick
for weeks, and her eyes I don't even know how
to describe it. They just didn't seem to focus, like
she was looking through me, not at me. She barely
spoke unless it was necessary, and even then her voice
was flat, almost mechanical. One morning, I asked her if
she was okay. She just shrugged and said I'm fine,
just tired. But she wasn't fine, And the worst part
Ed didn't seem surprised, if anything, he avoided her. When
I brought it up to Ed later, he snapped at me,
Ed the guy who'd spent most of my first week
cracking dad jokes and calling me nuby. The rules are
there for a reason, Nick, he said, glaring at me,
like I just insulted his entire family. You don't follow them,
and you deal with the fallout. That's it, no exceptions.
What kind of fallout are we talking about? I pressed,
what's actually happening here? You don't want to know, he muttered,
turning back to his coffee, like we hadn't just had
the most unsettling conversation of my life. Later that day,
I went out to patrol, trying to shake the we
had tension between us. It was supposed to be a
normal route when I'd done twice before, but something was different.
The trail I was on didn't feel right. The trees
seemed taller, like they were leaning in towards me, and
the air was colder than it should have been for midday. Still,
I pushed forward I don't know why. Maybe I was
hoping to find something proof that I was still in control.
Then I saw them, carvings in the trees. Faces they
were walked and stretched, their mouths open in silent screams,
their eyes too big, too round. They weren't there the
last time I'd walked this trail. I swear my life,
they weren't. As I stood there staring, I heard something.
It started as a faint whisper, like wind through the branches,
but it grew louder words. I couldn't make out voices,
dozens of them, maybe more, all overlapping. My chest tightened
and I turned back the way. I came, practically running
until I was back of the cabin. That night, the
scream came back, louder, closer. It didn't just echo through
the forest this time. It felt like it was inside
my head, rattling around my skull, clawing at my thoughts.
And then I swear to you, I heard my name.
It was woven into the scream, whispered at first, then louder,
my name, over and over, like it was begging me,
calling me. I grabbed my flashlight and stood by the door,
my hand on the handle. I almost opened it. I
don't know what stopped me. Maybe it was instinct, maybe
it was the rule. Either way, I let go of
the handle and stepped back, my whole body shaking. I
didn't sleep that night. I wish I could tell you
this is where it stopped. That after ignoring the scream
and the whispers and whatever the hell happened with the lake,
I just rode up my time and left the park
like a normal person. But that's not how it works here.
It was the manual that tipped me off. One morning,
I woke up to find it sitting on my kitchen table.
I swear I had left it in the drawer, but
there it was, right next to my untouched breakfast. I
thought some one had just left it out, But then
I saw the writing. The rules had changed. The old
ones were still there, ignore the screaming, don't look at
the lake, but new ones had appeared, scribbled in handwriting.
I didn't recognize. One read the cabin lights must stay
on after dark. Another if you hear knocking from inside
the walls, don't investigate. But the one that made my
stomach drop was at the bottom of the page. You
are part of the cycle. You must stay. I stared
at it for a long time, hoping I misread it
or losing my mind. Part of me wanted to crumple
the page, toss it in the trash, and pretend I
hadn't seen it. But I couldn't. Something about it felt final.
It wasn't instructions. I could just ignore that. Afternoon I
went to find Ed. He was sitting on the porch
of his cabin, sipping coffee like everything was fine, like
none of this was happening. Ed, I said, holding up
the manual, What the hell is this? He barely glanced
at it. It's the rules. Don't give me that the
rules are changing. Look. I flipped to the new entry,
shoving it toward him. What does this mean? What the
hell is the cycle? Why does it say I have
to stay? Ed didn't say anything at first, He just
stared at the horizon, his face unreadable. Finally he sighed
and put down his mug. I told you follow the rules, Nick,
that's all you had to do. What does that mean?
My voice cracked, but I didn't care. You knew this
was going to happen, didn't you. You knew, and you
didn't say anything. His eyes met mine and for the
first time, I saw cracks in his calm demeanor. He
looked tired, defeated. The rules aren't just there to keep
you safe, he said quietly. They're part of the agreement.
What agreement with the forest, he said, his voice barely
above a whisper. It takes what it wants. The rules
are how we keep it at bay. But once you
start breaking them, he trowled off, shaking his head. You
can't undo it, Nick, It's already claimed you. That night,
I didn't bother trying to sleep. I sat at the table,
the manual open in front of me. The words you
must stay burned into my brain. The footsteps started around midnight.
At first they were faint, just a soft shuffle outside
the cabin. Then they grew louder, circling the walls, passing
by the windows. I kept my eyes on the manual,
my foot shaking nervously, trying to focus. Then came the knocking.
It was slow at first, deliberate, like someone tapping their
knuckles against the wood. But it didn't come from the door.
It was inside the walls. I tried to block it out,
repeating the rules in my head like a prayer. But
then I made the mistake of looking up. My reflection
was in the window staring back at me. Except it
wasn't me. It looked like me, same face, same clothes,
but his expression was wrong. Its mouth curved into a grin.
I wasn't making its eyes darker than they should have been.
He raised a hand, pointing behind me. I turned around.
Nothing was there, but the footsteps inside the cabin didn't stop.
Ed came to my cabin the next morning. He didn't
knock or asked permission to come in, just opened the door,
stepped inside, and stood there like he belonged. You're taking
the North patrol today, he said. His voice was flat,
like he hadn't had that whole conversation about the cycle
like I had, and spent the entire night hearing footsteps
inside my cabin. I didn't argue. What would have been
the point if I refused. He'd just give me some
cryptic warning, maybe shoved the manual at me. I nodded
and grobbed my gear. The manual stayed on the table.
I didn't want it near me. The patrol route was
one of the longer ones, winding past the lake and
cutting through a part of the forest I'd avoided since
I started the job. It was in a hard trail,
but something about it felt heavy, like the air itself
was thicker, harder to breathe. I passed the lake first.
The surface was glassy, perfectly still, reflecting the sky like
a giant mirror. I kept my head down, refusing to
look too closely, but out of the corner of my eye,
I swear or something someone just beneath the surface Lisa
her pale face, her eyes wide, staring up at me.
I don't know if it was real or if my
mind was playing tricks, but I hurried past, not daring
to stop. Further down the trail, I found a flashlight
that belonged to Harris, another ranger, lying in the dirt.
It was caked with mud. The lens cracked. I picked
it up without thinking, then immediately dropped it. The metal
was ice cold, like it had been sitting in a freezer,
not out in the open sun. That's when I started
to notice the forest wasn't quiet anymore. There were faint
whispers coming from the trees, layered and overlapping, like a
hundred voices murmuring just out of earshot. I couldn't make
out the words, but I didn't need to. I knew
they were for me. By the time I reached the
park boundary, my legs felt like lead. The air had
a strange pull to it, like the forest itself was
holding me back. I stopped at the edge of the
tree line, staring out at the empty road beyond, and
an intrusive thought hit me. I could leave right then,
right there. I could drop my gear, walk out of
the forest and never look back. I'd lose the job, sure,
but I'd keep my life, my real life, the one
I'd had before all of this. But then I thought
about the manual, the rules, its warnings. The forest takes
what it wants, He'd said. What if leaving wasn't to escape.
What if I took something with me, whatever this was,
and it followed me home? Or worse, what if leaving
through everything off balance, broke the agreement and dragged someone
else into this nightmare. They stood there for what felt
like ours, staring at the road. My mind was screaming
at me to run, but my legs wouldn't move. The
whispers grew louder, circling around me, wrapping me in their
invisible grip, and then just like that, they stopped. The
forest went silent, completely, utterly silent. I turned back, my
heart pounding. The trees seemed taller, darker, and the trail
I come down looked like it had never been there
at all. I don't remember much about walking back to
the cabin. It felt like the forest that swallowed me whole,
and when I stepped through the door, I couldn't tell
if I'd escaped or walked deeper into something far worse.
The air inside was stale and cold. My body ate
like I'd run a marathon. But the exhaustion wasn't just physical.
It was in my bones, my mind. I locked the door,
bolted it twice, and sat down at the table. The
manual was still there waiting. I opened it, slowly, flipping
through the pages. The rules were the same, or at
least I thought they were. I read each one carefully,
over and over, like I was memorizing scripture. I understood
now the rules weren't suggestions, they weren't folklore survival. As
long as I followed them, I could stay. I wouldn't
disappear like Lisa, wouldn't dissolve into whispers like Harris. The
forest might have claimed me but it wouldn't take me
all at once. I fell into a routine after that,
patrol during the day, locked the door at night. I
didn't ask questions anymore. I didn't peek through the curtains
when the footsteps started. I didn't let myself think about leaving,
because I knew there wasn't anywhere to go. Sometimes I
still heard the scream. It's always distant, now muffled, like
it's coming from miles away. Maybe that's what happens. You
fade into the forest, slowly, until you're just another sound
in the dark. I don't know how long it's been.
Time gets slippery out here. The days blurred together, and
the nights feel endless. I've stopped counting the seasons, stop
looking at the calendar. The forest doesn't care about dates,
so why should I. But something new has changed things.
Last week I saw headlights through the trees, a new
ranger pulling into the station. I watched from a distance,
as ed handed in the manual. The kid looks so young,
so confident. I wanted to warn him, wanted to scream
at him to leave now while he still could. But
I didn't, because the forest was watching, and the rules
are clear he has unknowingly became I'm a player in
this game, and I just pray he doesn't lose