click one of the titles below.
by Andrew Zistler
Down again, into that damned place, a burial ground for blasphemers.
Down into that ancient, unholy sepulcher went Stephen, his pale boots
scraping against the unfathomably old stone steps, trekking into the
abyss. His kerosene lantern cast dancing deathly shadows upon the
walls, giving rise to archaic hieroglyphs that grinned devilishly in the
dying light.
Stephen shuddered, a cold sweat dripping from his forehead down the
base of his neck. As he neared the end of the decaying steps, a warm
wind blew over him, as if the cracked and pitted tomb itself were
breathing and choking on the dust in its dying days.
Indeed; this crypt was old, older than many that had been discovered
before, and Stephen was honored to be the chief archeologist of the
dig. They had to work fast too, a storm was coming, and with it certain
destruction of the already withered supports that held the decrepit
stonework in place.
The natives of this area had begged Stephen to stop his dig, spouting
legends of human sacrifice and strange rituals, of "Evil" magicks.
Their pleas were largely unheeded by the archeologists until they had
uncovered the burial section of the small ruins on the third day, and
found corpses that seemed startlingly fresh in their respective
sarcophagus, even though thousands of years old as they were.
It was an omen to some, a curse to others, and many left the dig. Only
Stephen and a few others remained, and with the rain already starting,
they raced against time, collecting all the remains of the ruins, taking
everything that they could before they were destroyed. Stephen went
ahead to explore the last, tiny room by himself.
So here he stood, breathing in the warm air and the stench of rotting
meat that had been brought with it. He took a slow step forward, testing
the ground for the strength to hold him up. Stephen looked about the
small room, his eyes defiling a place that had been kept sacred for
centuries.
The alcove was bare, and exempt from all furnishings except that of a
small shrine in the center of the room. Stephen approached it with
caution, a sense of dread arising within him as the bile did, the reek of
putrefying, moldering remains becoming almost unbearable. He
approached slowly and squatted amongst the stench, holding his old,
rusted, pitiful lantern high into the air, trying to spread light over the
stony tablet that covered the mound.
Stephen had never seen the likes of this before. The human-like
symbols seemed to writhe and twist in on themselves in pain and
horror; all of them impaled through with three spikes. Their faces were
distorted, skins stretching against their bones. The pale light began to
bounce quickly along the stone, oscillate faster and faster as the
archeologist's hand began to tremble in fear.
He steadied himself and slid the tablet back.
A gush of whirlwind putrid air swam up to meet him, and he bent away
from the mound and retched, watched his morning meal leave his body.
He straightened quickly and crept back to the earthen coffer,
determined to finish his job. He peered into it, and his eyes widened in
disbelief.
Inside was a book, bound and stitched in triplets of chaotically placed
decomposing human flesh, with an open eye resting in the center. And
even as he peered at the demonic thing, IT BLINKED.
Stephen was seen running from the ruins into the jungle, screaming
incoherently. Many search parties were sent after him, but he wasn't
found until three weeks later, pinned to the ground just yards away from
the remains of the catacomb, impaled to the ground with three wooden
spikes.
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |