Crypt
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, which 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 sarcophagi, even though thousands of years old as they were.

It was on 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 chamber 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 the 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 his 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 sreatching 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, watching 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 chaotically placed strips of 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.