Madness In The Sands

Madness In The Sands

How many more times must I experience this maddening turmoil?
How many days has it been since I felt contentment and peace?
Ever since I opened that damn book, my mind forever burned by that
infernal text, those symbols forever etched into my memory.

My name is Gustav Mannson, at least I think that is what it was, to be
truthful I have difficulty remembering anything during these 'visits',
my mind aches for relief, for now I am trying to distract myself with
from the feeling, feelings of impending doom and the urge for
self-destruction are among the most chief that surface. I should tell
the reader where this all started.

From what I remember, I am an archaeologist or at the very least a
student or enthusiast. I recall being in a tomb, one deep in the
Egyptian Sahara, I recall a large expedition site, unearthing a burial
tomb, though the further we excavated this tomb, we began to realise
this structure and the markings on it were not of Egypt, nor could we
figure out who exactly created this tomb.

More and more we excavated, layer by layer uncovering a mass of bricks
in a cyclopean fashion, ancient for sure, lost beneath the sands until
a recent discovery by a caravan of merchants noticed a pillar that was
not there before had risen above the sands. They were hired by someone
to lead a group of archaeologists and a few diggers with them, though
upon arrival it became quickly apparent that more than a handful of
laborers were needed, in total there were three teams called to the
site.

But my mind wanders again, I will think more on this and return soon.

I have thought more and names of these archaeologists have returned.
The two I grew to talk often with were students, if I recall they
studied at the Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusets. I cannot
recall if I was among these students. One was a plate faced, roundish
though not fat man by the name of Orson Williams, he wore round
spectacles and had a bald, shiny head, though after a few days in the
desert he had grown some hair back, revealing a tragically receded
hairline. Then there was if anything a fitting counterpart to Orson:
A short, plucky, square-faced man, with bold brows. This was Patrick
Miller whom despite his size was quite the taskmaster, several diggers
were relieved due to his no-nonsense approach to the dig. Then there
was whom I can only assume was the head of the dig, an older man
with a gaunt face and a piercing gaze more befitting a sea captain
than a studious sort, he had a black beard with grey patches. He went
by Gavin Pearson, though I do remember now he was just referred to as
Professor Pearson. These three men were the head of this dig.

Digs began enthusiastically, this pillar marked the beginning of an
exciting discovery, the markings on this pillar had been exposed to
the elements for too long however, all the markings had been eroded by
time. Though as we excavated, the markings began to show, and they
were unlike any hieroglyphs that Orson or Patrick had seen before, I
recall that at the time I had seen none like it either. But when the
Professor laid eyes upon a certain marking, he became animated
uttering the words "Yog-sothoth" none of us questioned as he
commanded that we continue excavation. Come to think of it, the symbol was odd,
it resembled more of a jewish sigil than any hieroglyphs native to
Egypt, perhaps a relic of Moses? But nobody would be hare-brained
enough to build a structure such as this out in the middle of the
Sahara.

Days passed and we eventually reached the bottom of the pillar, a
stone surface was uncovered, a cyclopean arrangement of stones, we
followed this stone flooring and it lead to walls, this pillar stood
in and rose above a trench of sorts, likely to shield from the
sandstorms. As we uncovered the walls, we found more symbols and
unplaceable hieroglyphs that appeared alien in their origins, these
were no hebrew markings, thus none among us aside from the professor
could translate any intelligible scripture. Regardless we kept digging,
 and digging, and digging. Following this trench which stretched for
longer than anticipated, we had to hire three more teams of diggers
and call for experts on hieroglyphs and hebrew lore to try and decipher
some of the scripture, but to no avail. By now our patience was
starting to go unrewarded, it was this that caused Orson and Patrick
to ask the Professor just what "Yog-sothoth" meant, he explained in a
dry tone, as if reading from a textbook "The focus of a heretic
worship, a being of unspeakable power" that was all he told us and we
left at that.

A day passed and finally our patience was rewarded, the end of the
trench, we excavated this end and found more unique markings, which
the professor translated as "Yog-sothoth", the more we excavated we
unearthed a large door, made of a solid slab of stone, it took two
teams of laborers to move the door only partially open so that one at
a time we could enter the chamber. Though as we opened this chamber a
feeling of dread escaped it, a dread we all felt, as if we were
children opening the door after dark, looking into the pitch black
that seemed to swallow all light. We ordered two laborers to go in but
as one stepped in, he immediately retreated, insisting that he will
not go back in there, we offered to raise his pay but it was not
enough, the other laborer volunteered to go in, he delved further than
the first though he too was overwhelmed, hurrying out. Finally Patrick
managed to 'persuade' by threat of no pay, a group of laborers to go
in with him, they went in with torches, illuminating the room, though
plucky Patrick I noticed had gone unusually quiet until he called in
the professor, Orson and myself. We entered, the feeling of dread
replaced by anxiety as though we were in the presence of some terrible
being. As we looked around the illuminated but still dark room, we saw
Patrick up ahead at the end of a hall, behind him were the laborers,
gathered together like worried children. As we passed them, we saw
what they had called us for, as we came to the start of the next room
we saw it, the site of what appeared to be a ritual suicide, a large
open room inhabited by rows of skeletons, in arcs, there must have
been about three hundred across this large chamber, all laid across
the floor as though they were sleeping. This sight alone was enough
to make the laborers turn back, though we four mustered the courage to
press on.

As we went further into the room, we found what these unfortunate
souls were gathered around, an altar, one bearing the same mark we
found on the pillar, the Professor pressed forward with his lantern,
casting it's light on the surface of this altar, signs of dried blood
and bones were atop it, confirming the sacrifical nature of it. Orson
and myself wandered around it where Orson noticed something else. A
dagger unlike any employed by Hebrews or Egyptian priests, although it
was old, it had not decayed to rust, nor had it been used at the final
moments of this place. I looked around further and found what seemed
like a podium, decorated by the sigil we'd become familiar with.
Behind this podium was a robed skeleton, laid across the floor in a
fetal position, as if his last moments were spent in terror. Stranger
still, this skeleton sported a mask, a strange one at that, a mask
featuring many smoothed gems that resembled eyes of different sizes,
bordered by tendrils of sorts.

As I looked at the podium's contents, there laid a horrific looking
book. Though unlike the temple, this book was far more recent than
ancient history, I recognised the text as being in Latin, I have since
translated it into "Necronomicon". Curiously I reached out to it,
opening it. In that instance a disturbing chill ran through me as if
a being had tread across my grave. My mind was assaulted by the same
feeling I feel now as I write this, a feeling of dread greater than
when we entered and whisperings from some other-worldly being.
I jerked away from the book, shutting it close as I did so. The
sensation faded, for the time being, though I was in shock. I recall
the professor waking me from my shocked trance, asking me if I was
alright, I told him I did not know and as I looked into the older
man's piercing gaze, I saw fear. He produced a rag from his jacket,
wrapping the book several times over in it, I assumed to protect from
sandstorms, though now I believe he sought to protect himself from it.
He placed it into a satchel hastily. Looking to me once again. "Come"
he said "We should leave this accursed place and be sure it returns to
the sands from whence it came" despite all the trouble we went through
to unearth this place and the mysteries it held, not one of us
disagreed with him, as if we all knew in our hearts that this place
was not meant for sane men. When we emerged, only two teams of
laborers remained, those that retreated earlier had warned the others
of the presence they felt, and all but two teams fled, fortunately for
us, that is all we needed to seal the door again.

In that moment I should have felt relief, relief that we were done
here and that I could return home. Though in my heart I knew that what
happened here, was merely the start of something terrible.
That night I was in my tent when I once again began to hear whispers,
words that I did not understand from a voice I had not heard until
earlier that day. Though amongst these unintelligbile yet structured
words I made out a sentence in a language I understood "From across
the black seas of infinity and beyond the mists of time, Yog-Sothoth
watches and waits", then the voices faded, though the dread they left
me with lingered. I decided to head outside and get some air, perhaps
I wished for company and sought to join the laborers, I do not
remember. All I remember is that once I stood out under the moonlight,
a terrible feeling filled my mind and body, I gazed up at the moon and
felt as though I was being watched, observed, judged. I retreated back
into my tent, though I was frightened, and soon the voices returned
with their foreign words, whispering into my mind, though they faded
and I was able to get some sleep, it was acrid and fraught with a
nightmare from which I was awoken from, in this dream a thousand eyes
were watching me, though what they belonged to I could not see. I was
spoken to by the same voice as before, though this time it spoke a
language I was able to understand "For he is the guardian of the gate-
way between worlds, and he alone holds the key to unlock the gate." I
did not sleep for the rest of the night.

As dawn broke, I tried again to leave my tent, this time I was not
greeted with the presence from before, but by Orson, he too had not
slept well, though when I mentioned my nightmares he had not shared
them, though he had felt uneasy ever since leaving the tomb. We joined
the others by the fire, the laborers were unorganised, they too had
slept poorly. Ordinarily Patrick would have set them to work, but it
was evident that his mind was distracted, we drew attention to this
and he too had not slept easily, he had also lost his plucky facade,
becoming a quiet, nervous shadow of his former self. Then attention
turned to the Professor, whom we spied at the edge of the camp, gazing
off into the distance in the direction that the tomb was. I brought
him a coffee, but he declined. His piercing gaze not leaving the
silhouette of the pillar infront of the sunrise. He shared with me
that he had not slept at all and could not shake a feeling he was
being watched. I told him of my dreams and only then did his gaze
leave the sunrise "I shouldn't have brought you here, any of you",
I decided to question him. Asking why we came here to begin with and
why he insisted on excavating. "I wanted answers, explanations to this
cult of 'Yog-sothoth' and why their presence has gone unnoticed for
millenia, yet all over the world since times forgotten there have been
 cults and mysterious happenings that are so well covered up, yet so
horrific in practice. It intrigued me at first, but now it frightens
me. I should have never let my curiousity take me this far." And that
was that.

We arrived at a small but busy town by the next evening after a night
of bitter sleep. The laborers left to return home, we paid them
handsomely for their work and carried on to the hotel. I had hoped that
a night in a real bed would bestow unto me some comfort and relief.
Though as night fell, I was plagued again by whispers, I dared not
even try to open the window incase that terrible presence should be
felt again. Instead I laid there, waiting until eventually I fell
asleep again, this time it was a deeper slumber, yet much like the
first, I was stared at by a thousand unsettling eyes and again I heard
the voice "For when the ancient rites have been spoken and the lords
darkness have been awakened and summoned forth, then shall the gateway
between the stars open once more.".

When I rose from my deep slumber, the sun had risen and I did
not feel rested. I went downstairs to find two authorities in the
lobby of the hotel asking Orson questions, I inquired as to what was
happening and Orson explained that in the night, Patrick had began
raving about "Yog-sothoth" and grown hysterical, he had been arrested
and sent to a hospital. Orson was planning to stay and ensure that
negotiations could be made for Patrick to be sent home to be
institutionalized. All this had happened while I was in a deep slumber.
I was ready to go when I realized I had not seen the professor. I
decided to see if he was still asleep, I tapped on his door several
times, but there was no answer, I turned the handle and the door
opened. It was there I saw the Professor, laid in the middle of the
room in the fetal position, I yelled for help and rushed to his side,
but it was no use, he was dead and the cause for such I could not
determine. The authorities came upstairs and determined it was a heart
attack perhaps induced by the hysteria of Patrick. Though Orson
insisted that Professor Pearson was not weak of heart. Inspection of
his body showed that his eyes were clenched shut, as if he were trying
desperately not to see something in his final moments.

I decided to be the one to deliver news of his death back to Miskatonic
university while Orson saw to Patrick's return. I wasted little time in
heading for the port, Orson assuring me that the Professor's body
would be returned to his family. I took the first opportunity to get
home, a cargo ship delivering various exports from Egypt to Europe,
from there it would head to New York, where I could head home.

As I sit in the hull of this damp, weather battered vessel, I, for
better or worse, reflected on this expedition. I even knew it at the
time, but that was no ordinary tomb, this was no Pharoah's curse or
superstitious exaggeration, whatever presence was in that tomb left
with us, driving laborers to flee, a brave man into hysterics and
offing a wise man in terror. And what if I was next, what terrible
fate would befall me? Was I too going to become an asylum patient?
Would my death be as evidently terrible as the Professor's? What would
this 'Yog-sothoth' do to me? The answer is, I just don't know. And
this is where I am, in the hull of a ship, waiting for these voices to
pass, hoping, praying that whatever presence is with me, fades and I
can return home. But inside, I know that this is merely the beginning.