** The horror slumbers buried under many meters of rubble and desert sand. Nameless cartouches, desecrated relics, and a sarcophagus containing an ancient riddle. **
"Ancient lands lost in time.
Storms of sand, walls of lime
Surround this mask of de...
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'In the silence of the night,
the voices of the dead are sometimes heard
as the whispers of the wind.'
The wind moved across the endless dunes of pale sand that piled up to the east side around the excavation site's camp. There, it pressed undulating patterns into the sand, reshaping the surroundings repeatedly, howling loudly when it felt like it. Here, in the wastelands of Egypt far from the Nile, wind and sand were the undisputed rulers of the desert.
Many hours ago, the sun had sunk behind Mount Gabal Uwainat, turning the masses of rock into a towering silhouette of blackness. The small fires that had been lit in the excavation site camp were but smoldering coals at these late hours. The wind had long since obliterated all footprints in the sand and extinguished the torches set up.
Henry Gates, however, noticed nothing of this. The American turned restlessly from side to side on his bunk. His sheets were wrapped around his legs from his wild movements and partially sagged on the floor, lined with a few well-worn rugs.
A breeze rustled away across the camp, making the tent walls groan under the gusts. The long-drawn howl intruded on the sleeper's senses - it was that moment when Henry abruptly roused from sleep. In his chest, the powerful beat of his heart pressed so hard against his ribcage that his breaths followed the heavy rhythm. His eyes slid hurriedly through the darkness, over the silhouettes of the meager furnishings in the dull night light. Shapes that seemed eerie and intimidating in the dim light tangled with the sticky threads of a dreadful dream.
"Just a nightmare," Henry murmured, his voice rough and occupied.
In a jerky motion, the man wiped his arm across his forehead and backed the tangled strands of unwashed blond hair. Strained, he tried to organize his thoughts. The turmoil of the dream still clung to him, made his body heavy, and the light breeze made the sweaty man shiver. He couldn't stop thinking about it: about the feeling when he had entered the damned temple for the first time. The smell had stung his nostrils since they had opened the damned tomb. The talk of the workers and the darkness in that place.... it felt somehow... unnatural. Groaning, Henry rubbed his eyes and the bridge of his nose before swinging his legs out of bed to the side and reaching for the canteen hung from the bed bars. His lips were as dry as if he had been wandering the desert for many hours or as if he had been shouting until his voice was hoarse.
For many years he had been working in this business. Since plundering old graves yielded significant profits, he consistently earned a little extra. But now... a strange, sickening uneasiness had planted in his stomach. Although he knew that much of the workers' chatter was superstition and fear of old, dead deities and spirits, he couldn't push it aside so quickly this time.
