An Ancient Evil – Part 1

A lone figure stood on a sand dune, his gully suit flapping in the cold wind of the African Desert. He looked up at the sky and wondered at the cosmos of existence. In the night sky he could see the many star constellations he was taught about in his youth. And to his right was the form of a half-crescent moon shining brightly, complementing the starry night, like a beacon from heaven.

But despite this peaceful night, the man was uneasy. He sensed a foreboding that chilled his soul. All was not right with the world and soon an ancient force was about to be unleashed upon it, like the forces of hell upon an unsuspecting world, and many lives will be sacrificed. The spirits of his Native American ancestors were warning him of the impeding doom, and he was concerned.

He was in the Canadian Armed Forces and had come to the land of pharaohs as part of a military research project that was going on underground in search of an ancient relic thought to be lost to history. An ancient book turned up in a dig just outside the Valley of Kings told of this ancient relic and its horrific history, an artefact called the Staff of Power.

The story of the artefact was told like many stories of the ancient past, like a mortality tale, and it described a king who possessed this powerful object. He was not obsessed with power, instead he used it to give his subjects a life of peace and prosperity and riches for as long as he was ruler. But one of his subjects murdered him in the middle of the night and used it to become king, building a great empire on the backs of his subjects. He was a tyrant and a butcher, killing anyone he pleased for pleasure. He erected monuments to himself and conquered his neighbors with ease. But one thing that the staff could not grant him was eternal life and he died. It was said that the staff was then stolen and buried somewhere in Egypt, but the location was not written down. Also, the king's name was never mentioned in the story and neither was the period in which he supposedly ruled, so no one knew when the king reigned. However carbon dating by archaeologists placed the age of the book at about 5,000 years ago, before the great Egyptian civilization rose to power and after the Sumerian civilization had fallen. It was determined, judging by the ancient writing, an ancient form of curaform, small symbols in clay used to tell a story, that the book was indeed genuine, much to the dismay of archaeologists. And in this place, where the soldier stood, is supposedly where it is buried.

He thought such things should stay buried and voiced his opinion to his commanding officer, but his C.O. ignored his fool-hardy warnings believing he was being cowardly and assigned him to sentry duty outside the underground facility. The only indication that there was anything underneath where he stood was an artificially constructed dome covered with sand that doubled as a backdoor entrance.

The man wrapped the gulley suit around himself as the wind chilled his body and walked down the sand dune to the bottom, sand filling his boots. Suddenly the door opened and one of his bunkmates exited. "I'm here to relieve you," the other said.

Private Warren Littlefoot felt his uneasiness lift slightly as his shift ended. But his fear for the project happening before continued to make him nervous.

He entered his personal entry code into the control panel of the backdoor entrance and turned the handle to open the door. He then made his way down a long narrow corridor to a lone elevator and a retina scanner allowed his access. There were twelve buttons on the inside control panel of the elevator and he pushed the one that would take him to the personnel level where his quarters were. Once he arrived he traveled down a dimly lit corridor and used the finger print scanner on the outside of his room to gain access. He was alone – the rest of his roommates were on duty elsewhere - and here he got undressed and took a shower. And it was true what they said: sand gets in everywhere.

After a cleansing shower he dressed in a towel and lay down on his bunk. It was a standard cot for a man of his rank but it was comfortable. Despite have a low rank comfort was paramount for the armed forces. But Warren still wished he wasn't here. He enjoyed being a soldier, but at this moment he wished he had never joined up. But he couldn't dwell on the past and he had to accept his present situation despite how uneasy he felt.

Ever since he was a child he was more spiritually in tune to the world around him and he sensed certain things that others could not. Right now his head hurt and he didn't know why. It was constant throbbing and he put his right hand to his forehead and pressed against his head in attempt to alleviate the pain. He felt negative pressure against his skull would counteract the forward pressure he felt from his brain would help, but it didn't work. This was not the first time he had gotten one of these headaches. Ever since he had arrived here he'd experienced three similar migraines and each was as painful as the last. But this one felt more intense than the others and he winced at the awful pain he was feeling. He had got to the medical bay to see to his headaches but the doctor only prescribed Aspirin for him and sent him on his way. He reached into his pack and took out the Aspirin and took some, but he knew he would not feel the effects for another five minutes, so he got to his feet and tried to walk it off, cradling his face in his hands. But the pain was so intense that he collapsed to the floor and formed into a fetal position, clenching his teeth from the agonizing pain.

"I will take away the pain," a soft voice said to him, and he felt a cold hand touch his forehead. Almost immediately the pain began to subside.

He opened his eyes and saw his breath. The room had suddenly gotten very cold and he was confused in how his migraine had disappeared so quickly. The Aspirin should not have worked that fast. He had heard a voice and something touched him just before his migraine vanished, but when he looked around he couldn't see anyone. Where had that voice come from?

He sat up and had the curious sensation that someone was watching him. The temperature in his room had dropped severely and it was a sure sign of a paranormal entity. He felt cold and his skin tightened as goose pimples formed on his skin. He tried to steady himself and got into a cross-legged position. He slowed his breathing to calm his nerves through mediation, but he was so cold he couldn't concentrate. If this spirit wanted to speak to him, it had better be quick about it before he turned into a Popsicle. But it would have to do it on his terms. He would not be frightened by it, he wasn't going to leave the room.

The lights in his quarters shut off and he was engulfed in darkness. He felt something brush against his arm and then against his chest. And then it touched him in such a way that it felt intimate, caressing his upper chest as if attempting to arouse him. He jumped up and stood in the darkness. "Don't do that," he said. "Speak to me. What do you want?"

But the spirit said nothing.

It again attempted to arouse him by touching his chest, but Warren stepped back from it and hit a wall as he backed away. He was cornered, but if memory served him the door should be near to him. So he eased himself along the wall and felt for the door knob. But apparently the spirit didn't want him to leave and threw him across the room.

"What do you want?" he asked the spirit again.

You.

A soft voice said, speaking in a whisper. And when it did speak, he felt a cold breeze blow pass his ear, and it brought a shiver down is spine. It sounded female. But he couldn't be sure.

He felt it tugging at his towel, and he jerked away. Quickly the temperature got a lot colder and he felt his skin tighten and his muscles start to harden. The spirit was creating what was known as a temperature vortex when all the air in a room turned very cold according paranormal experts. The spirit was angry and Warren was feeling its emotion. It got hard to breath.

He cross the room and went for the door. He blindly felt for the door knob, twisted it, the door opened and he ran out into the corridor. The door slammed shut behind him. He pressed his back up against the wall opposite his quarters, and felt the temperature return to normal. The temperature of the corridor was not affected by the spirit.

His heart raced and his muscles ached with cold. But things soon returned to normal as they warmed to the new temperature. And as he stood out in the hall wearing only a towel he knew he was right. This was an unholy place.

-- tbc