Dr. Emilia Cole's Journal
Entry #2
The deeper I delved into that tablet, the less I recognized myself. Every word I translated felt like a poison, leeching away the sanity I had once held as a shield against the unknown. Each line revealed more about the Children of Midnight, and with every revelation, my obsession grew.
Alexander encouraged it, but I could see his fascination had mutated into something darker. He no longer looked at me with warmth, only with a strange, detached curiosity, like I was a part of this cursed story we had uncovered.
It began innocently enough. As we dusted off the ancient symbols and laid the tablet out under the dim lamplight of our tent, I traced the curved lines of the carvings, running my fingers over centuries of dust and grime. At first, the language looked like a mixture of Old Romanian and ancient Greek, but it was something older, deeper, something alien. The shapes, the way they curled and twisted, they felt wrong, as if the stone itself resisted sharing its secrets.
The symbols spoke of an ancient race born from shadows and blood rituals, known as the Children of Midnight. They were not merely folklore or legends but something more, a race that thrived in the darkness, whose very existence was bound to the sacrifices of human life. The words hinted at a ritual involving the exchange of blood, a pact sealed in the moon's dark phase, and a curse that promised immortality at a cost few would willingly pay.
That night, I had visions again, terrifying glimpses into the past. I saw faces, hundreds of them, writhing in agony, their eyes wide with terror as they were drained of life. Shadows moved around them, too quick to catch in full, but their eyes, red, glowing embers, burned into my memory. I could feel their hunger, insatiable and eternal.
I awoke drenched in sweat, my heart racing. I wanted to tell Alexander, but he was already awake, staring at the tablet with a wild, feverish glint in his eyes. His obsession had taken hold, even more firmly than my own.
"Emilia," he whispered, not looking up from the tablet, "I can feel it. This… this is what we've been searching for all our lives."
I wanted to shake him, to tell him he was speaking nonsense, but the words caught in my throat. A part of me feared he was right. We had stumbled onto something that most people would never dare to uncover, and I was terrified of what it might mean.
A week passed in restless study. Each day, we translated more of the tablet, piecing together fragments of a horrifying tale. The text referred to an ancient ritual, one in which "the lifeblood of the innocent" was used to forge a bond with darkness itself. It told of a seal, a fang-shaped mark, and an eternal promise. I could feel myself growing colder with each translation, as if the very act of reading this cursed script was siphoning the warmth from my veins.
And then, one night, we discovered something far worse.
It was dusk, the sky fading to a sickly gray, when Alexander found a hidden passage in the ruins. The air in the chamber grew frigid as we descended into darkness, our footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence. We reached a small room, almost completely concealed by the surrounding earth, where a stone sarcophagus lay, bearing the same fang-shaped seal as the tablet.
I ran my hand over the stone, feeling the weight of centuries pressing down. My heart pounded as I brushed away the last of the dirt covering the seal. A strange, almost hypnotic pull urged me to open it, though I knew I shouldn't. It was like a compulsion I couldn't shake.
"Emilia," Alexander whispered, his voice a hoarse rasp. "We've come this far. We can't turn back now."
Together, we lifted the lid, straining against the weight. As it shifted, a faint hiss filled the air, like the exhale of a creature long confined. Inside was a mummified figure, its skin shriveled and darkened, clinging tightly to bones that seemed sharp enough to pierce. But it was the face that froze me, the hollow eye sockets, the teeth sharpened into points, still stained a deep, sickening red.
As I stared into the hollow gaze of the corpse, a rush of images flooded my mind. I saw a village under moonlight, a castle looming in the distance, villagers gathered in fear. And then… blood. So much blood, spilling into the earth as shadows danced around the dying, their laughter chilling the night air.
I gasped, breaking free from the vision, only to see Alexander transfixed by the corpse. He reached out, almost reverent, to touch its forehead, tracing the fang-shaped seal burned into the mummified skin. I wanted to pull him back, to tell him to stop, but the words tangled in my throat, choked off by terror.
As his fingers brushed the seal, the air around us seemed to ripple. A deep cold settled over us, so intense I felt my breath freezing. And then, in a voice barely more than a whisper, the corpse spoke.
"I await… my children."
The words echoed, filling the room with a presence so overwhelming I felt it crush my chest. We stumbled back, and for the first time, I felt true, bone-deep fear. I tried to convince myself that it was just my mind playing tricks, but the imprint of those words clung to me, as real as the stone walls surrounding us.
From that night on, something began to change within me. My skin grew pale, sensitive to the touch, as if the very light burned me. My senses sharpened; I could hear every creak, every whisper of the wind. And there was a hunger… a deep, gnawing hunger that grew each day.
Alexander grew more distant, more absorbed in his studies. He spent hours pouring over the tablet and the ancient symbols, his mind slipping further into the darkness they revealed. He was convinced that the transformation happening to me was a gift, a doorway to understanding the Children of Midnight. But all I felt was terror.
I became haunted by visions of medieval life, the Dragomir family, Count Lucien, their lives bound to this ancient curse. I saw their son, Stefan, torn between worlds, a pawn in a game he could never understand. I felt their despair, their anger, their helplessness as they faced the curse that had claimed them.
And through it all, I could feel something else, a presence watching me, drawn to me. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw that corpse, its hollow gaze fixed on me, as if I was the next piece in this ancient puzzle, the next offering to whatever darkness it served.
"Emilia," Alexander would say, his voice dripping with a fascination that bordered on madness, "this is the key to immortality. Don't you see? We were chosen."
But I wanted nothing of it. I wanted to burn the tablet, to smash the amulet we'd found with it, to bury the memories so deep that they could never resurface. But I was already too far gone, bound to the curse like so many before me.
The last line I translated was the most chilling. It spoke of an awakening, of a night when the dead would rise, when the blood of the innocent would spill across the earth, calling the Children of Midnight back to life.
I knew then, with a certainty that hollowed out my soul, that we had set something in motion, something that could not be undone. We had awakened an ancient evil, and it was only a matter of time before it claimed us.
I felt its pull, relentless and consuming. And I knew, as I looked into Alexander's fevered gaze, that we were no longer just archaeologists, no longer explorers of ancient mysteries.
We were prey.