Their Eyes Were Dust

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, scanning, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

No part of this publication may be used by generative AI models to generate new content.

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

In the dark we found them.

For years we had surmised this vague stretch of peat, long abandoned by the nourishing waters of the bog, may hold long dead secrets. Scant clues had survived obliteration of time, scattered amongst the weathered turf houses of our main excavation: faded murals depicting never before seen funerary rites and unfamiliar raiments; stone monoliths, the weathered Ogham upon their chipped surfaces hinting at a network of undiscovered burial grounds and villages. The more we uncovered the more we felt the pull of something below the peat, not far from the original site: A silent, ancient call, crawling through the fog into our ears, bidding us to dig. A promise of the find of the century.

How could we not obey?

Obsession gnawed at our hearts. By sunlight and lamplight we scoured the bog until we had pinpointed the empty field of desiccated peat indicated by our clues. Abandoning our previous site we gathered what tools we could. And we dug.

I cannot say for certain how long we excavated. Months? Years? That span of time is little more than a foggy mire in my memory: endless days of exhuming decaying roots and dark peat; countless hours struggling with stops and starts, only leaving our camp for fresh supplies, or for pleading to those whose wealth exceeded their lifespans to provide us the necessary funding. How could we stop? The pull was too strong. The tugging urge to sink our shovels into the mossy, foetid soil until they broke in our grasp, the urge to pry the loose clay apart with our hands until our nailbeds bled, was far too strong.

In the end we found it. An ancient tomb, erased from the logs of history. Grasping at the peat, our fingernails splitting under our frenzy to uncover that ancient structure below, we found it. What a sight to behold, the darkness that spilled from the crumbling ceiling! Absolute and impenetrable, beyond the power of our lanterns to pierce: such a heavy miasma of unrelenting shadow. How fortuitous it was of us to bring ropes despite our lack of expectations.

My heart palpitated with excitement as the shadows wafted into the light, heavy with the scent of dust forgotten by the light of day. The sound of funerary drums long lost to the ravages of time assaulted my senses, the wail of mourners, the pungency of resin and pitch soaked torches, the intoxicating scent of sweet mead and wild berries and roasted flesh. Drowning in history, I didn’t hear Harold’s request to hold the rope so he could descend until he was right by my ear.

The rope burned in my hand, my muscles cried out in pain at Harold’s weight, but mercy allowed the feeling to be brief. I felt the weight ease with his release, with his discovery of the cavern floor. I heard his exclamation of excitement, muffled by the moss and the oppressive fog that hovered over our dig like an intrusive stranger. “This is incredible, you must see,” I heard him shout. How could I not obey? Even without his invitation I felt the pull of that ancient tomb driving me to descend without any consideration of how I would resurface.

Our Jeep, half stuck in peat and burdened with tools, would suffice to fasten the rope and manage my weight. Forgetting gloves in my zeal to descend I accepted the burns and splinters of the fiber into the symphony of torment already played by my ruined nails and aching fingers. With surprise I marveled at the gentle light of the interior, brighter light than a foggy day alone could provide, as though the shadows begged for me to see. The design was familiar, a dome-roofed room of cut stone I had seen in many other tombs in our previous excavations. Yet never before had I seen masonry so pristine, so untouched by time!

Harold almost leapt with excitement at seeing me, taking the role of tour guide within the chamber as though he had spent his whole life there. I swear never before had I seen such abundant mirthful light in another’s eyes.

“We were right!” Harold bounded to caress the walls, his fingers bending at unpleasant angles as he applied pressure to the damp stone.

“A whole new chapter begins in the history of this region! To think this site has been hidden away by the peat for so long. It’s fantastic, isn’t it?”

I could only nod with joy, my eyes taking in the piles of rusted trinkets and mold coated foods, my ears heavy with the overpowering silence. After its travels, my vision settled upon the figure in their throne, resting in the center of the chamber.

In the dark we found them.

Upon a throne of rotted oak they rested, placed with care by ancient hands. Amazement electrocuted my core at how well the climate had preserved their body: how the skin at a glance remained supple and young; how the muscles seemed still strong, untouched by the uncaring ravages of time. Their garb was blessed by the same timelessness. With relish my eyes consumed the auric glory of the gold patterns woven upon a backdrop of regal scarlet. And their face, my God their face! Elegant and gaunt, contentment drawn upon every line of their visage, their eyes closed as if in meditation, their lips pursed and flushed with life. Were we not in a cavern that had been sealed for millennia I would have sworn they still lived.

Shuddering with joy I gave in to the desire to approach, to prostrate myself before the ancient, regal figure. In my ears the procession of drums found accompaniment from melancholic, plucked strings and raspy flutes. In the corners of my vision amber light danced into being from the ancient sconces. Lithe, ethereal figures glided at the boundaries of sight, their lavender robes rippling through the air as though it was water. Half glanced, gilded cups and platters rested in their arms, piled high with rich offerings of succulent meat and exotic fruits lost to extinction. To my flank I felt the warmth of my companion resting near, and though I did not look, I knew Harold lay prostrated himself by my side as together we worshiped the ancient seated figure.

I cannot fathom its origins, but in the heat of this joyous moment a dark, cold urge stabbed my mind. In the end I think this urge was all that saved me, all that has allowed me to abuse your time with the mad scrawlings of my pen. But at the time the feeling filled me with awful hatred for myself, for the betrayal of the nobility before me.

I had to look upon their eyes.

I don’t know why: A rogue, vandal thought demanded it. The kind of thought you cannot believe has entered your head, so sweet and delectable and sickening in its heresy to your own nature. Gripping the trunk of my mind like untamed vines, my imagination cast me into an endless loop of falling into bottomless hazel pools, surrounded by history itself weathering away to reveal the ancient world that I craved to witness. I had to see, to lock gazes.

How could I not obey?

Surprise hit me as I looked down at the noble body resting on their throne, no recollection of standing or stepping forward. Anticipation rippled across the surface of my bones, my vision filled with the sublime face before me, their regal features eclipsed by my arm reaching out to make contact. The skin was warm. I could not tell if at my fingertips I felt my own racing heartbeat or the faint flicker of theirs. With all my tenderness I traced their arched cheekbones until my fingers lay pressed against their eyelids. Vertigo hit me, and with the sudden churn of the world around me I realized I had forgotten to breathe.

I took a breath of the rich air, scented with woody perfumes and tallow and green herbs. A moment of hesitation passed and I pressed open their eyelids with my fingers.

Their eyes were dust.

A veil lifted from my vision, one that even now I wish I could have died wearing. Smothered by reality the sensations of the past vanished, their carcasses blown away as though by an unfelt, unheard gale. In their place remained the tomb, ancient, more dust than substance. Dust. Everywhere dust. From the body’s hollow sockets it cascaded, gray waterfalls vanishing into the dark. Upon every surface it lay in miniscule dunes, a desert of dust mixed with ash and mold. The uncaring, mineral, moldy smell of peat and rotting wood and withered stone invaded my nostrils. Sound itself died, leaving as its heir a hollow void that banged against my eardrums with raucous petulance.

And the figure, oh God the figure, the corpse before me! Revealed in its infinite malice it sat, its skin still supple but bloated and plaid and glistening. Its teeth, rotten down to long, sharp, narrow fangs, gleamed in the wan amber glow of our torches, its lips drawn into the grin of someone about to feast. Though it had no eyes to see I could feel it devour me with its vision, its curiosity, glee, and hunger pressing against my body with the cold dampness of a heavy fog. Dizzying fear suffocated my mind as movement drew my attention to its arms. Its hands clasped firm to the rotten oak throne. I stared, panic in my throat, at the tumultuous writhing under its skin: not the twitching of muscle but the frantic squirming of a mass of eels about to burst from their net.

A pathetic, fearful voice in my head cried out to flee. How could I not obey? Terror tugged at my strings, a rough puppeteer tossing me across the small tomb towards the rope which dangled from above. The clap of my soles against the dusty stone found a reply in the sucking, squealing tear of damp flesh from behind me. I felt my heart in my throat as I fumbled with the rope, nausea filling my stomach as my shivering, bloodied fingers refused my commands to grasp it. The thud of many heavy things striking the firm ground rang in my ears, followed by a scream of surprise. Fear had wiped Harold’s existence from my memory, yet with that scream I realized he had not broken from the spell as I had. The sound of bones crushing under the pressure of many jaws and the smell of cooking flesh paralyzed me, Harold’s screams and sobs raking against my spine. I turned but could see nothing save for the back of that decrepit throne and hints of movement in the dark.

My hands found their grip without my input. Terror dampened the pain, put a spark in my heel. I ascended, the safety of the mist above me. Morbid curiosity bade me look down as I climbed, to see if perhaps I could witness my companion’s fate. Instead what I saw will haunt my nightmares. From the dark came a mass of half seen things: giant misshapen worms that undulated across the ground using the stubby teeth in their endless maws. Blood glistened in what light was willing to illuminate them, moans of excitement echoing from within the tangled shadows. With frenzy they approached the rope, sensing where I climbed despite lack of sensory organs, arching in the air with the disturbing elegance of cobras ready to strike. With a scream of terror on my lips I mounted the last yard of rope, the brush of their fatty bodies caressing the heels of my boots as my ruined hands grasped the mossy peat. One final tug sent me rolling upon the damp earth away from the chasm Harold and I had excavated, merciful unconsciousness taking me as cries of defeat muted by the fog echoed from below.

When I woke, I found my world consumed by the mauve hue of a dusk oppressed by unrelenting fog. With effort I rolled myself upright, agony etched into every joint. White hot pain stabbed my chest as a laugh found its way onto my tongue, my eyes falling to rest upon the dust encrusted patch of mossy peat where the crevice should have been.

Next Free Story