The tapping of droplets against the window could be heard, as the orange light of the Sun’s rays began to be drowned out by the gray clouds above. Soon night would fall, and the city lights would be the only great torch in the turbulent storm. The window rattles, as the rumble of the far off thunderclap sends out ominous vibrations. To many this is a thing to fear or to be wary of, but to Dr. Octavia Orlance it was soothing, calming even. She believed the encompassing sound of the storm raging just outside her apartment window gave her a sense of focus, drowning out any intrusive thoughts or anything otherwise.
Dr. Orlance was a young woman just grazing upon her thirties. The Doctor graduated from her alma mater four years ago with a doctorate in archaeology, after taking six years to gain her doctorate in ancient history. Both Phd’s were her first steps into the world of uncovering ancient artifacts, and exploring ancient ruins. It had been her dream since childhood to uncover the secrets of our past, and now she was living it out. In this case, that meant writing a mind numbingly long research paper on her findings in Guatemala, which had been the results of a two year apprenticeship with an old professor from her university days.
Dr. Harold Olivera, her old professor, was an older man nearing his sixties. However, you wouldn’t have known, since his face shows very little signs of aging, and the brown of his hair was just barely beginning to gray. Octavia took a liking to the man the first day they’d met, which was her first day in his class archaeology course. That day she remembered forgetting her textbook that was given to the students beforehand. Expecting to be reprimanded or called out in front of the class, she was pleasantly surprised when her professor simply smiled and nonchalantly said, “Shit happens mija. Luckily for you, I have an extra.”. That simple interaction had raised her expectations for the class immensely, having dealt with poor professors in the past, which had tainted her view on most educators quite a bit.
She chuckles to herself, as she reminisces on the hard times she had in her youth, mostly due to her tendency to daydream, allowing her imagination to whisk her away, leaving her unaware of the outside world. Which is what she found herself doing, as she wrote her paper. Quickly snapping herself out of the recollective trance, she began to detail what exactly they had found in the ruins of the ancient Mayan pyramid they’d be excavating. It was a circular stone tablet engraved with what she could only assume to be the drawn language of the Mayans, an array of glyphs that she found to be in the most peculiar order. Thinking back, Dr. Olivera had been very excited, almost obsessed about the tablet, especially the glyphs. He had even taken the tablet with him back, which was not unusual, but not common either.
The young doctor was suddenly pulled from her analysis, as the loudest thunderclap yet sounded off, rattling the windows, and surprisingly her desk. Octavia quickly grabbed her thermos, as she noticed it begin to tilt over towards her computer. Breathing a sigh of relief, she stood from her desk, deciding to take a break after five hours of near continuous writing. She walked into her kitchen, which wasn’t far because of the open layout of her apartment. Since she was young, she always liked things to be simple or organized, and having everything she could possibly need in one room was perfect. However, studio apartments didn’t come cheap, and novice archaeologists sure as hell aren’t rolling in dough.
After cleaning out the thermos and storing it in the cabinet above the sink, she decided to not just take a break, but to simply call it a night. She dragged herself towards her bed, which was only a few paces from the kitchen; the fatigue of tireless work settling into her mind and body. She crawled into the soft confines of her mattress, allowing herself to roll into a ball under the warm smothering embrace of her thick woolen blankets, a gift from her grandmother last Christmas, and a boon during the Fall and Winter months. Soon, the soft pattering of rain against her window, a sign of the storm’s ferocity diminishing, guided her as she slipped into the realm of unconsciousness. The only sounds that could be heard were the soft rain drops just outside the windows, distant rumblings of thunder, and the monotonous clicking of the radiator on the far wall near the door.
Late into the night, Octavia stirred in her sleep. Oddly, her sheets became as rough as sandpaper, causing her to toss and turn as she tried to return to the soft bliss that she once had. That was not all, as the clicking of the radiator seemed to have intensified, sounding as if a hammer were striking against an anvil. On top of that, the heat was almost unbearable; the sweat rolling off of her body in droves. Eventually, enough was enough, and the young woman raised herself from bed, as if she were an undying ghoul rising from its grimy grave. She sluggishly pulled herself from the once peaceful slumber, and stumbled towards her kitchen, hoping to find some reprieve from the onslaught of hypersensitivity there. However, as she made her way to her promised land, a loud rapping was heard against the door, shocking her system, even hurting her ears. The hard sound of something striking the wooden door sent her heart a-thumping, sending chills down her spine, and goose flesh to appear upon her skin.
“Who’s there!?”, she called out, for reasons she herself could not discern, in fear. The knocking stopped just as suddenly as it had come. The room returned to its former peaceful state. All encompassing silence with the light clicking of the radiator in the corner. No--there was more. Something deep, dark, observant. Olivia hadn’t even noticed that she was holding her breath. It took the burning of her lungs craving oxygen, for her to breathe. As she finally gained the courage to approach the door and peer outside through the peephole, there was a startling crash, causing her to yelp and jump towards her bed. Then the sound of drums began to permeate the air, deep, rumbling, and vengeful. Their baritone thundering, a crescendo. Olivia howled in pain, rolling across her bed, sweat beading on her brow, and tears streaming down her cheeks. “Stop! Please, oh God, stop!”, she wailed repeatedly, clawing at her skin, as she began to feel as if millions of needles poked and prodded at her.
The sheets of the bed now crimson, her wails contending with the deafening drums; the gruesome sight of a women sprawled across her bed, blood staining her beautiful features, tears painting a tale of agony across her cheeks, and her eyes--oh those god awful eyes, bloodshot and filled with what seemed to be years of pain and suffering. What had she become? A sacrifice, an offering, a warning. The same could be said about the other two-hundred men and women who adventured into the depths of that Mayan temple. Well, all except one, Harold Olivera. He was left alone. Some believed he was protected by a stone tablet he’d discovered on his excavation within the temple. A select few however, believe he was marked. Made to watch those close to him suffer for his mistakes, silently drowning in guilt. Now, Olivera spends his days staring at that very same tablet, constantly questioning its purpose. Of course he didn’t return it, his fear and pride wouldn’t allow it. The fear of what could happen should he return to that temple. The pride in finding something so ancient and noble, and the shame of having to return it and accepting fault in the massacre.
