** 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...
Rất tiếc! Hình ảnh này không tuân theo hướng dẫn nội dung. Để tiếp tục đăng tải, vui lòng xóa hoặc tải lên một hình ảnh khác.
Arabella's gaze slid nervously around. It flitted from side to side like small lightning charges, but the suspended area left her no clear view of the tent behind. Only dark fabric and a sense of foreboding that sent chills through her veins.
Had she fallen asleep again? Had she imagined it? Or were they playing a trick on her?
She could have put it down to the workers or the stupid Americans. Mr Gates made no secret that he thought she was a fragile little doll. Was he trying to scare her into leaving the place?
The young woman swallowed harder and took a deeper breath.
"Hello?" she then asked hesitantly into the darkness.
There was no reply.
Of course not.
'Heavens, pull yourself together, Arabella,' she murmured softly and stepped up to one of the blackout curtains. 'What are you so afraid of?' she asked herself. There was nothing to be afraid of here in the camp.
"This better not be another stupid prank!"
If it were Gates, she certainly wouldn't give him the satisfaction! Still, the traitorous heart in her chest stumbled in a ribcage, and ridiculous thoughts of lurking figures in the shadows could not entirely be pushed aside even by her scraped-together courage and iron reason. Her fingers were cold as Arabella reached for the fabric. Inwardly, she braced herself against all eventualities that came to her in her racing thoughts and between the drumming of her heart.
That Mr Gates was standing there, with his stupid grin, trying to scare her, men scurrying around behind the tent walls, perhaps howling into the wind. Maybe hoping the hysterical Englishwoman would believe the curse talk and report it to the newspapers. If they couldn't find anything of value, at least they could sell a curse. The thought made her angry - especially considering the poor workers who had lost their lives. She would not allow this find to be dragged through the mud or to be portrayed as a spoilt English mouse.
'Not with me! You've got the wrong person,' thought Arabella and pulled back the blackout curtain with a jerk.
She was greeted by the empty part of her tent. Her sleeping cot and the upturned wooden box she had been given as a bedside table. A lonely little candle stood on a plate - without a light - and stretched upwards like a warning finger. Her chest stood locked at the foot of the bed. No one had tampered with it either.
Behind the tent's walls, pale shadows of labourers flitted past as elongated silhouettes. No one stopped or seemed to pay any attention to their expedition tent, and no footsteps could be heard creeping around. Only the somewhat distant voices of the agitated labourers could be heard, muffled, as they sat by the fires and discussed with each other while the wind howled across the camp.
Otherwise, there was... nothing.
No, Mr Gates - and no one else either.
"Of course not," she muttered to herself, feeling the weight of tension roll off her shoulders like stones. Relief washed over her, and she only realized she had been holding her breath.
