CHAPTER TWO (Lurkers of the Dark)

...Anteus...

...𖤓 ₊ ݁ ⋆ᨒ˚.⋆𓀛⋆.˚ᨒ⋆ ݁ ₊ 𖤓...

I could not sleep. 

Something is wrong...

The mat beneath me was soft enough, the bread and figs from dinner still heavy in my stomach, but my eyes refused to close. Something was wrong. The night itself felt restless, as though Egypt breathed differently once the sun had gone. The air pressed against me, thick and uneasy, carrying with it the hiss of sand and the howl of wind. 

The sand screamed against the walls, carried by the gusts in long, mournful cries. Each howl rattled the shutters, each hiss of grit against clay made me flinch. I stared at the single candle by the nightstand, its flame bending, shrinking, fighting to survive against the drafts that slipped through cracks in the walls. The shadows it cast stretched long and thin, twisting across the painted hieroglyphs until they seemed to crawl. 

Back in Crete, the nights were gentler. The sea was always there, breathing against the shore, steady and familiar. Its rhythm was a lullaby, a comfort I never questioned. The waves rose and fell, carrying with them the scent of salt and the promise of morning. But here, the sea was gone. In its place was the desert’s voice, harsh, unrelenting, a chorus of sand and wind that seemed to scrape at the very bones of the house. 

I whispered into the dark, my voice barely audible. “How strange… to miss the sound of water.” 

The painted walls, so vivid by day, now seemed to shift under the moonlight that slipped through cracks in the shutters. The hieroglyphs looked alive, their carved lines stretching into shapes I could not recognize. They seemed to watch me, to lean closer, as though they too listened to the desert’s cries. 

The candle sputtered. A sharp gust burst through the small window to my left, and the flame died, My heart stopped beating for a second. Darkness swallowed the room whole. My breath caught, my heart thudded painfully in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears like a drum. 

I was used to working in the darkness as a scholar, this time however makes my skin crawl like never before. A chill that runs through my veins like a primal fear finally waking up for years.

I turned toward the window, curiosity stronger than fear. I squinted my eyes, and leaned closer. The moon hung high, pale and merciless, its light spilling across rooftops and narrow streets. The mudbrick houses stretched like shadows themselves, their flat roofs stacked unevenly, their walls etched with faint carvings that glimmered faintly under the silver glow. Narrow alleys wound between them, their walls painted with faded colors that glowed faintly in the silver light. Clay lamps hung by doorways, unlit, their shadows long and heavy. 

Egypt at night was not silent, it was alive. The wind carried whispers through the alleys, and the shadows seemed to shift when I stared too long. Then I heard it...the sound of scratching, faint but deliberate, like nails dragging across stone. 

I froze. 

There, along the far wall of a neighboring house...something moved. A shadow detached itself from the darkness, sliding across the stone as though it had no weight. Another followed, swift and silent, its shape bending unnaturally as it clung to the wall. My breath quickened, my pulse hammering in my ears. 

No… it must be the moon, I told myself. Shadows do not move on their own. 

Then came the sound, a muffled cry, sharp and cut short by something unseen. My blood ran cold. I pressed my hand against the wall, steadying myself, my heart pounding so loudly I feared it would betray me. 

THUMP. THUMP. 

“What was that?” I whispered, my hands shaking as I tried to even my breathing. 

The shadows twisted, merging, then vanished into the narrow street. The silence that followed was worse than the cry itself. I strained to hear, but only the wind replied, dragging sand against the walls like claws. 

It was as if nothing had happened. 

My mind raced. In Greece, we told stories of spirits, of shades wandering the underworld. But those were myths, tales to frighten children. I had never seen shadows move, never heard screams swallowed by the night. 

What is Egypt hiding? 

I pulled the window shut, my hands trembling. The wooden frame creaked as I forced it closed, shutting out the moonlight, shutting out the shifting dark. My breath came uneven, my chest tight, as though the air itself pressed against me. 

I thought of Menophis, sleeping somewhere in the house. He had welcomed me, fed me, spoken to me with kindness. Should I wake him? Should I tell him what I saw? 

I shook my head, whispering to myself. “No… he is old, he needs his rest. I cannot trouble him with shadows.” 

But the image lingered...the shapes sliding across the walls, the muffled cry. I refused to remember that cut out scream, that somehow, someone out there have pleaded for their life and was not granted.

My heart refused to calm. I lay back on the mat, staring into the darkness, the scarab still clenched in my hand, its edges biting into my palm as though reminding me I was awake, alive, and alone. 

Perhaps Menophis had answers to my questions, perhaps Egypt has names for the things that move in the dark. 

The wind howled again, rattling the shutters, and I closed my eyes, praying for sleep. But sleep did not come. Each time I drifted, the cry returned, sharp and sudden, pulling me back into wakefulness. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw the shadows twisting, sliding, merging. It kept me still  enough to be aware but not relaxed.

The night stretched endlessly, the moon refusing to move, the wind refusing to quiet. I lay awake, my body heavy, my mind restless, my heart unwilling to forget. And when dawn’s first light crept through the shutters, pale and hesitant, I whispered to myself

“Tomorrow, I will ask"

Tomorrow.

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