MidnightScreams

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The expedition was supposed to be historic.

Dr. Elias Wren had spent his life chasing the remnants of ancient civilizations, uncovering secrets long buried beneath dust and stone. But nothing could have prepared him for what lay beneath the ruined temple in the heart of the Syrian desert.

The entrance had been hidden beneath centuries of rubble. The local Bedouins refused to go near it, whispering warnings of a vengeful spirit that claimed the bones of the living. Wren dismissed their tales as mere superstition.

The moment he and his team pried open the ancient stone door, the air changed. A damp, decayed stench poured from the darkness, heavy with the weight of centuries. The team hesitated, but Wren pressed forward. The tomb had waited long enough.

Inside, the walls were adorned with crude paintings depicting a faceless figure—long fingers outstretched, reaching for those who entered. A warning. But Wren saw something else: history waiting to be revealed.

Then they found the bones.

Unlike the carefully entombed remains of royal crypts, these bodies had been positioned in unnatural poses—arms stretched skyward, spines arched in agony. More chilling was the fact that their bones had been stripped clean of flesh, yet still gleamed as if freshly picked.

One by one, the excavation team fell victim to strange accidents. A technician was found dead outside his tent, his body grotesquely contorted. Another was discovered in the temple’s inner sanctum, her arms outstretched like the figures in the murals. Each death mirrored the carvings on the walls.

Wren poured over the inscriptions, his heart pounding. The writings spoke of a curse, an ancient collector of bones, one who could not be seen but whose presence could be felt. The only way to stop the killings was to return what had been stolen.

Realization dawned too late.

In his hands, Wren held the object he had taken from the burial chamber—a delicate, carved amulet of a faceless being with elongated fingers.

The tent flaps rustled though there was no wind.

And then, the shadows moved.

The wind howled outside, stirring the sand into ghostly shapes. Wren’s breaths came in ragged gasps as he stared at the amulet. He could almost feel something watching him, something ancient, its patience unbroken by time. He thought of the mural figures, their agony forever etched into stone. What if they weren’t just warnings? What if they had been victims?


Wren stumbled to his feet, his mind racing. He had to return the amulet, to put it back before the curse claimed him. But as he reached for his pack, the shadows coiled around him like smoke. A whisper slithered through the darkness, a voice without a mouth, a sound that belonged to no living thing.

“Too late.”

The tent collapsed inward, trapping Wren inside. Outside, the remaining team members heard nothing but the howl of the wind. By morning, the archaeologist was gone. Only his bones remained, arranged with careful precision, gleaming in the moonlight.

The ruins remain untouched.

Some say the archaeologist was never found, that only his bones were left behind, arranged with careful precision, gleaming in the moonlight. Others claim to hear whispers on the wind when the desert is silent, a soft rattling like dry bones clicking together.

And somewhere, deep beneath the shifting sands, the Bone Collector waits for its next offering.