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July 19, 1939
Puerto Ocapa
Peru, South America
Wilkins woke the next morning with a groan. His headache had not subsided, and his clothes were drenched with sweat. Despite the mild mountain climate, the constant humidity from proximity to the rain forest made the air feel thick as soup. He rolled over, stood from the simple bunk, and walked to the basin across the small room. He splashed the tepid river water across his face, hoping to dispel some of the fog in his head so he could process the events of the last two days.
The young anthropologist sat back on the bed, laid his glasses on the thin mattress, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Damn this bloody headache,” he muttered as he felt blindly for his briefcase against the wall. He felt the supple leather of a strap and gave it a gentle tug.
It didn’t budge.
“Seems I’ve lost what little steam I had in the old pistons, as well,” he said as he tugged again, this time more firmly. The object left the floor and plopped onto the bed next to him with a dull thud, the thin chicken-feather mattress doing little to insulate the object from the wood-slat frame beneath.
He replaced his glasses with one hand as the other dug into the bag, expecting to find his notebooks and a case of writing utensils. He blinked the sweat from his eyes and opened them to find the idol resting firmly in his hand, the screaming effigy staring back up at him with its hauntingly empty expression.
Wilkins let out a shout of his own and dropped the statuette, sending it rolling across the floor. It rocked back and forth against the wall, looking as if the figure in the carving was rocking himself to overcome whatever fear had him locked in an eternal scream.
Breath came in ragged gasps as Wilkins tried to calm himself. He had been sure it was his notebooks in his hand. The leather satchel from the expedition sat empty on the bed next to him, while his briefcase rested untouched against the wall where he left it days before.
There were a series of loud bangs, and Wilkins shot to his feet. He yelped again and backed against the room’s one small window. Chipped paint curled under his nails as his fingers clawed at the frame, instinctively seeking escape from the enclosed space.
The door to the room burst open to reveal a shadowy figure lurking outside, haloed in light from the hallway. It was tall, muscular, and poised as if ready to strike. Wilkins couldn’t make out any features due to the intense sunlight streaming through the window in the open room across the hall, which created a blinding aura around the thing. He looked around for some sort of weapon, and the idol still rocking against the wall seemed to call to him. He envisioned himself taking up the effigy and striking the intruder across the head. He was about to bring thought to action when a voice called out.
“Wilkins, what the hell is wrong with you?”
It was Robert’s voice. Wilkins blinked, rubbed his eyes, and realized his glasses had fallen off in his flight across the room. He felt around the bed until his fingers found the cold metal of the frames. He looped the thin wire arms over his ears and settled them on the bridge of his nose. His eyes finally adjusted to the light as well, and he found Richard standing in the doorway; his shirtless form glistening with a sheen of sweat in the glow of the Peruvian dawn.
“I... um...” Wilkins stammered. “I had a fright, is all. I’m fine.”
Richard’s eyes shot over to the strange carving lying on the floor. “I thought you said we shouldn’t be touching that?”
Wilkins hurried to grab the leather satchel from the bed. “Trust me, I had no intention to do so.” He threw the bag over the idol and scooped it up unceremoniously before depositing the parcel back in the corner of the room. “There’s something very strange about this thing, Richard. I can’t say more until I’ve done some research, but I think this goes far beyond heat exhaustion.”
Richard harrumphed, ever the skeptic. “I trust you, friend; but you know I don’t believe in any of this superstitious mumbo-jumbo.”
Wilkins sat on the bed and retrieved his briefcase—the correct one this time. “Nor I, and you know that. But I can’t deny what I’ve witnessed. I’m going to write to my colleague. He might help us find some answers. Hopefully there is a post of some sort in town?”
Richard lit a cigarette and took a long, slow draw. “Hell if I know. I’ll ask Santos when he gets up.”
“Very well,” Wilkins said, already sorting his notebooks and pens before him. Without another word to his partner, he began to scribble a frantic message.
To: Benjamin Mathers
Faculty of History, University of Oxford
From: Wilkins Chapman
Professor Mathers. I apologize for bypassing any pleasantries, but I am currently on expedition in Peru with my American compatriot, Richard Jericho. We discovered an unusual ruin in the jungle, and within it, a strange idol. There is no doubt it is of some religious significance, but the puzzling matter is that it does not bear a resemblance to the Incan artifacts I have studied previously in the region.
Our expedition was cut short, but I shall include sketches of the idol in our possession. Also, from memory, the carvings present in the ruin itself. I must hope you may have some insight to offer as to its meaning, or some clue as to what culture we may be dealing with.
I expect we shall travel to Lima soon, and we will visit the local telegraph office there in search of your reply before departing the country.
* * *
Eleven days passed since Wilkins sent his letter to Professor Mathers. He handed the parcel—along with a substantial sum for express postage—to a youth who had assured him it would reach its destination before setting off down the dusty road on a bicycle. That the boy had never returned to the town had shaken Wilkins’s confidence that his letter would reach the professor. This disappearance also, more concerningly, enraged the locals.
The women of the town gave up on their barrage of dried botanical samples and resorted to hurling epithets at their guests any time they ventured from the hotel. Richard had wanted to leave the town shortly after their adventure into the jungle, but Wilkins insisted upon remaining to seek more information about their find. At the very least, he desired to glean as much knowledge from the local populace as possible before their departure.
This, of course, was as monumental a challenge as delving into any ancient ruin could be. Even more so for one of the Englishman’s bookish demeanor and lack of social proclivities. As the days passed, the once convivial town grew colder toward him. Santos was of great aid at first, but had taken his leave as the situation grew more dire.
Further disappearances—children, one and all—did little to improve the demeanor of the locals. There were also rumors of strange sightings in the night. From the few first-hand accounts Wilkins was able to procure, people saw shadowy figures slipping between the shacks of the town in the dark of night each evening preceding the loss of one of the children. They said Richard and Wilkins had angered God or awoken some ancient spirits, depending upon whom was being questioned.
It was not long before a dozen children from the town had vanished. A cloud of general malaise beset the people as they went about their business during the day, and the evenings found no frivolity in the once-boisterous community.
Things came to a head on the evening of the thirtieth of July, when a terrified scream pierced the silence of the night. Wilkins awoke with a start and met Richard as they burst from their rooms into the hallway. They raced down the steps to the lower floor to be met by several townsfolk already assembled in the hotel’s open-air dining room. There was a chorus of weeping from the locals, and it was not long before Wilkins saw the object of their sorrow.
Arrayed on each of the dozen tables in the dining room was a diminutive form. Each varied in stature, but none were larger than the table itself. They were arrayed in similar postures, upon their backs with their limbs outstretched. The flesh of their torsos was splayed open as if they were each an unwrapped parcel, and their intestines ran from their gullets to the ceiling, draped across the cafe like garlands decorating a holiday party. Blood and other noxious fluids dripped from the arrangement to create a crimson sheen upon the concrete foundation, which sparkled in the glow of various lanterns and candles held by those assembled to witness the scene of butchery.
Not two dozen feet from where he had been slumbering minutes before, Wilkins discovered what fate had befallen the children of Puerto Ocapa.
* * *
Richard grunted as he hefted the bag up to the waiting driver, who pulled it the rest of the way up and added it to the small pile on top of the carriage before tying one last strap across the load. Automobiles were still relatively rare in this part of the world, and transportation to and from the isolated town was often accomplished by horseback or horse-drawn carriage.
“I’d give anything to take this trip in my Packard,” the American grumbled.
“We’re lucky we’re not taking it in a hearse, after what happened last night,” Wilkins said. He pushed his spectacles back against the bridge of his nose and adjusted the load of briefcase and satchel cradled under one arm. “These people blame us for what happened.”
“So, why haven’t they come after us yet?”
Wilkins placed his bags inside the carriage. “They think we’re cursed. To harm us would be to invite further anger from the spirits. However, I’m not willing to test their patience, and I am glad to take our leave of this place.”
Richard leaned up against the carriage and lit a cigarette. “I can’t say I’ll miss it, myself. You really think the statue is connected to what happened with the kids?”
Wilkins sighed. He took off his vest, carefully folded it, and placed it in the carriage. Sweat was already soaking through the back of his shirt, and he made a mental note to acquire better field attire before his next expedition, if there were to be another. “I honestly don’t know what to think, my friend. I can’t deny the evidence I have seen with my own eyes, but every thread of my academic nature says what we’ve witnessed over the last two weeks is impossible.”
“I don’t buy into the ghost stories either, but what happened to those kids wasn’t done by any man. Not a sane one, at least.”
“I honestly don’t see how it was done in the center of town with nobody noticing, even in the dead of night. Someone should have seen the culprit. It would have taken hours to arrange such a...” Wilkins hesitated, trying to find words which gave reverence to what had happened. His mind failed him, and he settled on the obvious. “Display.”
“What about your friend at the university? Masters, you called him?”
“Mathers. Benjamin Mathers,” Wilkins corrected. “I hope he will have some idea as to the culture this relic came from. I would gamble my tenure it isn’t Incan, nor even Mayan; though what Mayans would be doing this far south would be another puzzle to be sorted out. In fact, the Mayans are known more—”
“Whoa there,” Richard cut him off, his hands held up in mock surrender. “You’re going off on one of your rambling lectures again. Looks like the driver’s ready, so you’ll have to save it. And don’t forget I’m just a simple yank, and don’t get excited about that stuff.”
Wilkins huffed. “Not all yanks are like you, my friend.”
“Well, now.” Richard beamed, rocked back on his heels, and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. “I think you just paid me a compliment.”
“No,” Wilkins said as he boarded the carriage. “I most certainly did not.”
