The Whispers of Troy

August 12th, 1987

Dear Mom,

We made it, Mom! The "Whiteout" as they call it on those old, dog-eared maps is anything but. Endless dunes of sand, the color of sun-bleached parchment, stretch out forever. Feels like walking on another world, silent and strange, but beautiful in a way that would make Achilles weep, if that's not too dramatic. Just us, the wind, and the endless sky. Like a scene straight out of the Iliad, minus the bronze armor and the whole "epic rage" thing.

The team's a tight crew – me, Dr. Anya Petrova (geology wiz with a mane that would make Helen of Troy look like a mousy librarian), Zale the guide (a wiry dude with eyes that glint like polished obsidian, like a Trojan spy maybe?), and Rashid, our ever-reliable camel wrangler. Setting up camp as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in these outrageous pinks and purples. The silence here is like the hush before a storm in the Iliad, heavy with anticipation. Wonder what secrets this place is holding on to.

August 15th, 1987

Dear Mom,

Days are blurring together out here, like the passage of time during a siege. The heat is a relentless Hector, sapping your energy like a Trojan arrow. But Anya's having a blast, chipping away at these weird, glassy rocks jutting out from the dunes. Says they're unlike anything she's ever seen – volcanic glass forged in the fires of Mount Olympus, maybe? Zale's not so thrilled though. Keeps muttering about Djinns and places cursed by the gods, like Agamemnon walking into a trap. Superstitious old coot, I told him. But there is a weird vibe here, gotta admit.

Yesterday, we stumbled upon something… funky. Half-buried in the sand, this smooth, metallic shard about the size of Agamemnon's royal scepter. Didn't look rusted or anything, gleamed like it was fresh out of Hephaestus' forge. It reflected this crazy blue light, too, like the fires of Troy burning in the distance. Anya wants to take it back for analysis, but there's something about it… like it shouldn't be here, a prize not meant to be claimed.

August 18th, 1987

Dear Mom,

The wind's gone mental, howling like Achilles dragging Hector's body around the walls of Troy. Sand whipping at the tents, threatening to rip them clean out of the ground. We're huddled inside, the air thick with dust and a weird kind of tension, like the eve of battle. Zale's gone all quiet, eyes wide like he's seen a ghost, maybe the ghost of Patroclus. Last night, I swear I saw lights dancing on the horizon – like blue wisps that vanished as quick as Achilles' chariot. Electrical activity in the atmosphere, Anya says. But I dunno, Mom. Something feels off, like a prophecy about to unfold.

The shard… it's acting strange. Warm now, like it's pulsing with a faint heartbeat, like the heart of a fallen warrior. Freaky. I had this crazy dream last night, filled with voices whispering in a language I didn't understand, but somehow felt familiar. Like a forgotten song from the halls of Troy.

August 21st, 1987

Dear Mom,

We're lost. Utterly, hopelessly lost, like Diomedes separated from Odysseus in the night raid. The dunes shift like they have the cunning of Odysseus himself, swallowing landmarks whole. Food's running low, and water even lower. Anya's getting weak, her fire starting to dim like a dying ember. Zale… he just mumbles prayers under his breath now, like a plea to the Trojan gods. Rashid... I don't know where Rashid is. Lost in the shifting sands, swallowed by the same merciless desert that consumes us all.

I can feel the shard pulsing in my hand, its warmth a cruel mockery of hope. It's like it's alive, feeding off our despair, like one of Circe's cursed beasts. And those lights... they're closer now, dancing on the edge of our sanity, teasing us with their otherworldly glow.

I don't know if we'll ever make it out of here, Mom. If this is my last letter, know that I love you, and that I'm sorry. Sorry for chasing glory in a land where only the gods dare to tread, sorry for leaving you to wonder what became of your foolish son. But most of all, I'm sorry for not listening to the warnings, for not heeding the tales of those who dared to venture into the realm of the unknown.

I pray that this letter finds its way back to you, a relic of a journey that should never have been undertaken. May the gods have mercy on our souls.

With love,

Your son

The days stretched into a relentless procession of scorching sun and shifting sands, each hour feeling like an eternity in the desolate expanse. Jacob's entries in his journal became increasingly sporadic as the harsh reality of their situation set in.

August 25th, 1987

Dear Mom,

It's been days since I last wrote. The heat is unbearable, oppressive like the weight of Atlas bearing down on our shoulders. Anya's condition worsens with each passing moment, her feverish murmurs barely audible over the relentless howl of the wind. Zale's prayers have turned into desperate pleas, his once-ironclad resolve crumbling like the walls of Troy under the onslaught of the Greek army.

I don't know how much longer we can hold on. The supplies are dwindling, and hope seems like a distant memory, fading into the vast emptiness of the desert. The shard pulses in my hand, a constant reminder of our folly, of the hubris that brought us to this forsaken place.

August 28th, 1987

Dear Mom,

Anya is gone. Her body lies silent beneath the unforgiving sands, a casualty of our foolhardy expedition. Zale has retreated into himself, his once-piercing gaze now hollow and vacant. We buried her beneath the burning sun, her final resting place marked only by a makeshift cairn of rocks.

I fear we are next. The desert is a merciless foe, relentless in its pursuit of our demise. The shard, once a source of intrigue, now fills me with dread. Its pulsing has grown stronger, its blue light casting eerie shadows across the barren landscape.

I can't shake the feeling that we are being watched, that unseen eyes follow our every move from the shadows. The whispers continue, growing louder with each passing day, their words unintelligible yet somehow familiar.

September 1st, 1987

Dear Mom,

We've lost all sense of time in this endless sea of sand. The days blend together into a blur of heat and despair, punctuated only by the occasional glimpse of those dancing lights on the horizon.

Rashid remains missing, lost to the merciless embrace of the desert. Zale and I press on, driven by a desperation born of fear and madness. The shard pulses relentlessly now, its warmth a constant reminder of our impending doom.

I fear we may never escape this cursed place, that our bones will join those of countless others who dared to defy the gods. But still, we press on, driven by a stubborn refusal to surrender to the darkness that threatens to consume us.

September 5th, 1987

Dear Mom,

I don't know if you'll ever receive this letter, if it will find its way back to you across the vast expanse of desert and time. But I write it nonetheless, a final testament to our doomed expedition.

Zale is gone. Vanished into the swirling sands without a trace, leaving me alone in this desolate wasteland. The shard sits heavy in my hand, its pulsing now a constant drumbeat of despair.

I can hear them now, the whispers that have haunted my dreams since our arrival in this accursed place. They speak of ancient secrets and forbidden knowledge, of a power beyond comprehension.

I know now that we were never meant to find the answers we sought, that some mysteries are better left buried beneath the shifting sands of time. I only hope that this letter serves as a warning to those who would follow in our footsteps, that they may heed the tales of those who dared to venture into the realm of the unknown.

With love,

Your son