This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/askewten688 on 2024-12-27 18:09:58+00:00.

I’d always been fascinated by ancient Egypt. Not just the pyramids or the pharaohs, but the secrets. The rumors. Stories of cursed tombs, hidden knowledge, and the fabled Library of Alexandria. So, when I had the chance to join a small archaeological dig near the city of Alexandria, I jumped on it like a moth to flame.

It was my second week there when it happened. The lead archaeologist, Dr. Nassar, was busy cataloging what appeared to be fragments of a ruined temple. I, on the other hand, was in a cramped tunnel, deep underground, brushing dust off what I thought was another pottery shard. But when my flashlight caught the glint of something metallic, I froze.

It wasn’t a shard—it was a container. A small bronze cylinder, sealed with wax and inscribed with hieroglyphs. My heart raced as I carefully pried it open. Inside was a scroll. Not papyrus, but something else… almost leathery, darkened with age, and covered in tiny, painstakingly inked symbols I didn’t recognize.

I brought it to the surface, expecting excitement from Dr. Nassar, but when he saw it, his face went pale. He muttered something in Arabic and refused to touch it. He told me to put it back where I found it.

“Some things should stay buried,” he warned, voice trembling.

But I couldn’t. Curiosity had me in its grip. That night, I smuggled the scroll back to my room.

I spent hours trying to decipher it, cross-referencing ancient scripts, but nothing made sense. It wasn’t hieroglyphs or Greek or anything I’d seen before. I was about to give up when the letters began… shifting.

At first, I thought I was hallucinating from exhaustion. But no, the symbols were moving, rearranging themselves into English.

It said:

“Knowledge is a flame. It burns those who seek it unprepared.”

The room grew cold, unnaturally so, as I read on. It wasn’t a historical text. It was a warning—a record of something the Library had tried to contain, something so catastrophic that the scroll’s writers had resorted to burning the entire place to the ground.

The scroll spoke of Them. Not gods, not demons—something older. Entities beyond comprehension, who existed in the void before creation. The Library had been a fortress, a prison to hold their names, their true names, written in this script. The librarians had kept the knowledge locked away, knowing that merely knowing the names would give the entities a doorway into our reality.

And then the scroll began to list those names.

I didn’t mean to read them. I swear, I didn’t. But the words pulled at my eyes, forcing me to follow the lines. My head throbbed, my vision darkened, and I felt like I was falling into the ink itself.

The first name echoed in my mind like a thunderclap. The walls of my room began to bend and ripple as if they were made of water. Shadows moved in the corners, shadows that weren’t cast by anything I could see.

The second name filled me with dread so profound I couldn’t breathe. I heard whispers then, voices that weren’t my own, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once.

By the third name, the shadows weren’t just moving—they were watching. And they weren’t alone.

It called to me, and against all reason, I kept reading. The fourth name was like a blade carving into my thoughts, slicing away at the fragile walls of my sanity.

And then, something new emerged from the shadows: visions. Not dreams, not hallucinations—memories.

I saw the Library as it was, before the fire. Grand halls stretched infinitely in every direction, lined with shelves that towered like the pyramids. Scholars moved about in quiet reverence, their faces lined with fear more than awe. This was not a place of learning—it was a prison.

And in the heart of that prison, I saw him. Julius Caesar.

But he wasn’t the man I’d read about in history books. No conqueror, no statesman. He was afraid, trembling as he stood in the Library’s inner sanctum. His toga was stained with blood, not his own, and in his hands, he held this scroll.

The librarians surrounded him, pleading in a language I couldn’t understand. They were desperate to stop him, but it was too late. Caesar had already read a name.

The walls of the sanctum rippled, just as my room had. Shadows began to move, but these were larger, darker, hungrier. Caesar stumbled back, dropping the scroll, his face pale and slick with sweat.

“I didn’t mean to…” he stammered, his voice hollow. “I didn’t—”

But the shadows didn’t care. They surged forward, consuming one of the librarians in an instant. The man’s scream was short-lived, cut off as his body disintegrated into ash.

The rest of the scholars acted quickly, their fear overridden by purpose. They gathered scrolls, tomes, and artifacts, carrying them to a central pyre. One of them held a torch, but his hand shook. He hesitated, glancing at Caesar.

“Do it!” the general shouted, his voice cracking. “Burn it all!”

The librarian obeyed. The fire roared to life, consuming centuries of knowledge in seconds. The shadows recoiled, shrieking as the flames grew brighter. But it wasn’t enough. The entity that Caesar had unleashed couldn’t be undone so easily. It was already loose, spreading through the cracks of reality.

The vision shifted then, snapping back to Caesar. I saw him years later, standing alone on the Ides of March, just before his assassination. He whispered something under his breath, a prayer or a curse, and for a moment, I understood: the fire hadn’t been enough. The thing he’d unleashed was still with him, haunting him, whispering its name.

And now, it whispers to me.

Not in words I can understand, but in feelings—cold, suffocating dread. The kind that seeps into your bones and convinces you there’s something watching, just out of sight.

I’ve stopped turning on the lights at night. It doesn’t matter anymore; the shadows are always there. Sometimes they move, shifting like they’re alive, stretching long fingers toward me before recoiling as if they’re savoring the wait.

Last night, I thought I heard a voice. Not a whisper, but a single, clear word spoken from the darkness behind me.

A name.

It wasn’t one I recognized. Not from the scroll, not from the vision, not from anything I’ve ever heard. But the sound of it made my teeth ache and my heart falter.

I don’t know what it means. I don’t want to.

I burned everything I had from the dig—the notes, the photographs, even my clothes. It didn’t help. Whatever I brought back wasn’t the scroll. It’s… something else. Something I can’t escape.

I haven’t slept in days. I’m afraid if I close my eyes, I’ll hear the next name. Or worse, I’ll see Them.

But the fire taught me something. Knowledge is a flame, yes, but it’s also a chain. The more you learn, the tighter it binds you. And now I know just enough to be trapped forever.

I think of Caesar, of the fire he started, and I understand why he failed. You can’t destroy knowledge. You can only delay it. It wasn’t just the scrolls or the names. It was the people who knew them. If I’m right, then there’s only one way to end this. Only one way to stop the whispers before they reach someone else. The shadows are closer now.

And I’ve already lit the match.