This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/JLGoodwin1990 on 2024-10-22 07:30:15+00:00.
I travel a lot. Without getting too in-depth about the particulars of my life and career, I will say that my job ends up taking me all over the world. I’ve been to just about every continent on the planet, with the exception of somewhere like Antarctica, and the number of countries I haven’t stepped foot in rapidly shrinks every year. It’s absolutely amazing, as I’ve been able to see and partake in so many different customs, cultures and lifestyles. And one thing I always love to do is purchase a souvenir to take home with me, a sort of keepsake to mark my first time in a new country that I can take down from the shelf and look at when the nostalgia hits me. It can be anything, whether an ornamental figurine, a glass, or a book.
That’s where the reason I’m writing and posting here comes in. You see, a few months ago I was sent to Algeria to help oversee a business deal that a client was involved in. The main dealings had wrapped up, and after a few days of exploring the capital city of Algiers, I decided to take a final stroll through one of the many bazaars I had come to adore perusing in my off-time the day before my flight left back to the States. I’d already had it in mind to find something to buy as a memento, and so I strolled past the vendors selling fruit and other various foods, looking for something interesting. And as I passed a table which was selling various bits and bobs, it caught my eye.
It was an old, leather-bound journal, clasped tightly shut with what appeared to be a belt closure of some kind. The leather looked extremely weather beaten and worn, as if it had sat in the burning desert sun for decades, and the edges of the pages I could see were yellowed with age. My curiosity piqued, I pointed to it and asked the seller about where it had come from. Rather strangely, he seemed wary of saying exactly where and when it had come into his possession, instead only saying that he’d stumbled across it during his travels. My curiosity now firmly in the red zone due to its mysterious nature, I inquired to its price. He had no sooner quoted me a price than I was pushing the money into his hand; it was practically a steal. However, I admit one thing which…unnerved me, to say the least. As I hurried away back in the direction of my hotel, I chanced a look over my shoulder. And found that the man was watching me leave, a strange and almost intense look on his face.
That night, my bags packed and lying in bed, I found myself unable to sleep. After trying to tempt the Sandman for a few hours, I finally gave up, and wanting something to pass the time, I picked the journal up, unbuckled it and opened it to the first page. To my surprise, I found the entries were in English. The journal had belonged to a British explorer and adventurer, whose name, according to the inscription on the back of the cover, was Liam Wentworth. The dates inside ranged from the late 1940s, to the early ‘50s, and I read each page with rapt attention, extraordinary images swirling in my mind as Liam narrated to me expeditions which ranged from continental Europe to Africa. I couldn’t help but smile as the infectious excitement in his writing pulled me further and further into the past, and I almost wished I could be transported back in time to join him.
That was, until I began to read the last expedition logged in the journal.
From the very first entry, I could tell there was something different about this particular journey. Something about the man’s words filled me with an unexplainable sense of unease. And as the entries went on, I felt any sense of excitement and wonder wash away like a flood victim, the initial uneasiness first replaced with tension, then a strange sense of paranoia, and finally, as much as I hate admitting it…fear. A palpable sense of fear and existential dread I’ve never felt before, one which raised all the hair on my arms and, even in the safety of my hotel room, made me turn on every single light, banishing away any shadows in the corner. Especially because the final written pages are stained with a long dried liquid that…God, I still hope isn’t what I think it is.
And when my plane took off from Houari Boumediene the next morning, my window giving me a clear view of the sprawling Algerian desert stretching out away into the distance, I involuntarily shuddered.
For months I was unsure of what to do. I considered taking the journal to a historian or museum to verify its authenticity, but I’m worried that it will be simply written off as a hoax or a forgery. The few friends and acquaintances of mine I have shared a little of the contents with have met it with the same response. “It has to be a stunt. Just something to scare whoever bought it” Worse still, I’ve had some of the worst nightmares of my life, horrible dreams that wake me up covered in a sheen of sweat, even months later. Finally though, after discovering this website, and more importantly this particular page on it, I feel here would be the best place to share it.
Written below, transcribed exactly as originally written, are all the relevant entries from Liam’s last expedition. I may need to split them up into two parts due to the length of some of them. Let me know what you think of it when you’re done reading. And, if there is any shred of truth to what is written here…as much as it might cost me work in the future, I may never step foot in that part of the world again.
Monday, 23 June, 1952
After a four-month rest, another adventure is at hand! A fortnight ago, I received a call at home from a wealthy American, a business magnate by the name of Talley. Apparently, Mr. Danvers had boasted of my qualifications and invaluable help during his expedition to Mauritania at a luncheon with him, and when told of a similar endeavor that the man wished to embark on in the nearby country of Algeria, he instantly recommended me to him. I was already interested when he told me of his intentions, and after he quoted me the fee he would pay, I hastily accepted. The amount of money offered is the kind that not even many film stars in the country receive; indeed, it is triple what Diana Dors was reportedly paid recently for her part in The Last Page. And with my dear sister’s health always in flux, it is an amount I would be a fool to refuse.
And so, after much planning and subsequent connecting flights from London, I am now in the city of Algiers, where the rest of our party have assembled. I first met Talley as he met me just outside the airport. A tall, lanky chap with thinning black hair, he instantly struck me as inexperienced with such expeditions. It set me a little on edge, if I may be frank; too many parties have tragically failed due to such sponsors. Yet, as I was taken to a nearby café and introduced to the rest of the team, I felt somewhat relieved at the faces that greeted us. Three of the expedition’s nine members are ones I have worked with before: Soren, a hulking giant of a Dane, Richter, a quiet, yet intimidating German, and Moretti, whose boastful demeanor sometimes hides how brilliant of an leader the Italian can be. Three of the other four, excluding myself and Talley, are people who I’ve heard spoken of in similar circles. Blake is the group’s archaeologist, a fellow Brit and alluring brunette who seems as if she should be on the movie screen instead of here. Corrin is the group’s medic, a bloke who earned the scars on his face from his time in the War. And Samir is one of our two guides, a man who’s wild hair and beard doesn’t seem to match the intelligence that I see behind his eyes.
The final member of the group is our second guide, an almost gaunt young man no older than twenty; whose name I was told is Tarek. He did not speak when introductions were given: instead, he merely nodded at us. I find he gives me an uncomfortable sort of aura, but according to both Talley and Moretti, he is indispensable to our ultimate goal. Which is when discussion shifted over to our ultimate aim.
In a hushed tone, Talley leaned in and told us of a tale he had stumbled across during his dealings in the area. He had hinted about a great treasure lost in the desert decades ago over the phone, but as I listened to him extrapolate, I felt my jaw drop open. According to accounts, a decade and a half or so ago, a group of soldiers belonging to the French Foreign Legion searching for a safe haven had stumbled upon a fortress built into a vast mountain range. Centuries old, the structure had been abandoned, and after discovering that a pump connected to an underground water source of some kind, the soldiers had set up a base camp, complete with radio and arsenal. They stayed in contact with their superiors for approximately five months, reporting back periodically and requesting supplies. Then, on the sixth month, the fort went silent. No matter how long it was hailed, no one ever answered the radio calls. A reinforcement group had been sent to try and ascertain what had happened to them, but they seemed to disappear into the desert as well. Eventually, all of the men were declared lost in action; it wouldn’t have been the first time that soldiers had met their end on the receiving end of the local’s swords and guns, after all. Fearing further casualties, the fort was declared a hostile zone, and any further attempt to reach it was forbidden.
*As the years went by, and with the outbreak of The War, the fort’…
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