Under the Yellow Sands

Chapter 3: The Devil's House

Cairo's morning air was a cocktail of mint tea and diesel fumes. Five figures hurried through the old city's narrow lanes, like five fish swimming upstream. Jack led the way, his backpack pitifully thin, barely containing a few water bottles and a bag of bread.

At the alley's end, a battered pickup truck waited. Its bed was filled with dusty onions. An old Egyptian man in a turban leaned against the driver's door, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, his rheumy eyes watching them approach.

Alex stepped forward, exchanged a few words in simple Arabic, then waved them over. The old man nodded, holding up five fingers.

"Fifty pounds. Each." Alex translated.

"We have fifty total." Jack laughed bitterly. "Ask him if we can pay in installments."

In the end, the old man took the battered Pro Trek watch. With an impatient wave, he gestured for them to climb into the truck bed.

The five squeezed between onion sacks and dirt. The pickup lurched and rattled out of the city. Asphalt gave way to gravel, which gave way to pure tire tracks in the sand. Cairo's high-rises shrank and finally vanished over the horizon. The world was reduced to one color: a dusty yellow.

The color of sand. The color of death.

"I think I'm going to be sick." Ben groaned, holding his stomach, his face pale.

"Swallow it." Alex said flatly. "Water's precious."

Tom, however, was strangely exhilarated. He leaned over the side, furiously snapping photos with his old, unstolen camera. "Look at the lines of those dunes. Sculpted by the wind, changing every second. This is a living desert."

"The desert is alive." Sophie murmured. She opened her battered copy of the Book of the Dead, pointing to a passage. "The ancient Egyptians believed that too. They called the desert the 'Red Land,' the domain of Set, the god of chaos and death. And the 'Black Land'—the banks of the Nile—was the realm of the living."

"So we're heading into Set's backyard." Jack grinned. "Hope the old man is hospitable."

Four hours later, the pickup stopped.

The old man pointed towards some large rock formations in the distance, muttered something in rapid Arabic, then turned the truck around and sped off, leaving a cloud of black smoke.

The five stood on the scorching sand, utterly disoriented.

"What did he say?" Ben asked.

Alex translated, "He said that's the 'Devil's House' up ahead. He won't go any further. Told us to walk on our own. And wished us good luck."

"Good luck?" Ben's laugh was hollow. "Is that the right translation?"

"That's what he said." Alex started walking. "Come on. Before the sun turns this sand into a griddle."

They trudged towards the rocks. They were massive sandstone formations, carved by millennia of wind into bizarre shapes: some like mushrooms, some like camels, some like twisted human faces.

The temperature was at least forty degrees Celsius. With every step, sand poured into their shoes, burning like hot coals. Soon, they were all drenched in sweat, their water dwindling faster than expected.

"What's that?" Tom pointed.

Everyone looked. In the shadow of a cluster of large rocks, there was a dark opening in the ground, like a gaping mouth.

Jack's heart skipped a beat. He hurried over. The opening was larger than he'd thought, wide enough for two people to enter side-by-side. The walls showed clear signs of chiseling. This was not natural.

"Man-made." Alex ran his hand over the marks. "Very old. At least centuries."

"A tomb entrance?" Ben's voice quavered.

Sophie crouched, carefully examining the sand and** (broken stones) around the entrance. "Look here. The weathering on these rocks is completely different from the surface ones outside. The outside ones are rounded by wind and sand. These broken pieces have fresh fractures."

"Someone's been here." Alex's eyes sharpened. "Recently."

Jack thought of the online photo—the book placed on the Sphinx's paws. Three years ago.

"Go in?" Tom asked.

The five looked at each other. The sun was high, the sand sea endless. Their food and water would barely last a day. This hole could be a dead end, or it could be... their only chance.

Jack gritted his teeth. "In."

He pulled the rebar from his backpack, tied the nylon rope around one end, and fashioned a crude torch. He tore a strip from his shirt and wrapped it around the rebar head. They had no oil, but he had a small flask of cheap, harsh alcohol—a last-minute throw-in from the hotel owner.

He soaked the cloth. The lighter sparked. Flame leaped up, pushing back the darkness.

"I'll go first." Alex took the torch and slipped into the hole.

Jack followed, then Sophie, then Tom. Ben brought up the rear.

Darkness surged in from all sides. Only the torchlight held it at bay, a small, orange circle. The tunnel walls were rough sandstone, faintly etched with markings.

"Stop." Alex said.

He held the torch close to the wall. Everyone saw it clearly—a relief carving, weathered but still recognizable.

A figure. Or rather, a man with the head of a jackal. He stood upright. One hand was extended forward, holding a strangely shaped scepter. The other hung at his side, palm out.

"Anubis." Sophie's voice echoed in the confined space. "The god of death. The guide of souls into the underworld."

"What's he doing?" Ben asked.

"Inviting us in." Jack said.

The eyes of the carved Anubis were two deep hollows. In the flickering torchlight, the hollows seemed alive, watching them.

The tunnel sloped downwards, deeper and deeper. The air grew cool and damp, a stark contrast to the heat outside. Their breathing became loud in the silence.

Suddenly, Ben, at the rear, screamed!

Everyone spun. Ben's face was pale as death. He pointed behind him. "Something... something touched my foot...!"

The torchlight stabbed into the darkness behind them. Nothing. Just the tunnel, black and empty.

"You're just nervous." Sophie tried to reassure him.

"I felt it!" Ben's voice was tearful. "Like a hand... ice cold!"

Alex was silent for a moment. "From now on, no matter what you feel, don't stop. Keep moving."

The group pressed on. But now, everyone felt a chill on their backs, as if something was quietly following them in the dark.

The tunnel suddenly widened. The torchlight spread out. They had entered a larger space—a stone chamber.

The chamber was rectangular, about thirty square meters. Every wall was covered in carvings and hieroglyphs. And in the center, there was a massive stone sarcophagus.

The lid was intact. No sign of forced entry.

"God..." Tom whispered. "We've actually found... an unlooted tomb?"

Jack's heart hammered. He slowly approached the sarcophagus. The torchlight illuminated the exquisite carvings on the lid. The image of a woman. She wore a tall crown. Her hands were crossed over her chest, holding a scepter and a flail. Her face was serene. On her lips, there seemed to be the faintest hint of a smile.

"Who is this?" Ben asked.

Sophie studied the hieroglyphs closely. Her lips trembled. "This is... this is Nefer..."

She didn't finish.

A deep sigh echoed through the chamber!

The sound seemed to come from the very depths of the earth, yet it was also right in their ears. Low, long, filled with unimaginable weariness and... sorrow.

"Who's there?!" Alex raised the rebar like a weapon.

No answer.

But everyone's eyes were drawn, involuntarily, to the sarcophagus.

For a split second, the lid seemed to move.

(End of Chapter 3)