FIELD LOG 03 — THE DREAMS RETURNED

Expedition Archive // Restricted Access
Recovered Documents Dated: October 12th, 1911
Author: Elias Voss

We left Hollow Peak before sunrise.

Neither of us spoke during the journey home.

My father kept the metallic fragment wrapped inside one of his field journals, refusing to let anyone else examine it. Several times I caught him checking the object beneath his coat as though afraid it might disappear.

Or escape.

For the first few days, things almost felt normal again.

My mother was furious we had returned to the mountain at all. She demanded my father destroy the fragment immediately. He ignored her entirely.

Instead, he sealed himself inside his study.

The sounds began that same night.

Not beneath the mountain this time.

Inside the house.

Three impacts.

Slow.

Rhythmic.

Somewhere beyond the walls.

I searched every room but found nothing.

When I asked my father if he had heard them too, he simply stared at the black fragment resting on his desk.

Then he asked me a question I will never forget.

“When you touched the stone… did you feel it?”

I told him I did not understand.

He never explained what he meant.

Over the following weeks, the changes became impossible to ignore.

My father stopped sleeping almost entirely. Every morning I found new calculations covering the walls of his study — symbols connected by endless sequences of numbers and strange geometric patterns copied directly from the carving beneath Hollow Peak.

Sometimes he would spend hours staring at the fragment without moving.

As though listening to something.

Then the dreams returned.

At first they came only in fragments.

Towering black structures beneath an endless dark sky.

Ash drifting through ruined streets.

Massive gates standing open beneath a blackened sun.

And always…

the feeling that something inside that world was aware of me.

Watching.

Waiting.

The worst part was discovering my father had been dreaming the same things for years.

One night, I found him asleep at his desk for the first time in weeks. His journals lay open around him, filled with sketches of places I now recognised from my own dreams.

Not imagined places.

The same places.

The same towers.

The same symbols.

The same black sun hanging above the horizon.

When he woke, he looked terrified.

Not because of the dreams.

Because I had seen them too.

That was the night my father finally admitted the truth.

The Black Sun was never just a myth.

And whatever we uncovered beneath Hollow Peak…

had started responding to us.