FIELD LOG 07 — THE LAST QUIET EVENING

Expedition Archive // Restricted Access
Recovered Documents Dated: November 2nd, 1911
Author: Alias Voss

For a short while, things almost felt normal again.

Looking back now, I think that frightened me more than the nightmares.

The storms surrounding Hollow Peak had finally passed, leaving the valleys buried beneath early winter frost. For nearly a week the impacts beneath the earth stopped entirely. No whispers echoed through the walls at night. The fragment remained dark beneath my father’s coat, cold and silent for the first time since we discovered it beneath the mountain.

Even the house itself felt different.

Lighter.

As though something had briefly loosened its grip around us.

My mother noticed the change immediately.

One morning I found her standing outside my father’s study watching sunlight spill through the hallway window with an expression I had not seen in years.

Relief.

“You should talk to him today,” she said quietly.
“Before he disappears back into those journals again.”

At the time, I thought she meant work.

Now I know she meant something else entirely.

My father had finally slept the night before.

Not long.

Only a few hours.

But enough for the exhaustion beneath his eyes to soften slightly. When he emerged from the study that morning carrying an untouched stack of journals under one arm, he almost looked like the man I remembered before Hollow Peak consumed our lives.

Almost.

He caught me staring at him over breakfast and gave a tired smile.

“What?”

“You shaved.”

My mother laughed quietly from the kitchen.

“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten how.”

For a moment, the tension hanging over the house eased.

It sounds ridiculous writing it now after everything that followed, but I remember how badly I wanted that morning to stay ordinary. I wanted to believe the mountain was behind us. That the fragment had gone silent because whatever existed beneath Hollow Peak had finally lost interest in us.

My father even agreed to leave the house that afternoon.

The three of us walked beyond the valley together shortly before sunset, following the frozen river paths beneath the cliffs west of the village. Thin layers of snow covered the hills while distant forests disappeared beneath drifting winter mist. The world felt quieter than it had in months.

Natural.

I remember my mother walking slightly ahead while my father and I followed behind carrying supplies for the fire we planned to build near the riverbank.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

Then my father suddenly said:

“You were right to be afraid down there.”

I looked at him immediately.

The fading sunlight cast long shadows across the frost-covered ground around us while cold wind moved through the dead grass along the valley.

“I wasn’t afraid,” I lied.

He smiled faintly.

“You’ve always been terrible at lying.”

For several moments we continued walking in silence.

Then quietly, without looking at me, he said:

“I should never have taken you to Hollow Peak.”

The words caught me completely off guard.

Until then, my father had defended every expedition, every sleepless night, every obsession connected to the Black Sun. Hearing regret in his voice felt stranger than hearing the whispers beneath the mountain.

“You didn’t force me,” I answered.

“No,” he said softly.
“I think part of you would have followed me anywhere.”

Something about the way he said it unsettled me.

Not because it sounded manipulative.

Because it sounded guilty.

We reached the river shortly before dark.

My mother lit the fire while the last traces of sunlight disappeared beyond the mountains, turning the snow-covered valley blue beneath the coming night. The flames crackled softly between us while distant wind echoed through the cliffs surrounding the riverbank.

For the first time in weeks, my father left the fragment inside his coat untouched.

That alone felt significant.

The three of us sat together beside the fire drinking tea while my mother spoke about ordinary things deliberately ignored since Hollow Peak entered our lives. Neighbours. Market days. Repairs needed around the house. Winter supplies.

Normal conversations.

I remember realizing how long it had been since we had spoken like a family.

At one point my mother looked directly at my father and quietly asked:

“Do you remember when Alias was little and you convinced him those caves near Blackwater Hill contained buried treasure?”

My father actually laughed.

A real laugh.

“He dug holes there for three days.”

“You told me ancient kings were buried there.”

“I told you there might be ancient kings buried there.”

I rolled my eyes.

“You also said the compass could detect hidden tunnels.”

“It technically reacted to magnetic deposits underground.”

“That’s not treasure.”

“It was to me.”

The firelight reflected across his face while he smiled into the flames, and for a brief moment I could almost forget the chamber beneath Hollow Peak entirely.

Almost.

Because every so often, I still caught him glancing unconsciously toward the distant mountains in the darkness beyond the valley.

Listening.

Waiting.

My mother noticed it too.

I could always tell when she noticed because the sadness returned to her eyes.

Later that night, after she had fallen asleep beside the fire wrapped in blankets, my father and I remained awake watching snow drift slowly across the riverbank.

The silence between us no longer felt uncomfortable.

Just tired.

Eventually he reached into his coat and removed the fragment again.

The crimson fractures beneath its surface remained dark.

Dormant.

For now.

“You still hear it, don’t you?” I asked quietly.

My father stared at the fragment for a long time before answering.

“Yes.”

The honesty in his voice frightened me more than if he had lied.

“What does it want?”

His expression changed slightly then.

Not fear.

Not obsession.

Something worse.

Uncertainty.

“I don’t know anymore.”

Cold wind moved softly through the valley around us while the fire cracked and shifted between the stones.

My father turned the fragment slowly inside his hands.

“When I was younger, I thought knowledge itself was harmless,” he said quietly. “That truth could only help us understand the world better.”

His eyes lifted toward the mountains beyond the darkness.

“But some things aren’t meant to be understood.”

For several moments neither of us spoke.

Then he looked back toward me with an expression I still think about even now.

Not as a researcher.

Not as an explorer.

As my father.

“If anything ever happens to me,” he said carefully, “you stay away from Hollow Peak.”

The fire snapped loudly between us.

I remember forcing a weak laugh.

“You’re talking like you’re going to disappear.”

For a brief moment, he almost answered.

I saw it in his face.

Whatever thought crossed his mind then frightened him enough that he looked away immediately toward the mountains again.

And somewhere far beyond the valley…

deep beneath Hollow Peak…

I could have sworn I heard something move beneath the earth once more.