Written by: Kera M. P. Gotchy
Disclaimer: This story was created with the assistance of AI. References to real places or people are included only for realism and should not be interpreted as factual representation.
Part One: Unearthed
The machines had barely broken the surface when the stone appeared beneath Waraba’s rust-red soil like a buried heartbeat. Drizzle clung to the morning air. A low mist rolled off the Caboolture River flats, whispering through eucalyptus trees as if nature itself had paused.
Dr Lucas Blackstone crouched beside the unearthed slab. Cold to the touch. It was rough along the edges, yet the carvings were unnervingly precise. Not anything he’d seen in his twenty years as an archaeologist.
“This wasn’t in the report,” he said, brushing away grit.
Darren Hume, the foreman, shifted beside him. “We were prepping the footings for stage two – thought it was a drainage culvert at first. But drainage systems don’t hum under your fingers.”
Nearby, Priya knelt with her camera, frowning. “These markings…they’re engineered. Not decorative.”
Shaped like a doorway, the slab was half-swallowed by time. Symbols etched deep into the basalt surface spiralled inwards, drawing the eye – too perfect for erosion.
Before he could speak, a black SUV kicked up dust along the makeshift access road. It stopped with the efficiency of habit. Two figures emerged – neat, composed, wrong for this place.
“Dr Blackstone?” the woman asked, stepping forward. “Matilda Greaves. Axiom Heritage Trust. This dig now falls under our oversight.”
He stood slowly. “Under whose authority?”
She smiled without warmth. “Private historical contract. You’ll hand over all materials. Immediately.”
“You’ll get copies,” he replied. “But this stays under heritage review.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. Her partner said nothing, eyes locked on the slab. An intimidating silence filled the air then, without another word, they returned to their vehicle and drove off.
Priya glanced over. “They knew it was here.”
“Yeah,” he muttered, staring at the symbols. One looked like a sun – cracked down the centre, radiating backwards.
He pressed his palm to the stone once more. The wind stirred the trees again as a crow tore across the sky, its cry slicing the quiet like a warning.
Whatever they’d found hadn’t been lost. It had been buried for a reason – patiently, deliberately. And it had waited long enough.
To be continued…
