Riddle of the Sphinx

This is a selected chapter of a new book I'm writing. This is rough draft, without context. This chapter was written as a standalone. No artwork for this piece yet. 



Enjoy.....



Riddle of the Sphinx:


The vampire slept in their tomb, spiraling down the darkness until thoughts disappeared, hunger dissolved, and the blood hunger boiled overhead like the atmosphere of an alien world. A place where time and space are mere blocks set down by stranger creatures, and the world of light is built upon their shoulders.


The vampire became mist, became a nebula, and swirled within their coffin, full of stars and planets. Full of tears and failures. Full of a thousand years of heartache and grief. They unraveled their tears and flattened their thoughts. The wind of the abyss blew through the hole in their heart and cleaned them with darkness.


Years became hours, and distinction faded into a dream. Light was a distant memory, unnecessary and unbound to the roots of darkness. The urgency of life passed by the sleeping vampire. The brutish Roman emperors paved the way for the even more brutish Holy Roman Empire. Ruled by rage and violence, the first kings of the dark age were veterans of war, the crusades, the wars of territory, and the brutal arithmetic of controlling resources.


Treasure was more valuable than knowledge, and darkness washed the landscape.


Yet regardless of the sharp nature of society, some still sought knowledge, even if to find treasure. Such a seeker found their way to the feet of the Sphinx of Egypt. The sculpture was 22 meters high, depicting the body of a lion, the face of a woman, and the wings of a bird. What knowledge survived the transition to the new Holy Roman era was small, but enough to tempt the imaginations of treasure hunters.


Such a seeker had come to the Sphinx. After spending nearly a lifetime searching, they found a scroll describing an unmarked entrance to a deeper section beneath the Sphinx. So here they were, at the feet of the Sphinx, ready for her riddles and mysteries.


Just as the scroll indicated, the unseen entrance could be seen on the Equinox, by the light of a moon. The door was outlined in silver, and the sparkle of words could be seen above.


Above the entrance, read in hieroglyphs: “You will find no absolution here.” An ominous warning for the superstitious.


The digger scratched their head, pausing a moment before producing a book from a canvas knapsack. They turned to a familiar page and rechecked the translation. They also checked the word for treasure just in case they were similar enough. The warning made sense if treasure was here, but absolution? What ancient and unholy sin would compel someone to seek spiritual peace under the Sphinx? The warning made no sense in this regard, and the digger decided it was a lost dialect.

They pushed the stone door, and the opening moved easily, as if propped up, and disguised quickly. The stone crumbled and shifted, revealing a pregnant darkness beyond.


The strangeness filled the shadows with possibilities; a reflex of the abyss.


Within the warm light of the candle, the digger continued down the crude tunnel. They covered their mouth and nose with linen, which helped against the dust. The particles had not been disturbed since the Roman era. Nearly 400 years of isolation, and rumors of curses floated nearby the digger’s imagination.


Like a shadow, the curse followed the digger deeper into the tunnel. The method of construction was crude, inarticulate. As if a beast had clawed their way through, desperate to flee the sunlight. There were no hieroglyphs, no cartouches, nothing to indicate when the tunnel was made, or by whom.


Sweat mixed with ancient dust and labored breathing. Hours passed as they cleared away stones which had fallen in, the pathway revealed itself, leading to a solid iron door.


The iron door had no markings, but above the opening another vague warning was seen. ” Let me sleep, nothing glitters here except the bones of the rotten Pheonix.”


The digger paused a moment, and again searched their notes and books for references. The Pheonix was the bird of Osiris. The bird was a pet, an allegory for the world of empires. The frequency of the resurrection was once every 500 years, as the prophecy was written by the blind oracle of Nix. The notes written in the margins described the first appearance of the fiery bird.



The Pheonix struggles to be born,

Upon their wings are lies,

Heralding a future which will never be,

Their eyes cannot see,

What rots without decay,

Will be born blind and mad,

With nothing to say.



A broken sunshine bird,

A glittering mirage,

Will become an egg,

To die again.



The digger ran their hand through their graying hair. Now desperate for a pattern or a direction, they sought a deeper meaning in the prophecy. The word “Glitter” stood out, and as the doubt surrounded them, clarity pierced through, and the world treasure echoed in their mind yet again.


So, after a short respite in the dark, the digger continued. They thought of treasure, turquoise artifacts, or objects made of solid gold! The iron door was not locked, and when the stones of causal collapse were cleared, the open door offered empty darkness.


The digger brought the candle into the low room. The rough ceilings forced a stoop of the back, and a hunch of the spine. They saw the unmarked coffin in the center of the room. No treasure, no symbols indicating who and when. There was no depiction of the journey to the afterlife, no cosmic judgment, no heaven, or ornately painted history. This room was a void.


The hunger for information, context, or anything compelled the digger to attempt to open the coffin. They needed to know. All this digging, all the travel and research, must contain something valuable buried in the sands of history. If not material, the world would give them fame!


The coffin was made of heavy lead, and no lock was seen. The digger produced a crowbar and tried to pry the coffin open. After 30 minutes of attempts the lid would not move. The digger beat the coffin with their crowbar in frustration. They would have to get a crew, and pay them, which turned the digger’s stomach. They didn’t want to share.


The digger took another break, unable to open the coffin. Exhaustion took them for a moment, and they fell into a suffocating sleep.


A moment was enough. The locks within the coffin were undone, the click went unheard by the sleeping digger. The lid was silently lifted up, and placed nearby. Then, like thick unfiltered oil, the shadow crawled across the room. There were no thoughts, no sound, only a dark hunger moving closer to the sleeping digger.


The shadow poured itself into figure, and the human turned to dust within moments. Their skin shrank from their bones, the eyes sank into a deeper darkness, and the crispy limbs curled into the brittle legs of a dead insect.


Then a wind emitted from the shadow; a voice unspoken for 400 years.


The vampire took the knapsack, the books and tools, and put on the clothes of the digger. The Sun greeted the shadow for the first time since the blood of pharaohs flowed from the pyramids.

Do Not Duplicate

What do you do with a key,

Which opens no door,

No window or hatch,

For no building now stands,

Where the doorway once was.



No parking lot or painted lines,

No fines for the tickets,

No moving violations to unlock.

The key sits by the fan,

Waiting for hands,

To warm up the brass,

A useless contraband,

A token of access,

Now left to dispose.




The other side reads,

Do not duplicate,

Now destined for trash,

For keys with no locks,

Who can not pretend,

Their purpose is ended,

Their notches undone,

Long after the tumblers were fixed,

And the screws swollen shut,

The place with no name, and no way to remember,

What those keys once unlocked.