The intrepid, some would say mad, explorer Arthur Christianson ventured alone into the Antarctic wastes, convinced that he had found Atlantis and the secret of all human civilization. His badly damaged campsite was discovered two years later, though his body was never recovered. Below is the contents of his final journal entry, retrieved from the site: -- Deathshead419
[AN: I try not to have real people in these stories, and there is a person by that name in Linkedin, so the name is now Arthur Christiens. I trust you forgive]
Day 23 of the Antarctic journey, The mountains are in sight. I am once again thankful for the equipment purchased from the Inuit tribes of northern Canada. They have had untold centuries to have refined clothing best suited to enduring the chill. I have learned well from their primitive wisdom.
I grow weary of salt pork and dried seaweed, but they are rations that will last. Tomorrow, I sally forth towards the mountains. Proof of the hollow Earth is within my reach!
Day 31 of the Antarctic journey. Searches of the foothills prove fruitless, so far. Killed some of the native birds for dietary variety. I find the meat gamey, oily, and tasting vaguely of fish.
Still had to eat the dried seaweed, lest I suffer from scurvy. I must dig the snow for my next camp from the windward side of the mountain. Again, praise to the Inuit and their useful igloos!
Soon, I shall meet the Atlanteans in their subterranean sanctuary. I am certain my theories shall come to reality.
Day 34 of the Antarctic journey. The cavern revealed itself as I was cutting snow and ice for my camp igloo. I have left carvings to indicate my passage within. These shall also serve to assist me in retracing my steps.
The compass is not useful in these caverns, being so close to the south pole. I am attempting to map my progress.
Day 42 of the Antarctic journey. I now wish I had killed more native birds. I long for anything other than salt pork and seaweed. My dreams are filled with beef, jellied eels, the temptations of Paris restaurants... Drool marks obscure some words.
I must remember to exhibit utmost politeness when encountering the Atlanteans. Perhaps they will be hospitable and welcoming when encountering someone from the outside world.
Day 45 of the Antarctic Journey. Signs of life! As I journey downwards, the air becomes warmer. I have fortunately discovered that the local moss and fungi are combustible. There are signs that others have been harvesting this strange crop.
Some geology has been shaped by unseen hands. I have found more than one knapped stone that has broken. A temporary tool of a far more advanced civilisation, I am certain. The discarding of such is evidence of that alone.
My attempts at ancient Greek, Latin, and Egyptian have not been answered. Perhaps my accent or pronounciation is strange to their ears.
I feel like I am being watched.
Day 46 of the Antarctic journey. Someone or something has stolen my salt pork!
I hear voices, and movement in the darkness beyond the light of my fire. They are coming closer, yet I cannot decipher their language or its place of origin.
The rest of the journal is blank of writing. There is one hurried sketch of an inhuman shape, and high-velocity blood spatter.
[Photo by Worshae on Unsplash]
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