Throughout my whole life I had been obsessed with cryptids, spirits, and all manner of unexplainable phenomena— the vast majority of the ones that I had investigated previously had been rooted in nothing but superstition and myth, but just the mystery of them led me on every time. This one was supposedly different though, if the anecdotes were to be believed.
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Though its reputation was one of horror and negativity, the Echo itself— at least from the location in which I had first heard it —was a subtle noise that one without trained ears might miss. It blended in exceedingly well with the usual winds billowing through the crevices, canyons, and tree-groves that dotted the Yelran mountains. However, it was something much more than that if you properly tuned your senses to hear it. It was a low, pounding blow that rose and resonated through the cold night air, like Gjallarhorn’s call. Even at my distance, only hearing ripples, I could tell. It tightened one’s throat, and swelled their heartbeat. It made them sweat, and gave them the urge to plug their ears or flee. The echo had a sinister energy that no natural explanation could rationalize. It rang ceremoniously throughout the snow-laden peaks, and all the way down to the villages of the Meryani tribe at the feet of the hills, in the fertile Gergaré valley. The residents of those villages existed at the outermost layer of the sound’s farthest projections, and they dared not pass any closer due to religious and customary fears of ‘things that lie in the mountains’ or something along those lines. At the time in which I heard the sound, the nearest of those villages was a two-day trip to the east, and the mountain itself was another two days west.
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Despite the Echo being my sole reason for even being in the mountains, upon my ears’ first subjugation to its distant blast, I could not bring myself to leave the tent to investigate or attempt to better get a sense of where it had originated from. I felt, for some unknown reason, that leaving the tent at that moment would have been a dangerous action— maybe even a suicidal one. A pressure swelled around me, sitting in the air, bathing me in a visceral stress. The Echo lasted only 5 minutes, but I was on edge the whole time, and felt an uncanny sense of peril. Even after its sounding ceased, I remained mostly sleepless, only finding a few short spurts of rest nearer to the morning hours than I would have liked. I didn’t fully believe what the villagers told me, and firmly thought that the things that I had felt were psychological in nature, stemming from my anticipation and excitement upon hearing the Echo— it was still an unnerving night, though.
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I walked throughout the entire following day, still plagued by some latent anxieties and sleep deprivation. I had also developed strange pains in both my knees and elbows, presumably caused by the strain of the sheer cliffs and hills that I was forced to climb; it was a perilous group of mountains, but I knew that going in. Every single one was sharply inclined, covered in permafrost, and full of deadly declines. The winds that mimicked the Echo soared in variable directions, strong enough to push you over one of the omnipresent edges. A single failed step or handhold could send one tumbling down into one of the many icy caverns, or trap-like pits that held sharp stalagmites and other vicious stones disguised by the feet of snow that lay atop them. Visibility was often shortened throughout most hours of the day by fog formed down in warmer valleys farther to the east, and made the navigation even more of a hassle. Everything about the region was a climber’s nightmare— or dream, depending on who you asked.
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The aching forced me to pitch my tent well before nightfall, and far earlier than I had hoped to. Still, I had covered a lot of ground that day, and realized that I could then see the outline of Mt. Motarn some ways away in the distance, silhouetted against the setting sun. It wasn’t the tallest mountain I had ever visited, nor the most beautiful— but something about the experience of seeing it in person made it feel extraordinary. It had a looming presence that stretched for miles, overshadowing everything else in sight. Though not even as tall as the mountains that joined with it, it nevertheless dominated one’s attention. Its harsh, obtuse slopes and sharp, blade-like summit made it look completely out of place amongst its surroundings. That was what caused its fame in the first place— even before knowledge of the now infamous Echo breached into international knowledge.
Though the visage of the mountain and the tales of it were immensely popular across the world, few foreigners had ever been given permission by the government to actually visit it— there were only a few before me. There were some unsanctioned travelers, of course (including the ones that had revealed photographs of the mountain to the public), but most of them had never been seen again after taking up the expedition. That was likely because of local interference or their own incompetence, but the theories of more weird varieties were also plentiful.
Because of the exceedingly negative reputation the place had garnered, I couldn’t find a guide to assist me, or even receive a map from one. I had to make my way there, only knowing the general direction in which Mt. Motarn resided. Most of the supernatural rumors were no more than greatly exaggerated tales sourced from the previously mentioned beliefs of the inhabitants of the Yelran range’s surrounding villages and towns, and held the amount of credibility you would expect from such a numerous series of secondary accounts. Stories of monsters roaming the hills, shadowy beasts lurking in the caves, and, of course, countless unbelievably absurd theories about the Echo itself. Surely some ways back in time they had been rooted in something, but I held no quandary for the myths perpetuated by people who had never even been to the area. I was more focused on the real, tangible risks that I faced in traversing the semi-uncharted range of mountains.
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My joint pains only worsened throughout that evening, and I went to sleep before the sun even finished setting, hoping that a long rest would sort out the issue; I awoke to the Echo.
No longer an obscure sound off somewhere in the distance— this time, it was a blaring roar. Despite still being miles from Mt. Motarn, the call sounded like it could have come from directly beside me. A low, metallic, churning blow. Within it, the sounds of crashing cars, collapsing buildings, and detonating explosives could be heard. It wasn’t just one pure sound; it was countless, congealed into a central vocalization. A kaleidoscope of contrasting bursts that created one semi-homogeneous noise when released simultaneously. Twisting, confusing, and powerful. It sprang the hairs on my arms upright, and made my stomach churn in knots. A despicable, unheard-of noise. All suspicions of it being just a natural coincidence left my thoughts. It was not just the wind, or some other occurrence. This was a chillingly exotic sound that could never be replicated.
A few minutes later, I was vomiting. The sound had brought on a spat of extreme illness and nausea within me. Never, even in the times when I had been dreadfully sick as a child, had I ever heaved and wretched as much as I did in those few moments. The pains I had been experiencing had also simultaneously inflamed and began to spread down to the previously painless portions of my limbs during that time, and made for an agonizing combination.
My fit of vomiting later led to a tremendously draining feverish period of shivering and sweating that lasted through most of the night. Although I had mostly recovered come morning, I still decided to sleep in to get the rest that I sorely needed after two wakeful, pain-filled nights. I was certainly concerned about what happened to me, but I shrugged it off the best I could, as the only thing afflicting me was the now ever present joint pains, along with a newly developed headache. I was less than a day’s walk away from the foot of Mt. Motarn, and tantalizingly close to the mysterious source of the transient, chilling Echo, and was dead set on reaching it. Even if I had had second thoughts, though, it’s not like there was anyone nearby to provide me with the medical attention that I needed. Out among those mountains, I was the most isolated I had ever been.
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As I began walking that day, I realized that the revitalization I felt upon awakening was to be short-lived, and I was overtaken by an immense drowsiness and feeling of exhaust that, coupled with my growing, burning aches, made the rest of that day’s trip a nightmarish experience. Over stony walls and atop staggering gorges, I climbed, all while my limbs felt as if someone had set them ablaze with an invisible, undetectable flame. By midday, the nausea returned, and the headache had grown tremendously painful. The nausea led to vomiting, as well as a cough. I felt like a dead man walking, but still pressed on as long as I could.
To think that such a state could be caused by something as mundane as a sound was an absurd notion. I had no idea if something like that was even possible, but it was something that I had to consider. My symptoms aligned too heavily with the Echo for it to be just a coincidental, unrelated sickness. Sonic weapons had been in use for ages at that point, but the vast majority of them caused their damage through pitching and vibrations, not just the sound itself. Tales of the Echo went back much farther than even the first conceptualized prototypes of such devices, but the symptoms were similar. Radiation was a definite possibility as well, but I surely would have died or at the very least been rendered immobile by any amount of radiation large enough to cause such a violent sickness in me. I really had no idea what could have caused it.
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My stamina ran dry at around 3:00, and I fainted. Luckily, before I did, I made my way into one of the many caves that I had seen in the side of a mountain ahead of me. A massive storm began blowing in at the same time, so making it to that bit of shelter was vastly important.
I don’t know how long I was asleep for, or how long I had been awake before realizing it, but the swirling winds carrying immense amounts of snow were all I remembered in my catatonic form of consciousness. I hadn’t known if the Echo had played or not that night for certain, but my body told me a sufficient answer. Every inch of me felt inflamed. The surface of my skin, along with everything that lay inside of it, was howling in a pain that was indescribable. It felt like a waking decomposition of my very cells and bodily functions. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak, and I could solely think of the piercing hurt that penetrated every facet of my being. Laying on that semi-frozen, uneven cave-floor in a puddle of my own fetid, blood-infused bile, I experienced sensations that would make most men lose their sanity. My brain was turned into slush, my flesh melted from the bone, my sinews and muscles cracked and shriveled., my blood became acidic and burned through my veins, and my organs became gangrenous and rotted inside of me. For what felt like days, I was left a prisoner in my imploding corpse of a body. Trapped in my mind while my body became engulfed in a constant, unimaginable agony. And then it stopped. I woke up in perfect health, as if nothing had happened. Only a few hours had passed.
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My head was groggy, but I felt fine aside from that after I awoke inside of the cavern that had undoubtedly saved my life. The snow piled outside almost completely covered the entrance; if I collapsed out there rather than inside, I would surely have suffocated or frozen to death. Maybe that would have been better than what had happened to me in the cave, though.
Sunlight made its way through the narrow opening between the low ceiling of the alcove and the snow-mound, and I dug my way out into it like a rodent. I emerged into one of the most gorgeous sights I had ever beheld. Standing there in that hopeful sunlight, swallowed from the waist down by the snow, I realized that I had made it to my destination. I was unknowingly sleeping in a speck on the side of Mt. Motarn.
Looking back in the direction I came from, the sun reflected off of the snow, and lit everything with a rainbow phosphorescence. The slopes, ferns, streams, and ice sheets were all aglow in a strange, brilliant iridescence. The place looked far more impressive than it did under the clouds and fog that had sat idly over the place throughout beginning of my trip. I don’t know how long I stood staring, but my mind went blank at some point.
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The entire day slipped between psychic cracks. It was nighttime when my wits returned to me— assuming that it was still the same day (it could have been several, for all I knew), that would have made it up to twelve or thirteen hours that had vanished. I was no longer in the cave— I found myself on the other side of Mt. Motarn. Upon regaining my senses after the initial shock of my mental teleportation, I nearly fell over because of the ice chilled winds that were evidently stronger on the new side of the mountain. I saved myself from stumbling over the edge of the boulder that I had appeared upon by grabbing hold of some shrub-like tree that somehow managed to grow atop the rock by winding its spindly roots down the uneven sides and into the soil below. It was an unusual, delicate life; one grasping hopelessly to survive. Surely it would die if it were to reach full maturity on the cliff-face, but it still clawed its roots into what available nutrients it had. I slowly let go of the branch I had used to right myself, and felt oddly regretful for nearly damaging the sapling. It was a strange emotion; feeling careful of an unconscious, essentially lifeless plant, and it was the first time in my life ever feeling such a thing; but that was what my mind focused on amidst such a strange series of events. I think I was subconsciously distracting myself with it. I was looking for any excuse to get my mind off of the situation at hand, and I suppose that was what I chose. The immobility forced upon me by the plant eventually ended though, and my attention inevitably turned to what lied behind me— a monolithic anomaly that had been the source of my aversion of sight and thought.
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Before me, what was previously hidden by Mt. Motarn was on full display. It was a sight otherworldly in nature— one that I had only imagined possible within the confines of fiction or imagination.
In the mountain’s shadow was a pit so unfathomable in both circumference and depth that any speculation on its origin would leave the mind empty of all hope. It was larger than anything I had ever seen; larger than entire cities, even. It dwarfed Mt. Motarn and the other surrounding mountains into small hills, and distorted the size of my whole view of the world. Distance became meaningless in its presence. The planet could have been the size of a pebble, or an entire galaxy in that moment. I felt like an insect. Then, without warning, the ground began to shake in tremors like an earthquake, and my ears erupted in pain as the Echo exploded from the depths of the hole.
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I realized then that the title of ‘Echo’, that was given to the sound by tourists and adventures that had heard it as such after it had bounced for countless miles through the mountain range, was a completely relative misnomer. This was no mere echo; it was a thundering cacophonous booming that had no rival in all of nature. It was a sound that rattled the brain, and unsettled the mind. I’m shocked that it didn’t rupture my eardrums or cause my insides to burst. It was an unearthly billowing of unmatched proportions; not just the soft, stealthy echo that rolled through the valleys. The name that the natives of the region used for it was much better, as some of them had likely heard it at the same or a similar distance as I had. They called it:‘Dēvatāharūkō Garjanā’, or ‘The Roar of the Gods’. I couldn’t blame them for placing religious designations on such a noise. It was a tremendously incomprehensible experience to hear it, and it forced one into submission through its resonance alone. I was purely at its mercy.
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It was that thought that made everything click within me. I was purely at its mercy. Ever since I began the trek, I never hit an insurmountable obstacle or lost my way. I, despite having no map or guide, had solely traveled in the correct direction to arrive at the cavity that I now stood in front of. Through storm and fog, I still found my way. I was an adept climber and navigator, but that was beyond my own abilities. I was being led here by a will besides my own. Something wanted me to discover the pit and reach the eminence point of the Echo. I was bewitched, and didn’t even realize it.
Whatever was controlling me stopped hiding its influence and seized whatever freedom remained in me following this realization. I felt it moving my legs and my arms, and regulating my breathing and my blinking. I was fully conscious, but no longer commanding my body. The me that was no longer me scaled down the remainder of the mountain that stood between myself and the maw in a swift series of dashes and jumps that I would never have been able to pull off on my own. My feet moved without input towards it, and stopped their flurry of movement at the edge.
As I stood at the precipice of the unholy abyss, the sounds that rushed forth from it were no longer identifiable. Screams of the unknown, calls of the damned, and tempests beyond humanity spilled from the depths of the massive crater, along with a sinister, deep amber glow. The sights within its depths could only be imagined. Down and down the cavity descended, deep into the crust of the planet and into untouched, vile caverns and chambers of desolate darkness. Shadowy, inescapable labyrinthine catacombs; ravines containing never-before-seen stones and crystals; underground streams of putrid liquid that flowed through unnavigable pipe-ways; ever boiling magma pools left over from the times of the planet’s conception; and fields of cave-dwelling fungi that spread their tendrils throughout the caves unimpeded by competitive life. It was the breakthrough that I had been searching for my entire life, and I would have been incredibly excited under different circumstances. The myths that seemed no more than the ravings of fanatics were founded in truth; and were, in fact, underselling the magnitude of the thing that they spoke of. The emanating light that shined from within the crater made it seem as if I was standing over the fires of hell itself— and maybe I was.
Inside of the incomprehensible waves of sound layered upon sound teeming from the pit’s inner depths, only one was left understandable at such a proximity. It was a noise that I hadn’t heard since leaving the Meryani village the previous week, when I began my expedition. It was a human voice— specifically one of a small child, twinged with the mountainous accent that the locals often spoke with. The language that it was speaking had no name, and was as old as the mountains themselves. It was an unhinged series of short, rhythmic laps and clicks, like a metronome, interspersed by sounds that were reminiscent of the modern language spoken by such people. The child never ceased speaking, but I— or more likely, whatever was controlling me— understood vaguely what was being said.
The long jumble of pseudo-words was putting forth just one idea, rather than the many that it initially seemed to be. Compared to the waves of mysterious noise that were flowing about me, what it had said was surprisingly grounded and almost mundane, especially being sourced from such an ancient tongue. It wasn’t some bit of cursed knowledge or secret of universal implication.
Translated, the voice had simply said: “Jump”.