The Curse of the Rocket

When greed awakens what should have slept forever

In the middle of a barren desert, where the winds whispered like restless ghosts, a team of treasure hunters set out on an expedition. They were not archaeologists seeking knowledge; they were adventurers chasing wealth, guided by maps purchased from black markets and tales told in hushed tones at desert taverns.

The leader, Marcus Hale, was a man whose eyes glittered with greed. He had heard of a forgotten tomb, buried beneath shifting sands, where a “treasure beyond gold” lay hidden. Legends claimed it was not jewels or crowns, but something powerful enough to change the fate of the world. Marcus cared little for legends. All he wanted was possession.

After weeks of digging, the hunters’ shovels struck stone. Beneath the sands lay a massive slab carved with symbols no one could read. The carvings told of warnings—shapes of flames, figures bowing, and a strange object shaped like a spear aimed toward the heavens. “It looks like a rocket,” whispered one of the crew nervously.

Marcus laughed. “Then it’s mine.”

With hammers and ropes, they forced the stone slab open. A wave of hot, stale air escaped, carrying the stench of ages. The tunnel beneath led them into a vast chamber. Torches flickered against the walls, revealing paintings of priests raising their hands to the sky, and a single phrase repeated in many forms: Do not awaken the fire that sleeps.

At the heart of the chamber stood a massive structure—a rocket, ancient yet strangely pristine. Its surface shimmered with metal that looked untouched by time. Around it lay skeletons draped in ceremonial robes, their arms stretched outward as though they had died in prayer.

One of the crew, a woman named Elara, stepped back in fear. “This isn’t treasure. It’s a warning. We shouldn’t be here.”

Marcus’s grin widened. “This is technology beyond anything. Governments will pay billions for it. We’ll be rich beyond imagination.”

Ignoring her protests, Marcus ordered the crew to begin dismantling the artifacts around the rocket. As they pried loose pieces of metal and broke ancient relics, a deep rumbling shook the chamber. Dust rained from the ceiling. The ground trembled like the heartbeat of something waking.

Suddenly, the skeletons that surrounded the rocket began to glow faintly, as though embers still burned in their bones. Their hollow eyes flickered with light, and one by one, they rose.

“The guardians…” Elara gasped.

The hunters panicked. Some dropped their tools and fled into the tunnels, only to vanish in screams that echoed back hollow and short. The skeletal guardians moved with eerie silence, their bones clattering as though powered by unseen energy.

Marcus, consumed by greed, raced toward the rocket. He placed his hands on its cold surface, shouting, “It’s mine! It belongs to me!”

The rocket pulsed with light, symbols glowing across its body. A voice—not human, not earthly—filled the chamber:

Those who disturb the vessel shall burn with its fire.

In a blinding flash, flames erupted from the base of the rocket, though it did not move. Instead, the fire spread outward in waves, searing through the chamber. The guardians stood untouched, but Marcus and his hunters were consumed in screams of agony. Flesh turned to ash, greed to dust.

Elara alone survived, shielded by the shadows of a broken pillar. When the fire subsided, silence fell again. The rocket’s glow faded, and the guardians returned to their places, kneeling once more in eternal watch.

Elara crawled out of the tomb, her body scarred but alive. She stumbled through the desert, carrying with her the weight of what she had seen. She tried to tell others—villagers, travelers, even scholars—but no one believed her. They dismissed her as a madwoman burned by the sun.

But in her nightmares, the vision always returned: the rocket sleeping in its tomb, waiting for the next greedy soul to awaken it.

And sometimes, when the desert winds howled just right, she swore she could hear it humming beneath the sand—like a heartbeat, biding its time.

The curse of the rocket was not just a story. It was alive. And it was waiting