The Sleepers of Mount Ararat

The Sleepers of Mount Ararat

Mount Ararat rose like a monument swallowed by clouds. Its peak was always shrouded in snow, its slopes bare and littered with wind-scattered stones. A wilderness untouched by man, it had for centuries been fertile ground for legends. Some called it the resting place of Noah’s Ark, others whispered it was a prison for cursed spirits.

During a military exercise on the northern flank, soldiers digging a shelter stumbled upon something unexpected. Beneath layers of basalt, vast cavities opened. One soldier, sweeping his flashlight across the rough walls, froze at what he saw: finger-like imprints too long to be human, curling marks etched into the rock, and streaks that looked as if the stone itself had been scorched.

When the excavation widened, bones emerged—bones that did not belong to man. The skulls were far too large, the jawlines broad, the femurs warped. Their hands had been long, skeletal, yet strangely graceful. Worst of all, the rib cages bore the unmistakable marks of fire, as though these bodies had once burned from within.

The Cemetery of the Jinn

News of the find brought young archaeologist Leyla to the site. What greeted her were enormous skulls, blackened as if seared. They matched no animal fossil she had studied, no human remains she had ever catalogued.

To the soldiers, the cavern seemed less like a tomb than a necropolis. Rows of standing stone pillars rose from the floor, each carved with symbols unrecognizable, yet disturbingly familiar. Leyla recalled a fragment from her studies: “The jinn are born, they live, and they die.”

The realization gripped her—this must be the fabled Cemetery of the Jinn, spoken of in whispers around the mountain villages. Perhaps a race that had lived before the Deluge, kin to man but of fire and shadow, extinguished in the Flood and entombed here beneath the mountain’s crust.

The Stirring

Nights grew restless for the soldiers. They spoke of whispers weaving through the tents, voices that resembled neither wind nor prayer but something older, more guttural.

One night a sentry was found screaming, his skin scarred with burns though he had touched no flame. All he could choke out before fainting was:

“They are waking…”

Leyla inspected one of the pillars and saw fractures snaking across its surface. From the cracks came hot gusts of air, as though the mountain itself was breathing.

Noah’s Curse

She wrote in her notebook:

“If this is true, then Noah’s Ark was not only salvation but also a seal. It preserved mankind while imprisoning another race that defied God. These graves are not memorials. They are prisons.”

But by then it was too late. That night tremors shook the cavern. One pillar split apart with a thunderous crack. From its ruin emerged a figure—humanoid, yet its eyes glowed like embers. Its body was draped in seared flesh, and its voice rumbled like a roar rising through magma.

The soldiers fired their rifles. Bullets ricocheted, useless. With a glance, the creature smothered the muzzle flashes, as if swallowing the fire itself.

The Aftermath

By morning, the army sealed the area. The official report spoke of an avalanche. Leyla’s notebook was never found. Only one soldier’s camera survived, showing a shadow moving among the pillars, and in the background a single phrase, low and echoing:

“We did not die. We only waited.”

Since that day, mountaineers whisper of strange voices carried by the winds at night. Some claim they have seen charred bones where the ice melts, half-buried in the snow. And a few know the truth: Noah’s Ark was not only a beginning, but the key to a curse that never truly ended.