Personal notes of Dr Sana Barzani regarding the Barnun Tablets.
(29/04/1999-07/05/1999)
I’d not had any correspondence with the person sending me Dr Barzani’s notes in so long that I was starting to worry, for their safety and, selfishly, my sanity. I’ve been struggling to sleep or eat, worried that I would never know what any of this means, that I would never get to the bottom of this.
The final package arrived a few days ago. It has not alleviated any of my suffering. Some questions have been answered but many more replace them, but one at least has been answered.
It’s him. Mordecai is the ‘M’ written about in those tablets. Dr Sana Barzani is gone because she dared to reveal a truth he clearly wanted hidden, and now I’m worried that I’ll share her fate.
I have spent all week trying, and failing, to keep myself grounded in reality. But how can I ground myself when the earth feels like its been pulled from under me.
He called himself M. That awful man. With that sadistic smirk that suggests he’s ten steps ahead, like he knows I know, like the cat who enjoys watching the mouse realise its own doom. Like he’s just daring me to give in to the truth I know I can’t be seeing.
What if it’s him?
What if M succeeded in his mission to defy death and he now stalks the halls of my university to ensure we don’t dig up what he tried to bury?
Is that what happened? Am I really considering this??
He looks dead. Is that evidence toward my theory? He could just be ill! Very, very ill. He could just go by M and I’m making connections with invisible string. And he could simply be interested in my work! He’s not the first one that’s for sure. But usually they don’t have the audacity to act like a teacher wagging a finger at a misbehaving child, a teacher who seems to prefer a knife to the cane.
The evidence I have for this theory is flimsy at best, downright insanity at worst! I’m so scared to take the plunge, to throw away all I have worked for, all that Baba had worked so hard to set me up for. What if there is an afterlife and I find my father there? How could I look him in the eye and say I threw myself off the path he paved for me to go chase fairytales in the dark?
But that name, Mordecai, it rung a bell. I knew it was an ancient name and after some research a couple nights back, I found a Mordecai in the Bible. In the Book of Esther, it’s said he uncovered and helped to foil a plan to exterminate the Jewish people, and he’s a highly revered figure in the faith. But something Baba said when I was younger about the name kept me digging and I soon found the origins come from Babylon, the name meaning servant of Marduk.
Assuming my theory is true and the scratched out name in this text is Maruduk or Marduka, why would someone with that name look so… white? The Barnun text describes him and his companion, E, as strangers from another land and pale. He looks like he comes from the UK, ticking ‘White-British’ on his passport application. He’s not Persian, definitely not Babylonian, but that name is another thing that connects him back to Babylon where the author says he attained immortality (I despise that I’m writing that with full sincerity). Did he take the name? What is the strange name erased from the text that also begins with M? Every piece of evidence that counters this theory never seems to negate it entirely, simply suggests there’s more evidence I’m missing!
This academic purgatory I find myself in feels like hell, a place where fantasy makes more sense than what should fit neatly into the reality I’ve learnt to trust. What if this Mordecai was the ‘demon’ the author of this ancient text died trying to warn us about? What if he’s here to stop me from releasing my findings? I am haunted by the possibility and scared by how much it excites me. A real, living relic from the period I’ve spent my life researching!
I just wish I’d gotten E instead. Maybe he would’ve been less of a creep.
I was followed again. I don’t know if it's in my head, I don’t know if the paranoia is playing havoc with my grip on reality. Around town, on my way into work, getting into my flat: I feel watched. I see them looking at me as well and they wave back at me, a cocky smile etched into every face. I even contacted the police but they said to return with more evidence or if they get violent. F*cking useless f*ckers!
What if it's connected to Mordecai? I can’t tell anyone about my research until I’m sure, or risk career death. I can’t accuse him until I can prove his motive, but I can’t prove it until I can prove it's him! And prove what? That he’s immortal?!
I need a plan. I need him to say it, say that it's him. I will wait until he finds me again, because I don’t think he’ll be gone for long if I just keep pushing. I will show him I am not his mouse to hunt. I’ll just have to set a trap myself.
He was in my lecture today, setting my plan in motion.
My students were confused when I changed the subject matter last minute but I was able to entertain them with the Barnun find. I’d had the translation printed, the lesson plan ready, and donned my best academic impartiality for the occasion. I tried not to look at him too often so as not to show my hand too early but I am admittedly too prideful to resist checking on the progress of my efforts, and I was rewarded with the most emotion I’d ever seen on that hollow face.
I saw rage. Delicious rage.
The students played their parts impeccably. They were intrigued, excited to not be going over the same text we’d been deciphering for weeks now. I allowed them to speak amongst themselves, discuss the validity of the text, running through the possibility of religiosity and metaphor acting as a lens through which the author’s reality is conveyed to us, blah blah blah: nothing was raised that I’d not already feverishly over-thought but they connected all the same dots, right in front of the monster the text might have been written about.
Because if I am right and this is the M from the text, how human could you remain after all this time?
It was when Charlotte spoke up that I knew I’d caught him in my net. I usually curse her name for her avid interest in mythology and folk stories, but I will have to find a way to reward her for this boon later.
“In the interest of academic imagination, Dr Barzani, should we consider the possibility that M and E were able to obtain immortality?”
I had to contain the urge to throw my fists in the air and laugh in the face of my pallid tormentor. “We could, what would be your argument for that?”
She did seem surprised, poor girl, by my willingness to engage in such nonsense. I mean, little did she know that the possibility she had raised had been keeping me up at night for weeks. “Well… I know that theories about the Philosopher’s Stone were first raised amongst alchemists in the 14th into the 15th century, initially by Nicholas Flammel,” (Charlotte always found a way to go into extraneous detail on her obsessions, the class around her going quiet as they sensed her entering the danger zone), “but the red stones mentioned in this text, especially given their connections to the Neo-Babylonian alchemists in conjunction with E and M’s interest in immortality… it just seems like too much of a ‘coincidence’ to ignore?”
If ever I release my findings to the public, Charlotte is getting thanked on the first bloody page. Her self-awareness seemed to return to her at the end of her speech, her voice nervously petering off towards the end. But instead of my usual (perhaps cold) dismissal, I just wanted to breach all professional respectability and gather her up in a hug. I did not. Instead, I responded with, “It is certainly a risky assertion to make but I commend your bravery in doing so. It is sound logic, if not fantastical, and may require further investigation to get to the bottom of.”
The class were stunned into silence for a second, allowing me to risk another look up at Mordecai. I was no longer receiving a death glare, but it had cooled into something potentially far scarier. A look that contained a cold and very real threat.
I’d like to say I’m not a woman who scares easy. I’m usually not. But weeks of fitful sleep and paranoia were catching up to me and as all else blurred around those cold, colourless eyes, a very real and heavy sense of dread dug its claws into my chest.
The lecture ended with students excitedly asking if they could take the handouts home. I refused, asking they all return their sheets to me as unpublished as my findings are. Unlike last time, Mordecai was the last to leave, staying seated as I gathered my things. Keeping my head low, I heard him approach. I felt my heartbeat in my ears, my palms sweaty and shaking with a slight tremor. The sound of his shoes clacking on the hardwood floor echoed around me, but I almost found myself missing the clamour as he stopped in front of my desk. I looked up at him. His smile had returned, sharper than ever. This was the conversation as best as I can remember it.
“I’m impressed you would share unpublished work with your students like that,” his gravelly voice flat, hinting at an expression far less friendly than a smile.
I tried to keep my voice steady as I replied, still packing my things away and avoiding his eyes. “I was struggling with the enigma found in this particular text. Sometimes hearing other perspectives, even the bright and fresh eyes of one’s students, might jostle an academic into inspiration. But you might not know that, seeing as your own academic history is as much of a mystery as the text at hand.” I may not have needed to add that final jab but my self-destructive need to humble such unbridled arrogance is often my downfall. It was worth it though.
“My academic history is none of your concern, Dr Barzani-”
“It is if you insist upon intruding on my classroom without prior warning, sir. This is a lecture hall, used to educate those deemed worthy enough to sit in it. Dr Cavendish may vouch for you but I have yet to find any evidence to suggest that I should allow your presence without contest.” I had stopped packing away the last of my things, hands squared on the desk and making direct eye contact. I tried to channel my late father’s tone when laying low an uppity white colleague, direct but polite… I feel I may have fallen short into outwardly antagonistic in this instance. But the smile and small huff of laughter I got in return would suggest otherwise, a sadist turned masochist in his enjoyment of my insulting jibes. Or, a trick to lure me into a false sense of security.
“I can understand where my presence may have proven insulting to you and this fine institution. I apologise.” I stayed silent, a silence he clearly didn’t wish to dwell in for too long. “I would like to have a more private chat with you, about this enigma you’ve been working so diligently to uncover. Hopefully my perspective on the matter will finally help you make the progress you so desperately need.”
Insult aside, there was that knowing look returning to those strange colourless eyes. The unsaid we both dared not say, both our secrets meeting in tense acknowledgement. If it is true, if he is who I think he is, his perspective would prove invaluable. Almost too tempting to resist. But with everything I think I know…
He’d caught himself in my trap, but I still feel far from safe.
I had the dictaphone in hand, hidden from sight beneath the table. I sat there behind my desk, waiting for his arrival. I barely checked the glaring red numbers of the analogue clock on my desk, watching the unflinching door. I’m ashamed to say I jumped at the knock. Finally looking to the digits in front of me.‘13:45:00’. He was perfectly on time.
The red button I’d been playing with for almost fifteen minutes clicked soundlessly beneath my thumb.
“Come in.”
Listening back to this recording, I hear the click of the door and those same, sharp, echoing footsteps approaching. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I listen back, like he’s still here, as I sit in the dark transcribing our conversation from earlier in the day.
The sound of him settling into his seat across from me. Silence.
“So, Mr Du Giton-”
“Please. Call me Mordecai.” His voice is grating over the cheap speaker of the recorder.
“Why? You suggested ‘M’ when you first deigned me worthy enough of knowing who was stalking my classroom.”
A chuckle, feigning levity and hiding a sharp disdain beneath it. “Well, if you have gotten so used to simply referring to me as ‘M’, you are welcome to it.”
The standoff felt like it stretched into minutes, but soon enough my voice comes through the speaker.
“Why are you here, Mordecai?”
He gets up here to examine my office’s bookshelf with a casual sway that felt like it mocked the intensity settling over the room. “I’m here because I’m intrigued by your work! Not many would see worth in a find such as the Barnun tablets. And you have many such projects under your belt, earning you a reputation for sensationalism over academic integrity.”
He peered over his shoulder here, dark hair falling over his shoulder revealing a coy but feline glee at the chase. I can hear myself readjusting in my seat, furious that I must play this game.
“More insults. You almost seem unhappy that someone is looking into these finds.” A pause, the waver in my voice seemingly replaced by a surety I don’t remember having at the time. “You know, the reason you said you were here in the first place.”
I’m starting to see his tactics a little clearer at this point; a disarming smile used as he’s starting to feel cornered. I remember him bowing his head and huffing a small laugh. It’s all an act.
“I am happy, excuse my language. I only wish to-”
“I’ll be clear, Mordecai. I don’t believe you’re here because of some interest in my work. Nothing in your demeanour, attitude, or words suggest that I should.” No more games. No more dancing around this. I was going to make him say it before I had to. “This whole project is strange, not just the cuneiform I have translated but the strangers I have seen stalking the outside of my house, and somehow the strangest thing is still you weaseling your way onto campus with no traceable information to be found on your work or accreditations.”
Head still bowed, he stalked forward to place his bony fingers on my desk. “Are you accusing me of stalking, Dr Barzani? All the while admitting you have been trying to dig up dirt on me in turn?”
“I did not accuse you but it is interesting that you think I did.” He didn’t flinch, his smile didn’t slip, but his eyes gave it away. I was onto him. “So I will ask one more time before I have you leave my office: what are you doing here, M?”
He rose to his full height and looked down at where I sat, smile finally dropping.
“I’m here to tell you,” he drawls, voice dripping with venom, “that you have dug too deep this time, Sana.” Finally, a smile that felt real. A wide, toothy grin that stretched too far, eyes wide with manic ferocity. A predator removing the skin of the sheep.
I was doing so well, keeping up with him and giving as good as I got, even as the swell of panic stirred in my gut. I hated this freak… but my spite did not win against the fear in that moment and I froze. I hear the footsteps over the dictaphone retreat, loud even in my small office. I wince as I hear myself speak into the deafening quiet.
“Did you kill him?”
The click of his heel stopped abruptly. I remember the devilish grin as he turned to me.
“Which one?”
I swallow past the thick knot in my throat. “Your companion. The only part of his name we could save was ‘E’.”
This silence does actually span longer over the dictaphone, returning footsteps as he seats himself on my desk. I thought his grin before had been genuine, the shark-toothed grin of a killer belaying the truth behind his human disguise, but… something buried deeper rose, against even his own will maybe. Under the mask, behind the monster, was… something so human that it almost hurt to look at.
“I will give you this for your precious time, archaeologist,” he hissed, spitting the final word so hard I flinched. “I killed my oldest friend. The boy who pestered his way into my space, the man who tore his way into my heart, the only one worth more than a thousand years of my attention. The only person to see the wretch before you and see anything worth loving. Yes, I killed him and tore his heart from his chest.” My breathing stutters uncomfortably over the speaker, the memory of wanting to disappear into the back of my chair, my wide eyes stuck on the face of the undying. “But I knew, as I plunged my knife into his eye, that he would never leave me again.” His voice draws close, the dictaphones levels raising as he leans into my ear. “And they never have since.”
I don’t remember him leaving my office. I hear the footsteps recede on the recording. I remember facing a darkening office, empty of his presence. I’m still here, in the seat I faced him in. It’s been hours and I still don’t feel like I could stand if I wanted to.
I write this now as a failsafe. I think, as he leaned over the wood of my desk, I remember those eyes leaving mine for a second to glance at the recording dictaphone held limply in my shaking hand.
I don’t know why I pushed this.
Nothing feels real.
From the police report, the night of the 07th of May 1999 was the last anyone saw of Dr Sana Barzani. She was witnessed leaving campus and driving away in her car. A week later, a wellness check was performed on her home and the place had been ransacked. Her computer had been destroyed, bookshelves and drawers pulled away from the wall and their contents covering the floor, an urn containing her father’s ashes shattered with the contents scattered across the debris. There doesn’t seem to be any recorded stalking charges made by Dr Barzani in the week leading up to her disappearance and no ‘Mordecai’ was ever brought in for questioning, barely even considered according to this report.
I assume the dictaphone was never found. They clearly didn’t have these documents but if they had found it with a recent recording made with a conversation held with a man openly threatening her, they would have had to have declared it, right? Does all this means she’s dead? Did he kill her? What would he do if he finds me after I publish this?
I tried to finish this last night but they wouldn’t let me think. They stand there, demanding my attention, but I don’t look anymore. The meds should keep them away but they’ve been so clear lately…
It’s not evidence, if anything it probably makes me seem less reputable, but I can’t stop thinking about it.
This one has always looked the same, the white haired figure draped in ivy, a wound over their eye and a gaping hole in their chest.
If these documents are fake, if someone made all of this up to mock me…
How would they have known what my spectre looked like?