Exploring the Forbidden: Unveiling the Dark Secrets of the Mayan Jungle

Mysteries of the Mayan Jungle Part 1

 

Owner of Journal Unknown

Expedition Date: February 27th, 2024

 

alt=""Entry 1: March 3rd

 

Arrived in southern Mexico today.
The air is humid and heavy,
carrying the rich scent of earth and foliage.
The locals speak in hushed tones about the land beyond the river;
an expanse of jade green,
crawling into the horizon and veiled in mystery.
 
I’m here to chart what many have deemed untouched,
a supposedly uninhabitated segment of the Mayan Jungle.
 
Santiago,
my guide,
says ancestors speak of lands where the sky hung heavy and the stars whispered.
To be honest,
I find it a curious mix of thrilling and unnerving.

 

alt=""Entry 2: March 5th

 

We began our trek at dawn.
Santiago led the way with his machete swinging rhythmically,
slicing through the dense underbrush.
 
The jungle is alive with sounds
— chirps,
growls,
the distant crash of something heavy.
 
Though our path is unmarked,
Santiago moves with a certainty that is both comforting and astounding.
He crossed himself before we stepped beneath the darker,
denser canopy where sunlight struggles to pierce through.

 

alt=""Entry 3: March 7th

 

Today,
we found something unsettling
— a stone structure,
nearly swallowed by the jungle.
 
It shouldn’t be here.
The maps don’t record any settlement in this area.
The structure is a stela,
covered in strange carvings,
unlike the typical Mayan glyphs I’ve studied.
 
Angular,
harsh lines that seem to twist visually as you look at them.
Santiago wouldn’t approach it;
he just kept whispering,
“Ixchel la’ ixoq,”
which translates to ‘Mother of the female waters.’
 
Thunderclouds gathered overhead as though the skies themselves wanted to close in on this forgotten monument.

 

alt=""Entry 4: March 8th

 

Last night was restless.
The sounds of the jungle morphed into whispers in my dreams.
 
Strange,
indecipherable words that felt important,
urgent.
I woke up to a mild fog enveloping our camp.
 
Today,
we stumbled upon more ruins,
entire structures of them,
choked by vines and roots.
An entire city,
hidden.
 
We’re not supposed to be here;
these aren’t meant for foreign eyes.
Santiago has been quiet,
more watchful.
 
The deeper we go,
the more I feel we are not just discovering,
we are intruding.

 

alt=""Entry 5: March 10th

 

Something is wrong.
We were supposed to turn back two days ago,
but the jungle doesn’t look the same anymore.
The trees seem denser,
the darkness deeper.
The compass spins wildly in my hand.
 
The stela,
with its twisted carvings,
appeared again by our path today,
as if following us.
Or are we walking in circles?
But Santiago refuses to admit it.
His murmurs of prayer are a constant background beneath the omnipresent murmur of the jungle.

 

alt=""Entry 6: March 12th

 

We are lost.
The realization hammers in with every beat of my heart.
Last night,
the whispers in my dreams turned into clear voices,
calling me ‘Ixkik’
— the blood gatherer.
 
I awoke to find my hands dirty,
as though I had been digging through the earth in my sleep.
Santiago won’t look me in the eye,
fear evident in his.
Food is running low,
and the jungle around us feels sentient,
watchful,
and not at all welcoming.
The air is thick with a palpable dread.

 

alt=""Entry 7: March 15th

 

I saw it last night
— a figure,
cloaked in the shadows of the trees,
watching.
 
This morning,
a path had appeared that wasn’t there before.
Santiago says it’s the way out,
insisted on it with a fervor that seemed more fearful than hopeful.

 

alt=""Final Entry: March 16th

 

The path led us here,
to a lake we’ve never seen,
surrounded by mist and those ominous stelae,
their carvings now eerily familiar.
The water is dark,
almost black.
 
As we approached,
the figures from the shadows emerged,
their features obscured and their intentions unknown but their presence overwhelming.
I do not know what wants to be found or hidden here, but it’s clear that this place,
this ancient,
whispering,
breathing land of the Maya,
is not just a part of our world
— it belongs to another.
 
The compass has stopped spinning.
Santiago is gone.
I hear the voices clearly now.
They do not mean to harm.
They mean to claim.
 
This is not a diary of discovery,
but a testament,
perhaps an epitaph.
I do not expect to leave,
but I hope this journal does,
as a warning or a lure to those who are intrigued by what should not be disturbed.

 

The remainder of the pages are blank,

the edges slightly curled and speckled with the mildew characteristic of lingering dampness.

The journal’s location is unknown,

as is the fate of its writer.

For now,

the whispering jungles keep their secrets fiercely guarded,

untouched—or so they seem.




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