The old temple at Delphi held secrets darker than anyone knew. Marina wiped sweat from her brow as she climbed the ancient stone steps in the fading light. Her grandmother’s warnings about visiting sacred places after sunset echoed in her mind, but she pushed them aside.
The autumn air grew colder as she reached the temple ruins. Broken columns cast long shadows across cracked marble floors where thousands of pilgrims once sought Apollo’s wisdom. Marina clutched her archaeology permit, reminding herself this was for research. Just a quick survey of the lower chamber before dark.
Her flashlight beam cut through the gloom as she descended worn steps into the underground chamber. The musty air felt thick, almost alive. According to legend, this was where the Pythia—Apollo’s oracle—would breathe sacred vapors and speak prophecies. Marina’s colleagues dismissed such tales as myths.
A sudden breeze snuffed out her flashlight. Marina froze. The breeze shouldn’t be possible this far underground. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the flashlight switch.
“Visitor…” The whisper seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
Marina’s heart pounded. “Hello?” Her voice sounded small in the darkness. “Is someone there?”
“You seek knowledge…” The whisper grew stronger, taking on an odd echo. “But knowledge has a price.”
Green mist curled around Marina’s feet, glowing faintly. It carried a sharp, metallic smell that made her head spin. She tried to step back, but her legs wouldn’t move.
“The gods do not forgive those who trespass.” The voice was closer now, right behind her. Marina felt cold breath on her neck.
She spun around and screamed. Where there should have been a wall stood a woman in ancient robes, her skin pale as marble, eyes completely black. Green vapor poured from her mouth as she spoke:
“Your fate is sealed, little scholar. The prophecy must be fulfilled.”
Marina ran. Her feet slipped on the smooth stone as she scrambled up the steps. Behind her, hollow laughter echoed through the chamber. She burst out of the temple into twilight, gasping for air.
Later, Marina would tell herself it was just a hallucination. Bad air in the underground chamber. A trick of light and shadow. But in her dreams, those black eyes still watched her. And sometimes, when she was alone, she caught the scent of metallic vapor on the wind.
They found her notebook the next morning, abandoned on the temple steps. Inside, written in Marina’s neat handwriting, was a single line:
“The Oracle speaks truth. I am hers now.”
Marina herself was never seen again. But on quiet nights, visitors to Delphi sometimes hear whispers from the temple depths—two voices now, speaking prophecies in perfect unison.
