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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/TheAtlasOdyssey on 2025-01-13 15:26:46+00:00.
My interest in history started on a particularly lonely Thursday evening, many years ago. Overall, I enjoyed my youth, though my mother often claimed I was prone to "just a bit of melancholia." I really don’t blame her; she was raised in a very traditional household, where that type of thinking was the norm. But as time went on, the world changed around her, while she clung to the tenets of her father and his father before him. Soon, she was left behind, unable to grasp where time—or her sense of it—had gone. Our opposing views on the inner workings of women often led to competitive shouting matches, without referee or final score. That Thursday was one of those days.
After slamming my door shut and viciously pointing my middle fingers towards it, I collapsed face-first onto my bed. The waterworks started slow at first, as if they were run by a poorly funded local government. But I couldn’t hold it for long, and soon I was weeping violently. By then, this ritual had become routine, and there was no need to break it now. So, quite mechanically, I reached for the bookshelf. Usually, this would lead to devouring a soppy romance novel and falling asleep at some ungodly hour, but this time, the book I chose would change the trajectory of my life.
Poetry and Art from the Dawn of Man by James W. Marigold—a book my father had gifted me years earlier. On a personal level, my dad only really knew one thing about me: I loved reading, especially poetry. However, even though the gift itself came from a place of ignorance, it would become the single most important piece of literature I would ever consume.
I read about great kings and conquerors, about soldiers as afraid and confused as I was. Mere men, once violated by the gods of old, who had a fire awakened within them—a fire that could not be extinguished until they ascended the stairs of Mount Olympus and tore the hearts from the gods themselves. I read notes and letters not meant to be seen by anyone except sender and receiver—lovers forgotten by the sands of time. I read about monuments I had seen with my own two eyes, thousands of years after someone had stood there and scribbled symbols on a papyrus scroll. The idea that people from so long ago had seen what I saw, touched what I touched, and felt what I felt filled me with a serenity I had never known. But even in that serenity, I sometimes felt a peculiar shadow linger at the edges of my thoughts, like a whisper I couldn’t quite catch.
A couple of years later, I packed my bags and traveled across the country to pursue history. Many trials and tribulations later, I stand here with a Ph.D. in Old Norse Language and History. Outside of that, I’ve written papers covering earlier Scandinavian history, like the Funnelbeaker and Corded Ware cultures, as far back as the initial settlement of the region. Before my current obsession (the topic of this post), I tried my hand at furthering the reconstruction of the Proto-Indo-Europeans, a hypothetical precursor people from which almost all modern European–and many Eastern–cultures stem. This has no relevance to the horrors that I will soon tell of, but I thought I’d give you one last sweet cherry before I burden you.
So, enjoy this little passage: isn’t it beautiful how a small tribe on the Caspian Steppe once spoke a language that would turn into everything from German to Iranian? Isn’t it beautiful how the gods they worshipped would morph into Thor in one place and Zeus in another? Isn’t it beautiful how the stories they told echoed around campfires for millennia afterward? And isn’t it horrifying how even their most sacred words could decay into curses that still linger?
Two years ago, something remarkable was discovered. In a bog just outside the Swedish city of Torneträsk, a local politician was hiking. His foot got stuck in the mud when he strayed from the path constructed of wooden planks. It took a while for help to arrive, but when they finally pulled him out, they noticed something glimmering in the hole he had created. A chest, no bigger than three hands placed next to each other, was extracted from the ground. Even before it was opened, witnesses claimed the air around it grew unnervingly still, heavy with a silence that pressed against their ears.
When the chest was pried open, it revealed a treasure that should have remained buried. Inside lay the single longest runic manuscript we have ever found.
I won’t bore you with the bureaucracy and minutiae that followed—just know I fought tooth and nail to be on the initial team of academics granted access to it.
Dubbed Codex Itineribus (Book of Travels) by scholars, the manuscript was a 40-page, almost perfectly preserved text written in Old Norse. It was dated to around 650 A.D. based on both the use of the Elder Futhark and carbon dating. But here’s where things become truly strange.
The runes were inked on parchment by a seemingly skilled craftsman. This is unprecedented. The runic alphabet was designed for carving into stone or wood, its sharp, straight angles suited to tools like chisels and knives. To find it inked—fluid, deliberate—was strange. The parchment itself was unnervingly pristine, as though time had refused to touch it. Even the ink, a dark, almost viscous black, seemed fresh.
The author of the text appears to have been a well-traveled and educated man. His writing is deeply personal, a voice that bridges centuries with intimacy. Most literature from this era falls into one of two categories: heroic tales or eulogies for the dead. Yet this manuscript defies both. Academic circles classify it as a diary, or perhaps a manifesto, and I agree with that assessment—though it feels like something darker. Something that eludes definition.
The text is steeped in native poetic devices while not being a poem by definition. Kennings—descriptions of something using unrelated words—abound. The old poets would strip words down to their essence, describing them through metaphors. Whale-road (sea), sky-candle (sun), wolf-laughter (howl). Yet these kennings seemed different—twisted, almost warning.
The text whispered in a language that gnawed at the edges of understanding—not Old Norse, though it birthed the manuscript’s words, but something far older. A tongue from the shadowed dawn of man, where every syllable felt like a claw dragging across the fabric of reason.
The more I read, the harder it became to sleep. The runes floated behind my eyelids when I closed them, twisting and shifting. One night, I woke to find my fingers tracing patterns on my sheets as though compelled by something unseen. It was the same night my colleague—a man I had worked beside for years—threw himself from a bridge without a word.
In the two years since the Codex was unearthed, death has followed us like a plague. My team has fallen one by one—some by freak accidents, others by their own trembling hands. I know my time is running out. Even now, as I write this, I feel something watching me, waiting for me to falter. If you read further, it will see you too.
The script begins rather pedestrian with tales of travels far and wide, typical of the later vikings. Interestingly, the author seemingly claims to have travelled as far as Oceania, which completely shatters much of our current understanding of history. Plundering and trade, familial bonds and relationships and current rulers of the lands he inhabited; this takes up much of the manuscript’s first half. But, on page 22, he describes finding something somewhere and bringing it home. Then the tone shifts.
I have decided to intersperse segments of my life between the fragments of the original text and its translation. You might just see how it has affected me.
Original text (Old Norse): “Hér byrjar saga mitt. Viðr kennir eigi nema þú heyrðir hann. Í myrkrinu, í skuggsælum stóðum, byrjar leiðin. Hljóðlaus tungur tala en eyru heyra; hugr minn stefnir til vors endis.”
Translation: “Here begins my tale. The forest speaks only if you listen. In the darkness, in the shadowed glades, the journey begins. Silent tongues speak, and ears hear; my mind drifts toward our end.”
I remember reading this passage late one night, alone in the archival room. My breath hung in the air as I copied the words onto my laptop. The phrase “silent tongues” lingered in my mind long after I’d stopped typing. That night, I dreamt of figures moving through the trees, their forms indistinct, their whispers sharp and cold.
The next day, one of my colleagues, Dr. Anders Håkansson, approached me with trembling hands. He claimed he couldn’t sleep, that he kept hearing the same words murmured in his ear: “Hér byrjar saga mitt.” His voice broke when he told me he didn’t think they were his own thoughts anymore.
Original text (Old Norse): “Undir trjánum, þar sem ljós hverfur, þau vakna. Ekki menn, ekki skepnur, heldur eitthvað eldra. Þeirra raddir brenna huga og þeirra hendur mylja hold. Eg sá þau, og enn lifi eg.”
Translation: “Beneath the trees, where light fades, they awaken. Not men, not beasts, but something older. Their voices scorch the mind, and their hands crush flesh. I saw them, and yet I live.”
By the time we reached this section of the manuscript, Dr. Håkansson had resigned from the project. He left without warning, his office emptied overnight. A note on his desk read, “Ég lifi ekki lengur í dagsljósi. Forðist skuggana.” (“I no longer live in daylight....
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