10 points to who ever can name the Travelog this was loosely based on. Don't cringe too much at the end...this was origianlly published in Nickolaus Pacione's "Tabloid Purposes I"

You stand here and drink my Brandy, fine year isn't it?, and tell me how you can't see how an intelligent person could believe in the supernatural. Well, I believe. Don't stare so my young friend, here, let me tell you how my own disbelief's were brought to a climactic end on that fateful journey I undertook with the Boyce party, December 21, 1910. Can I refill your snifter? No? Then let me begin.

We departed from the boisterous piers of New Orleans for the port of Colon, Panama. There we inspected the Canal Zone, that "Big Ditch" as they affectionately call it. Mr. Boyce felt sure it will be finished, and not to cast disparagement on the Herculean tasks already accomplished, I fear it may never be done and we fall prey to the same loss of face that France has. I digress, we continued on the journey through the countries of Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia and Chile. Of these countries I have little to say, that is, that I can say better than Mr. Boyce has in his fine book, "Illustrated South America". No, these countries, while having great physical beauties, and too many quite real terrors to adequately delineate in this tale, were not the source of my new found belief in the supernatural.

It was in the country of Columbia, in the territory of the Chibcha Indians, said by some scholars to perhaps be descended from the sunken land of Atlantis, that I found my belief, and dread, of the supernatural. We landed in the picturesque port of Santa Marta, which is east of Puerto Columbia. It lay at the foot of the 17,000 foot "Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta". From there we traveled overland via the "Banana Railroad," so named for the cash crop of Bananas that it hauls between the English plantations and the coast. We stopped at the relative civilization of Cienaga that is located on the lower Magdelena. We spent a few days there and then booked passage up river.

The boat was a stern wheeler, no doubt brought there from the United States used, and now much worse for wear. We boarded and set out on the canos, or delta, area of the Magdelena, expecting to arrive in the environs of Barranquilla the next morning. Mud banks delayed us for nearly a day. Finally, we reached the metropolis of Barranquilla, perhaps the most commercially important town of the republic.

Unfortunately, Barranquilla is an ugly, colorless town. It is modern, without even the saving grace of history. Many German merchants make their home there, in villas overlooking the town proper. The river port was bustling with numerous boats of the same vintage as ours. They navigate the Magdalena, Cauca and Nichi rivers. From there we traveled to the 16th century walled city of Cartagena. Then it was on to Calamar where we started up the river for the town of La Dorda, 480 miles to the South. Had I known what was in store for me, I would have booked passage home from Cartagena.

We had thought to stay with the boat for the entire journey, but low water, numerous mud flats and mechanical difficulties made this impossible. Soon, we grew tired of the constant delays and hired a native guide and a champan with fifteen rowers to take us further up river. In addition to the rowers, the champan was large enough for our party, tents and minimal luggage.

During the torturous passage, I noted the boat made great pains to stay to the east side of the river. I asked our guide why this was so and he explained that the Acua Indians, who were head hunters, claimed the other side as their territory. To punctuate his story, he pulled a shrunken head from a pouch at his belt, he called it his "Good Luck."

We traveled the Magdalena to the Cauco and there set out on foot. The mesquitos and biting flies were a great bother, but a foul smelling concoction used by the Indians soon put things right. That night we camped in the foothills of the Cordillera. Nearby stood the ruins of the Chibcha city called Tiazapta by the guide. I'm sure its real name was lost to antiquity. The less learned of our bearers, unfortunately the majority, seemed ill at ease and stayed, grumbling with fearful glances toward the ruins, to themselves. When I asked our guide as to the cause of their distress he scoffed and cited "Legends of the feathered serpent." I pressed no further.

Weary from our journey, unused to travel by foot for such long distances, we quickly made camp and had supper. Before we bedded down, evening had set and a full moon bathed the landscape with pale light. The shadows within the ruins seemed dark and foreboding. I tried not to think of the horrid ceremonies undertook there in age's past. Hearts ripped still beating from a virgin's breast, the skin removed from her body for a priest's ceremonial robe. I still shudder at those terrible images. Even I, with my civilization dulled senses could feel an almost electric tension in the air. Had I known of the coming horror, I would have fled into the night, risking being lost in the jungle rather than facing what was to come.

I had scarce fallen into fitful sleep when the sound of drums brought me full awake. I looked about the tent, my companions still slept, although how, with the noise of the drums, was a mystery to me. Why I did not awaken them, I will never know. The compelling rhythm pulled at a deep part of me. The savage that roams the corridors of each man's soul felt the elemental pull of those primitive sounds. Strapping my revolver about my waist, I left the tent and stole away into the moonlit night. The sound came from the ruins and there I would go.

The rest of the camp seemed deserted. The bearers, totally un-nerved by the sound of the drums, must have fled, even as the sane part of me cried out to do. I curse the civilized part that pushed me forward, with confidence in my superior abilities, into that terror filled night. I followed the sound of the drums into the ruins. By the moon's illumination the ruins lost their decrepit look, indeed, at times I swear I expected to come upon an inhabitant, out upon some devilish errand. Still I followed the drums, to whatever their dreadful sound accompanied.

Step by fearful step I crept through the deserted streets, through the decaying greatness of eons past, toward that compelling noise. Past carved images of jaguars, alligators, monkeys and serpents that adorned the buildings, much as the gargoyles adorn a cathedral. I came at last to a great stepped pyramid. The base was covered with the carved likenesses of human skulls, each leered out with empty sockets as if daring me to go no further. Screwing up my courage, I boldly climbed the stone steps that led to the top, my foolish curiosity burning to find the source of those compelling drumbeats. As I reached the top of the pyramid, the drums stopped.

Spread out beneath me was a scene from hell. Hundreds of Chibchas surrounded a stone altar that lay before a circular well. From my vantage point I could see the mirror smoothness of water at its bottom. Stretched out upon the altar was the unconscious, nude body of a young Indian maiden, even from my vantage point I could tell she was of exquisite beauty. A low chant had replaced the drums. The crowd swayed with the flow of the strange twisted words, uttered in a dialect not heard for centuries. I watched, horrified, as the priest raised the shining sacrificial dagger, it gleamed in the light of the full moon. I knew he meant to tear the living heart from her breast!

As the dagger reached the height of its stroke, I drew my revolver and fired! Being no marksman, I was astounded when the priest fell dead, pierced through his own wretched heart. The sound of the shot, and the great gout of blood from the wound, had an astounding effect upon the gathered savages. Rather than seeking me, and in all possibility taking my life, as well as that of the girl, they howled with fear and fled off into the night. It must have seemed to them that the God's had spoken with a voice of thunder and reached out with anger to take the heart of the priest. Soon, with the exception of the unconscious girl, the dead priest and myself, the area around the altar was deserted.

Realizing I had but minutes until they would return, I rushed pell-mell down the steps, how I kept from a fall that would surely have dashed the brains from my skull, I will never know. I was soon panting by the side of the altar, watching all the time for the return of the Chibchas. The girl was as lovely as I had thought. Her long, straight black hair cascaded over the sides of the altar, forming a dark fan about her face. Her young body was perfect, no heaviness of age was anywhere apparent, indeed, I would venture a guess she was hardly out of her teens. Her face, relaxed as if only asleep, had the primitive beauty that so many of the Indian women had, although hers was more perfect than any I had seen. I don't know how long I stood admiring that perfect specimen of womanhood before me, but soon I shook off the spell her beauty had cast

and, taking a ceremonial robe of scarlet feathers from the dead priest, wrapped her in it, and carried her away from that scene of horror into the dark ruins.

I made my way towards the direction of camp. I hadn't gone over a few hundred yards when she awoke. At first she looked dazed. Then, seeing me, she screamed and began to fight like a wild jaguar. Of course I had no choice but to drop her.

She landed, and, agile as the cat she had fought like, was soon past me and running back toward the altar I had just rescued her from. I stood in shock as the ceremonial robe, fluttering like a pair of great wings, disappeared around a corner. I assumed her crazed from the drug they had given her and set off in pursuit.

I heard her young voice reciting the very chant that the Chibchas had used before I put them to flight. As I came around the corner of the pyramid, I was brought up short by a terrible spectacle. She stood, once again naked, on the altar, the full, gibbous moon over her left shoulder. Clutched in her hand, the dagger winked cruelly in its light. As she chanted and swayed, a beauteous smile spread across her face. I realized that she intended to go on with sacrifice! As the chant reached a climax, I heard something stir in the pool below.

What it was, I do not know. I have not seen its like since. It reared its serpent-like head up out of the well and I watched the water drip from feather-like appendages that lined the savage head. As it rose up, it hissed and then, opening its toothsome jaws, brought forth as vile a sound as I have ever heard. Just as I raised the pistol to shoot, the girl plunged the knife into her young breast. I fired one crazed shot at the beast and then rushed to her side. The beast, wounded, screamed out more dreadfully than before. With a look full of hatred, it closed its fearful jaws upon the torso of the girl. With a mighty leap, I reached her side and grasp her hand, only to have it wrenched from my grasp by a sideways lunge of that loathsome head. I watched horrified as the creature upended its hideous head and swallowed the girl's body with the crackling of bones and frenzied gulps. I emptied the pistol into the creature as it sank back into the well. My mind, strained beyond endurance at what I had witnessed, fled into madness. Of the rest of the night, my return to camp, anything at all, I have no memory.

I awoke the next morning in the throes of malarial delirium. Indeed, for the next week, until some quinine bark was found and prepared by the Indians, I lay in fever dreams, each fully as terrible as my experience that night. Finally, on the sixth day, the fever broke and I was able to tell my story. They listened attentively, then laughed!

During the week I had lain nearly comatose, they had not stood idly by. They had explored the ruins and had taken, and developed, with a portable dark room tent, numerous photographic plates.

"Then you have seen the temple! And the well!" I exclaimed.

"Indeed we have." They responded, and showed their pictures to me.

The temple I had so laboriously climbed was a miserable ruin, hardly one stone stood upon the other and the whole was overgrown with vines and jungle growth, here and there, the image of a skull peeked out from among the weeds. Of the well, only a broken walled pit, with dark, moss and slime covered water remained. I sank back in disbelief, ready to credit it all to the malaria.

It was days before I was strong enough to travel. None too soon, we were back in Cartagena, and finally, on a steamer bound for America. As I unpacked my clothes, I found a pair of much abused trousers at the bottom of my trail pack. Before I threw them in the rag bin, I searched the pockets. What I found convinced me what I had experienced was real. I never showed my fellow travelers, but here, I'll show you. Be careful with it, it is quite delicate. I assume it was torn away when the creature wrenched her dead hand from my grasp. I think it must be her little finger.