Edwin Mercy was an amateur archaeologist from Missouri who spent his time researching and excavating burial mounds in the southeastern United States. Modern archaeologists and even his contemporaries agree that Edwin did more damage than discovery. He pushed hard that the structures weren't built by Native Americas, but rather another group of people ("The Lost Tribe of Israel" being a favorite choice) who since died at the hands of the Natives. Despite dedicating his life to their ancestor's creations, he felt little for the Amerindians.

To sum up, Edwin Mercy was a racist long on ambition and short on intelligence that born a few decades later could have been president.

In 1921 he relocated to Texas and began investigating the claim that Hausman Hill in Nobility was not a natural formation, but a burial mound. Far west of the Mississippian cultures and of a size that rivaled Monk's Mound in Illinois, few bought the claim that this was anything other than a hill.

In the early spring of 1938, he joined the husband and wife team of Joseph and Carrie King, who preferred a more modern and meticulous approach to archaeology. With funds from the WPA, they arrived on the evening of March 14th. By May, the site was found to be abandoned, barely any excavation work done on the supposed mound, which is now privately owned and off limits to the public, despite being adjacent to the Hausman Preserve.

Neither the Kings or Mercy were ever found. Only their tools, a shredded tent, and a water-damaged journal hidden inside of a sleeping bag were recovered.

They have finally listened. I only wish it were to me. No, the great Joseph and Carrie King, fresh off another stint in the Midwest, scraping an inch at a time at some small mound. No bones, no treasure, just pages, just volumes of notes on dirt and seeds and refuse.

They are the darlings at the moment, even my fellows at the Austin City College clap them on the back and offer cheers. The woman in pants pretending to be an archaeologist and her dimwitted spouse.

Should I be more grateful? I would have dropped to my knees to beg for the funds to excavate Mound 42, or as the locals call it, Hausman Hill. As I know I will discover, this hill is a burial mound, one on an unprecedented scale. Far from the other moundbuilder structures, and I believe, far more recent. The last stand of these great people, before the savages finished them off with whoops and arrows.

The Kings say these same savages somehow built these mounds, all of them. I think not. Indeed, I think Mound 42 will show the true identity of these great people, the multitude lost to history.

We meet at the Hilton in Dallas, though our accommodations after this will be limited to canvas tents. There was a man with a film camera, documenting the city for next year's World's Fair. Maybe I'll see myself in the crowd should I attend. They say we need to take animals. They say the terrain would jostle a truck to pieces. However, I find the damned animal they sat me on seems intent on jostling me to pieces. It will be a wonder if I'll be able to steady my hand long enough to move dirt or take notes. I heard them behind me, laughing, no doubt at my expense. Or maybe they enjoy this. Maybe they imagine themselves in the Cameroons or some other grand adventure. We will need to bivouac tonight, arriving tomorrow afternoon. I hope the sun is still up when we have camp complete. I want to look at my notes.

Joseph King admitted he was sure Mound 42 was a natural structure. His wife simply said they wanted to end the debate. She then inquired about the other 41 burial mounds, since none have been able to decipher why Douglas Reems gave the structure its obscure moniker. Even with his notes, I don't have a satisfactory answer.

But I know this will make Monks Mound and Silbury Hill mere footnotes.

We arrived. As always, the hill is a wonder. Rising up from flat terrain, covered in small trees and grass. There are no paths, no signs, as no one comes here. Superstitions, of course. We start digging tomorrow. The Kings inquired about Reems' notes. They want to see them. I avoid the subject.

Tomorrow we start the excavation. They are adamant I follow their lead. I assure them that even though my university is small, I have the excavation experience to dig the damn thing myself. When we passed through Marble Springs, hardly more than a post office and a series of small farms, we picked up a few locals to guide us to the site. They promptly left, with the hill still on the horizon, vowing not to return until May to check on our progress. Superstitions, of course.

I don't know what hinders my sleep more: the rocky ground or the oppressive heat. We wake with the dawn. The donkey paws at the ground and snorts, the only sounds besides our tools in the dirt. Carrie asked again about the notes. They want to know where to start, where Reems' found the bones and pottery, the ones under glass at the Austin City College Documents Room.

Maybe the heat made me short. She did not appreciate my response and said, rather bitterly, that the notes in my bag were the only reason I was invited to come along. Otherwise, my "ideas and career" would be "left in the dustbin". They belong there, apparently. We move to opposite sides, I take the shaded portion, for the morning at least. I dig. Shovel and spade. They nip and pick with coal shovels and dental tools.

Immediately, I see evidence. They merely nod when I share what I find. Ten inches in, a layer of rock. Three inches beyond that, another layer of stone. Walls of rock, placed there by the hand of this lost race.

They haven't hit the first layer of rock but have damn near filled their first notebook.

We found remains. The Kings have said little to me. Of course, these aren't the remains I've hoped for. They will be deeper in. In Ohio and Minnesota, skeletons over 7 feet tall, some with massive skulls and multiple rows of teeth, have been found within burial mounds. They were buried with all the pomp of great kings, as I assume they were.

These are the builders, the architects. What we found today were smaller. They said average, I say diminutive. Typical savage bones, thrown haphazardly into the layers of dirt. Carrie claimed there are signs the bones were wrapped in thorns. Joseph claims they were arranged specifically, giving a message to whoever disturbs the remains. I think this is just another attempt to try and mislead people into thinking Indians made these structures.

They have been quiet since the find. The animals have not. The horses and donkey bray and whine and stomp on the ground, making an ungodly racket. Sleeping in this veritable desert is hard enough without them. At least the Kings will be quiet, instead of sipping from their flask and singing that horrid tune, A Smile Will Go A Long, Long Way, as they did the past evening.

The find of course vindicates Reems. If we could locate him, he would be pleased.

I am on the heels of greatness. Of course, they don't see it. No, today the woman lashed out at me for moving the bones I uncovered from my path. They said my work is sloppy and destroying the discovery. They compared me to those miners the Pocola Mining Company hired to dig that site in Oklahoma. I respond that my digging has MADE the discovery. They want me to go a damned inch at a time, until my dig looks like an earthen ziggurat.

But we know this is not natural structure. The alternating layers of clay and dirt, the brick wall of carefully placed stones, and the bodies make this clear. We will find the giants inside, the giants who built the great snake in Ohio and the great Cherokee mounds in Bartow County. This time, they won't be lost or shuffled to the Smithsonian to vanish from their records.

The horses are gone, only the donkey remains hitched to a small ash tree. The dumb beast has worn a pit around the tree, pacing and snorting, refusing water of any kind. The Kings say little and barely excavated today. The woman told me I should halt, as no burial mound has been built like this. They have yet to encounter one with layers of broken, scattered bone. She says this is a warning, a Texas Tut's curse. I say she gives them too much credit. If their sycophants at the university could hear them now, prattling on about this mound as if the devil himself rested at the core.

The spoil heap has grown so large I can almost shield myself from them. Not that it would matter, they dig when I rest, or sleep. They have moved their tents and eye me with suspicion, whispering to each other. They inquire about my health, am I okay? Am I sleeping? I ignore them. I move through the layers of bone.

I hit something. A hard clay, I believe it's clay. I broke the mattock head from the handle. I have no tools that will break through and even resorted to contacting the Kings, who only watched from a distance as I labored with this layer of immovable stone.

Finally, they join me. We crack the layer, only a quarter inch thick at the widest portion. On the other side, the dirt is warm. I swear to the heavens, warm. Carrie asks Joseph what it could be. Joseph says they will need to bring in the Smithsonian, the National Geographic Society, anyone to help.

I admit, I lost my temper. Once again, maybe the heat. I told them they would not try to exclude this from me. I believed in Reems and risked everything on what his notes said. In the end, I was vindicated. They would not take this from me.

They backed away, stared at me like I was mad. It was then I realized I was brandishing the mattock head, gripping it like a weapon. I apologized, what they must have thought! But I swear, I just wanted to ensure they didn't cut me out as the woman had promised on the second day.

I was finishing another stale biscuit, trying to wash it down with fireside coffee when Joseph told me his wife would not be helping for a few days. She had fallen ill.

In two days, I have not seen the Kings. Only in the confines of my tent do I hear them, walking around the campsite, coming close to my tent, only to scamper off in the dark. I feel paranoid, but my only defense is a mattock head and a pocketknife. I declined to bring a gun and hope to God the Kings did the same.

My work continues. I must wear gloves and work slow, as the dirt is now hot. I found out how hot when I tried to grasp a stone arrowhead. As a child, I once placed my hand against a pot of boiling water. Before donning the gloves, I felt the same sensation. My hand feels swollen and applying water only increases the burning.

The donkey, poor dumb beast, now just sits by the ash tree, rubbing its head against it, until the bark is as polished as the animal's head is raw. If we had a gun, I think it would be in the best interest to put the animal down.

I need to add this. I feel ridiculous, like a child who sees ghosts in the dark. I heard the sound of someone walking to my tent. I opened the flap and stood up, my heart beating at an extraordinary pace, ready to confront Joseph or Carrie King. I saw a man, or the silhouette of a man (between the moon and the dying fire there was little to illuminate him).

He had points, two points on his head. He kept his hands to his side and did not respond to my calls. Who is this? A member of a local tribe, upset we've disturbed this place? Someone who thinks we may have something worth stealing?

The air grew still. Not quiet, still. Like someone ordered the wind to stop and the animals to cease their nocturnal adventures. Without a sound, he stepped back until he was out of view.

I returned to the tent and fell into a nervous sleep. When I woke up, my knife was not by my side. The blade was stuck in the ground just outside the entrance of my tent.

I know. The Kings were right about the bodies; I will acknowledge that. This is a warning, one that was supposed to be apparent to all languages. Broken bones and sharp sticks and arrowheads and spears, all pointed outward to anyone digging inside, all relaying the same message: Don't dig. There aren't giants or moundbuilders inside. There's a structure, something enclosed in a rough, uneven glass. How? How could they have made this? How is it warm?

I caught a glimpse of Joseph, rushing to the tent. He looked at me with fear, maybe hate? He looks thin, like his wife. They are weak and pale. Other than the headaches, I have no complaints about my health. I now sleep when they do, wake when they do. I hear the rustle in the tent and whisper.

I finally ordered them out. They looked ghastly. My God, their eyes were yellow, like a fever took them and shook them to their core. They coughed black phlegm and were unsteady on their feet. I told them to take the animal and leave. Carrie asked me if I was scared. She asked why there were no signs of settlement anywhere near the mound. Why build a massive structure and then abandon it?

I laughed. I said they were mad. They then accused me of poisoning them, of threatening them. They said I was pacing around their tent at night, I was whispering threats. They said I used a knife to cut a slit down the side of their tent.

I admit I saw the cut and was just as perplexed, but I have not paced around their tent and threatened them. I have slept and I have dug. Nothing else. Just sleep. Just dig. Through bone and dirt.

I returned to the dig. I can barely use my burned hand. Trying to remove the glove led to a gruesome discharge. I will see a doctor, though how I will escape on the broken beast tied to the ash tree is beyond me. Going on foot is impossible and the Kings haven't responded to my inquiries, even when offering them biscuits or coffee.

Tiring of them ignoring me, this afternoon I discarded my genial manners and simply opened the tent. Empty. Joseph and Carrie have left. However, they have left their canteens, their food, and even their tools.

I see the silhouettes. From the moment the sun sets, the tall figures appear just outside the fire's light. I realize I have only seen them from a distance. As they appear nearer, I start to understand just how tall they are.

Who are these men? They make no attempt to molest me or impede my work. My tools remain in place when the sun rises. Are they ghosts? Am I seeing spirits? They seem as real and of substance as me or the Kings.

Failing to dig around the glass, I finally managed to shatter it after a day of labor. No stone behind it, or that layer of almost impenetrable clay. Metal. Yes, I swear to you, a silver metal with no sign of oxidation or decay. This must be the source of the heat. I took a pickaxe to the exposed layer. I watched the dents I made vanish. The structure seems to correct itself in response to my tools.

What is this place?

No sign of them, either of them. No sign of the donkey. But I've seen the silhouettes. I saw the points on their heads twitch. I saw a snout when one turned its head. I've seen dogs that stand like men.

They don't speak to me. At least, they don't use words. They want me to cover it up. What will they do if I don't? I continued to dig and I found an artifact embedded within the metal layer. Upon removal, the metal did not correct itself.

On the capsule: The device is roughly the size of my hand and rectangular, four inches across and two inches thick. The edges are curved. There are no seams or places for nails or screws. The device surface is smooth, almost polished. It is lightweight and appears much like a dark, opaque glass.

I wandered for water. My canteen was emptied again. Walked nearly a mile before I found the stream. The water was putrid as I also found the Kings. The only portion deep enough to drink held their bodies. Carrie's body held my pocketknife. They took it from me, the dogmen. I understand it now. I have been a fool. The Indians built this, all of it. In my thoughts, the dogmen explain how ancient the mound is, an impossibly old structure. In Mound 42, they used the bones of their brethren to tell us not here. Never dig here. I never thought, I never listened.

I went back to camp. I stayed in my tent for hours, until the sun began to fade. My watch no longer works, no matter how I wind it. The artifact, it appears to be a capsule. It contains something within but I cannot pry it open and I fear what could happen if I damaged it.

I returned to the stream with a shovel. I decided I should give them a proper Christian burial, or as proper as I could perform. But they were gone. My knife was upright, blade stuck in the mud.

I no longer dig. Using the Kings shovel, I'm returning as much of the spoil to the mound as possible.

I returned to my tent, it's too dark to return to Marble Springs or Nobility. I hear noises outside; I see fingers trace the outside of my tent. Not the dogmen, for they stand far from here and merely observe. I also hear noises within the capsule. Whatever resides within this small capsule scratches at its prison walls. What is this thing?

As I write this, I hear Carrie and Joseph laugh, giggling like drunken sailors, singing A Smile Will Go A Long, Long Way.

If anyone ever finds this, know they tried to warn us. If I go the way of Reems and this is all that remains, by God don't dig in Hausman Hill.