It is not the secrets that we should fear but rather, that which is known The savage cold the howling wind and blinding snow the unforgiving heart of Mother Russia's Winter this is what we endure lest we shall never be called the best Today we have drifted slightly off course and must pitch our tent on this mountain side so as not to surrender valuable distance in the tent we warm ourselves with our bodies and small heater we tell stories of our childhood, our families and our sweethearts these are the moments most cherished moments that we take home with us that remain forever Just as the swirling winds are about to send us to dream the flash of lights, the scream of some unholy machine and the shadows of terror thrash about like demons from our worst nightmares someone grabs the ax and begins to rip the tent from the inside out and we run for our lives barefoot and frightened beyond all comprehension beyond all logic we run as fast we can into bitter cold and biting wind Four of us were ravaged while the others were separated and they watched us until we froze too panic stricken to move toward the tent where warmth awaited perhaps the thought of an even more unbearable death kept us there where we were found this is our story known as Dyatlov Pass named after our leader and harboring nine souls who never crossed the mountain of the dead February 2nd, 1959 It is not the secrets that we should fear but rather, that which is known
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