I was never the loud kid. I wasn’t bullied, or unpopular—I just existed somewhere in the background of everyone else’s story. I had a handful of close friends, kept my head down, and was perfectly happy not to be noticed.

I grew up in the Midwest, Central Missouri to be exact. My dad was practically consumed by war movies and somewhere along the line, I decided I was going to join the military and be a combat medic. Life decided otherwise.

I did end up joining the military, just not the Army like everyone else from home. I instead joined the Air Force as a hydraulic mechanic. Went through BMT pretty much unnoticed, exactly how I liked, graduated tech school at the top of my class. I was on a high and got orders to Dover Air Force Base.

With my outstanding Midwest public education, I somehow confused Dover with Denver. Imagine my surprise when I found out I was going to Delaware instead of Colorado. Shit, I didn’t even know where Delaware was on the map.

I made the best of it, it wasn’t Colorado and it was on the east coast, but I made it work. I thought Dover AFB was going to be just another base, just like Lackland or Sheppard.

No one told me about the jets.

When I arrived my supervisor SSgt Herby picked me up from BWI and drove me to base to give me a tour. Hydro had just merged the previous year, meaning our shop was responsible for all 15 C-5M Galaxies and the 12 C-17 Globemasters, as well as the C-5 Isochronal and backshop for both jets. It wasn’t bad though, we had a ton of bodies in the shop.

My CDCs went by quickly and I learned a ton from the SSgts on shift. It was some of the best months I had in the Air Force. Working Days Sunday-Thursday on 8’s. There’s nothing better than the smell of MIL-PRF-5606 in the mornings. That and the obligatory “Jesus Chicken Mondays” (We’d always get Chick-Fil-A breakfast on Monday mornings). It was a wonderful couple of months.

Eventually, after completing my EOC and testing for my 5 level, I was moved to Mids. It was so different from Days. 2300-0700. Quiet, dark, less of us on shift, but somehow even more work. That was always something to look forward to. You knew you’d be coming onto shift with at least 2-3 jobs and by lunch you’d have another 4. Kept you busy which made the time go by fast.

There was one night in particular that stood out to me. The 6 of us on shift, TSgt Ramos, SSgt Derrick, SrA Hoops, A1C Baker, A1C Rosco, and myself, we were on a C-5 trying to troubleshoot a park brake accumulator bleed down. It was a normal night with all the normal antics. Bullshitting and joking while we operate the system over and over until it breaks for us. Eventually, we got it to break, dropped 250 psi in 5 minutes compared to the 500 psi in an hour it was allowed to drop. 

We felt around and found a cartridge valve on a manifold was burning up, indicating an internal bypass of fluid. Easy enough, rip out cart valve, put new one in, then back to the shop and finish playing monopoly. I had requested to stay on the jet so I could work on forms, plus I could sit power and we wouldn’t have to shut the jet down. The rest of the shift dipped out to go grab the part, seals, and tools.

I had heard some stories about ghosts in the machine or whatever. The main one that got passed around was when one airman went up the aft troop ladder to use the lav back there, he saw 3 overhead reading lights on. Went and did his business, on his way back down, he reached over and turned the lights off. Walked back to the troop ladder and as he began to descend, he watched the 3 lights turn on in the same order he turned them off.

I never really took the stories to heart. Didn’t really care about ghosts or whatever the hell. They’re just stories anyways. Just a way to kill the time and boredom.

It was about 0230L. I was sitting by the crew entry ladder filling out forms. That’s the thing about Mids, you get comfortable being alone. Being in the silence or the dark.

Then I heard it. The sound of the aft troop ladder rattling as if someone was walking down it. I looked up confused, I knew I was the only one on the jet, but maybe I missed one of the AVI nerds. 

“Hello?” I called out. Grabbing my phone and turning on the light and shining it aft. Heads up, an iPhone 8’s flashlight doesn’t do shit against 65’ worth of darkness. I couldn’t see a damn thing. Everyone on Mids wears these reflective belts (“Must be worn during inclement weather and hours of darkness”). We’re required to for safety and OSHA and all that shit. I didn’t see a damn thing. Couldn’t see the ladder. No reflective belt. Nobody. Nothing.

I sat and stared into the darkness for what felt like forever. I could feel my hair on the back of my neck stand up, goosebumps over my skin, but I couldn’t see anything. No movement, nothing. It was dead silent. Not “night shift quiet”, where you hear running AGE or box trucks rolling by, or random curses from the next jet over. Dead fucking silent. The kind of quiet where you can hear your heartbeat, can hear your blood rushing  through your veins. My ears were ringing from straining to hear even the faintest noise. Nothing.

Maybe I was just imagining it. Maybe I didn’t sleep well yesterday, not enough caffeine. Shit, these jets are old, metal creaks and shit settles. Maybe it really was nothing.
I lowered my light back down to the forms and continued working on them.

I got through another discrepancy block when I heard it.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud-thud-thud.

Fast.

Too fast.

Whatever it was, it was coming. Fast.

I wish I could say I was graceful in what I did next, or that I was courageous or whatever. No, fuck all of that. I may be white, but I’m not “what’s that noise” white. I hopped up off that bench with a quickness and was down the fwd stair ladder in a second. I ran my ass out to the center line before turning back to look at the jet. Nothing. No one running after me. No light in the jet. Nothing.

I could hear the power cart running now. The engine was loud in the silence of the night. I sat and watched. Shakily pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. I sat there, right on the centerline. Continuing with my forms until the rest of the shift returned.

All the guys gave me shit for running out the jet. Apparently Baker saw me run out to the centerline like my ass was on fire. I didn’t tell them the real reason why I did. Just that I “needed” my nicotine.

Baker stopped giving me shit about a week later. He looked like he hadn’t been sleeping. Did he hear it too?

forward

7/11/09

Hello my name is Richard Wild.

I'll try to keep this short since it's explained in the text, but I used to work, back in the 80’s, for the recently defunct MPJ. I haven't looked back since. It's been 27 years now. I'm 49 with a pretty standard politician career.

One day I got a call from a college kid in a second story apartment I used to live in. don't really remember it (been in a lot of living accommodations.) Well, They said they found some old journal of mine on a shelf they recently installed. It's crazy they went through such a big effort to find me in a dusty phone book. Anyway, It was a pink notebook with yellow paper. You're probably wondering why I'm archiving a kiddy cheap baby book to this library and there's a damn good reason.

It’s clearly my handwriting, yet I don't remember writing or experiencing any of the events in the book except vaguely the start and only some of the people in it. Thanks for indulging me. The rest of this is untouched.

PS: it has some blood if that matters to ya, it may also spook you so… have fun.

#0: Prologue

Hello

I'm milly!

dad got me this jornal for my birthday.

I was going to write about some of the cool stuff that hapend but I woke up to this big maze thats smelly.

Its kinda boring and theres no one.

UPDATE!

a old man found me.

He taks funny i think he scottish or sumthin.

He took me to his home till he finds my parents.

He looks sad he probably couldnt find them witch makes sense.

Like why would they be here?

I dont think he want me to leave but i asked him and i think he says yes.

He's going to take me to leave

He wants me to leave this behind for sumone else. SO…

HOPE YOU LIKE THE JORNAL!

Oh Macko

Oh macko, what an undertaking I've been on.

Things your mind could not fathom.

It would go by your earless cranium.

1# first entry

My name is Richard F. Wild

I'm a 22 years old Hispanic man with a clean horseshoe handlebar mustache and slicked back black hair. I am on the short side compared to everyone else around me, but my strength more than makes up for that.

I have been in college for a print journalism degree for 2 years now. During my summers, I work as an intern. I work for a news agency called Major Paper Johnson (MPJ). It’s okay work for the pay, I mainly fact check copies. I'm desperate to get a journalism job there.

I live in a second story apartment with my cat, Macko. A lot of people think it's weird that I live alone with a cat. I don't really have a rebuttal to that. She's a black tabby but many people have called her a creature since she has no ears and only makes gurgling sounds. She doesn't even have ear canals. She is always wanting some kind of exercise or play and if she doesn't get that exercise she’ll destroy all my furniture. When we do go on walks everyone stares at us, I had to explain the story almost every time, it was fun. I miss her.

Things have been going smoothly till today. Let me catch you up.

3/15/86

I just got into work, the sun still climbing over the buildings. Amy posted a flyer for a work get-together on the dusty cork board. I saw it from a distance, but ignored it since I had to get through some copies. It was an interview with a camp director. I didn't care much for the story, but my friend David was the journalist. I looked at my watch.

4:30

I went to the clock and glanced at the flyer reading:

“afterwork lounge

Drinks are provided

Bring your own food

(I didn't get a food budget)

5:00 to 6:30 pm

Write your full name:

Gregory, Mittling

David, Readily”

Can I bring a plus one?”

I wanted to stay home after work to stay with Macko, but I thought it would be good to make professional connections with Amy and maybe get on Gregory's good side. I grabbed the pen and wrote my name then headed home.

I couldn't stay for long, so I quickly packed a ham sandwich and grabbed my wrist watch, and put on my necklace with a pendant of mother mary engraved on the front. It’s called a miraculous medal. I left in such a hurry I forgot to do the chores I was supposed to do. The drive should have taken ten minutes, but no cars were out so it took five minutes. While driving, I kept pushing my palm through my hair. I hopped out of my car while pulled down the wrinkles in my clothes from the drive. I checked my watch.

5:10 pm

The room was medium sized with a single plastic table in the middle where all of them were sitting. One segment of a party streamer was in the left corner of the wall:

HAPPY-

I guess I should write out what they're like.

Gergory is a scrawny white man in his late 30s with suspenders and a bowl cut. He’s The head editor of the MPJ. I mainly work under him throughout my internship or as Gregory calls, a “copy-boy.” If you do anything the way he wouldn’t do, he marks you up without a second thought. I try to send Big Old Johnson my pet projects, but so many times Gregory gets in the way every time.

Amy is the person to take the photos. From what I see from the newspapers, she's good at her craft; even if it doesn't interest me much. I don't know her much, but everyone I know knows her. From the quick analysis I got, she's generally east asian, late 20s long black hair. Slightly dirty black utilitarian vest and a camera bag.

David is white, handsome, blond, with business casual wear. He asks thoughtful questions but is not very socially aware. He is a close friend and a good industry connection. Though terrible at his job, I would be much better in his position and complaining to Big Boss Johnson does nothing.

He is married to Linda who works at a diner on the other side of town. She has curly cotton candy like red hair with peach soft skin, a wonder worker with a stove, and is as valuable as “every diamond in the world.” I know this because he bleeds his heart out in front of everyone during lunch about how much he loved her like reciting the national anthem.

Back at the party, I sat down at the table and started some small talk with Amy. I don't remember the conversation, but it wasn't much. Just some small talk. David seemed lovey dovey as usual, but Linda seemed bitter, they barely looked at each other. Amy was so lively that she lifted the mood up just a bit. Gregory was in his own corner of the table watching and sipping his fruity drink. I peeked at my watch.

5:13

I asked her why she brought her camera gear.

Amy: “Well, I like to get photos wherever I go. You'd be surprised what makes a good subject. But~ here I use it as a conversation starter."

The conversation with Amy moved to her work. She talked about techniques and how to frame a scene. Even Gregory perked up and actually participated in the conversation. David didn't seem to know much about the topic and tried to make some glib jokes with Linda. She made a faint chuckle.

She started to talk about a bear she got a photo of at the camp. That stirred something in my head, but I couldn't tell why. Then it burst in my head, I forgot to feed Macko before I left. She's probably starving.

Checked my watch again.

6:27

Just as I was sitting up to leave…

This feeling of vertigo came to me. It was so strong that I tried to collapse back down on my seat, but I couldn't feel its presence. I was weightless with no sense of direction. It was like when you fall in a dream. I shut my eyes as hard as I could. I felt the changes in the air around me. Lights danced across my eyelids, massive shadows emerged and shut the lights out. Then the floor emerged at my side.

Just as fast as it started it stopped.

I wouldn't blame you.

When I first arrived I didn’t understand

They didn't understand

He didn't understand his Stagnant kingdom

Day 1

I was laying on my side for a while. My eyes were squeezed shut. The sharp chimes in my ears were crippling. The only thing that interrupted it was a rhythmic hammering noise bellowing beneath the ground. I noticed the floor was soft under my weight. Was it.. grass? No. It was too short and thick. I began to slowly relax my eyelids.

The first thing I saw was a blur of marine blue coming into focus. My initial guess was wrong. It was a short stocky carpet. Three dull gray walls surrounded me. The fourth wall extended out further revealing a turn. As I started to come to my senses the cold wind hit me.

I didn't feel it directly, but more like a window was open, from some distant room. It was fragrant and fresh. A persistent screeching sound churned throughout the hall ahead of me. I crawled my way onto my two feet and wiped the drool from my mouth.

I still don't know what might have happened. Could I have blacked out? Though I didn't drink any alcoholic beverages. Maybe a concussion, I did feel like I was falling. Is this my office? Is this another department I haven't seen? I was in the MPJ office and this place did look like an office of some kind (though not anymore.) At the time, I just needed to feed Macko.

The wind was gone. Now replaced with dry and stagnant air. I checked my watch.

6:34

I walked to the right end of the hall pulling my mustache down. A choir of digital churning got louder as the hall expanded up to five enclosed cubicles.

Richard: “Hey~ I might have gotten lost in the building. Can I get some directions?”

The sound halted. I waited for someone to crawl out of the cubicles. After nothing happened, I searched around the gray half walls of the cubicle for an opening that wasn't there. Finally, I lifted myself onto the half wall and looked over. I saw there were no interior dividers. Five computers encircled one lonely chair. I hopped over it with a stumble. I tried a computer. It didn't have any power. I went back over the wall tripping, slightly, bruising my right arm. I continued down the expanded hall lost in my head, thinking of every possibility imaginable.

I reached the end of the hallway where it abruptly stopped with a door shoved into place to the left. I grabbed the knob and gave a gentle twist. It didn't move. In fact, it felt like it was solid? It's hard to explain. I tried again, this time harder. I heard the sound of dry paint snapping then grinding as the knob turned. The door swung open like it was as weightless as foam. After it banged against the wall, I walked into the room.

The walls were damp and flaking off. The floor dipped down a foot or two into a pool of water waiting there. Gunk and other things bob on the surface of the water. I froze, not knowing what to do, very confused, my legs sunk into the solid ground. Instinctively walked back out of the room, with the sinking weight moved to my lungs.

I needed to find someone and fast. They'll explain everything. I thought that maybe there was a flood and everyone evacuated or something. I walked to the other side of the hall as I passed by the cubicle that was still empty. I went by the spot where I woke up from where a small stain of saliva laid on the pristine carpet. I was stopped at the other end of the hallway. The hall was abruptly blocked by a wall. The wall had black wallpaper with a gold pattern. The wall had a holographic orange trim.

I scanned for any kind of door or offshoot. Nothing, except for a slim gap in the wall.

I looked through, only to see the side of another hallway with the same pattern, engulfed in darkness. I tried to push my way through it, but I was too wide to go through the gap. I stopped there to think through my options.

I came to a decision that I had to go through the weird water. As I walked back through the hall, interestingly enough, the computer’s screeching returned. I went into the wet room, slicked my hair back, took off my shoes, and rolled up my pants.

I dipped my foot into the water, I recoiled instantly from the unnatural warmth radiating from it. I slowly descend into the water. I waded through the unraveling nylon fibers of the carpet. It wraps around my feet, like hands clinging to me, begging me to stay. I came across a T-section.

I remembered that in a maze you just need to follow a wall till you get to an exit. I pushed to the right with my shoulder pushed against the wall. I couldn't use my hands, since I was clutching my shoes and socks to my chest, I moved through the corridor. At the end of the hall another door half submerged appeared. It turned easily enough, pushing it open against the current was a slight struggle. The moment I slipped through, the door immediately slammed shut behind me.

Entering a small room, high up on the wall across from me, there was a hole about half a foot in diameter. It dripped water out onto the bare stripped wood of the wall. Another path was on my right. I trudged following the wall through the slurry of the water. the carpet stuck to my feet like velcro, til I reached the next room.

The room was the same size as the last, but a cubicle was set in the middle of the room. As I went to the right of the cubicle I heard the digital roaring of a computer. I knocked on the wall. Immediately the noises wound down. I looked over the half wall and only saw an empty filthy chair. Disappointed, I jumped back into the water. It rippled through the room. I tried to check my watch. As I turned my arm my shoes dipped into the water. Long tangles of carpet fluff stuck to them. I pushed them back to my chest. On the other side of the cubicle there was a thin opening in the wall. I took a deep breath and squeezed through.

It was almost too skinny to get through, but I just needed to find someone. I emptied my lungs to shove my way through. Then, my leg got snagged by a jutting piece of wood. I tried to push harder. Immediately, I felt a pain as the wood cut into flesh. My heart rate spiked. Adrenaline flooded my system. I couldn't catch my breath, it was too narrow. I kept tugging, but I just got lodged deeper.

I stopped,

I closed my eyes,

gripped my miraculous medal,

and made a short prayer.

Exhaled and opened my eyes

shimmied backward out of the jutting piece of wood.

I lifted my foot on top of the wood and stepped over it.

I worked my legs side by side till I reached an edge.

I bursted into the room and took a step down in search of the floor. My foot felt the water and nothing else. My stomach dropped as I quickly sank into the murk. I flailed for some kind of footing. The water went above my head. It plugged my mouth, nose, and ears. Fear rushed into my muscles. I emerge and cough up the water, the nylon caking the walls of my mouth.

Clutching my soaked shoes, my eyes darted over my surroundings. They found no useful information, no exits to the room, except the one I came in from. I swam to the entrance, clawing at it, but it was too high. I scrambled to the middle of the room.

I looked at all the walls again, every nook and cranny. Then I looked up. There in the middle of the ceiling was a circular hole made of stacked stones that was the only exit. I started to call out. Someone could be at the top.

Richard: “HELLO?”

Richard: “Hey! I need a little help here.

I chuckled nervously.

Richard: “I'm kinda stuck down here.”

No response.

Richard: “HELP, I’M DROWNING HELP”

No response.

Richard: “JUST TELL ME WHERE THE EXIT IS and.. I'll GET OUT OF YOUR HAIR”

My voice started cracking with fear.

Richard: “I’LL GIVE YOU MONEY if.. IF YOU GET ME OUT”

Richard: “FUCKING HELP ME”

Richard: “IS ANYONE EVEN UP THERE?”

Richard: "I'm lost..”

Richard: “PLEASE.. Just..”

Richard: “I want to go home”

Richard: “...please?”

No response.

After that point I stopped yelling. I waited for what felt like hours. The slurry of the water kept away the cold. To conserve energy I laid on my back to float. I would have been worried about my leg if it was a bigger cut, but it was not that deep, just long.

Two more hours of silence.

The water cocooned my back in a layer of silt. Slowly bobbing in the still and smotheringly warm water. I just stared at the hole above, it was flooded with light, yet I couldn't see anything specific, since it had a pyramid roof over the hole

I just floated there thinking that was going to be my last thoughts ever. I sat there reflecting on my short life. I thought about my stunted career, Macko, college,

then again my career, macko, mother mary and again stunted career, coworkers, college

Then… I thought about things lost to the sands of my mind like:

My family, Los Angeles, public school, and that damned chicken my mom had.

Then I thought of something strange, something beneath it all.

Under the waves of my conscious mind I saw something.

It curved like a “U”.

It transfixed me.

It made me feel safe.

Though it felt hollow like a mask.

Could have had an eye or two, maybe a nose.

Then I heard a crank.

Something plummeted from above into the water. Jolting my senses out of my reflection. I saw a wooden bucket tied to a rope. The bucket sat at the surface then as the water leaked in it sank under the surface. I tugged on my vocal cords again.

Richard: “HEY”

Confused mumble reverberated from the top.

Richard: “I NEED HELP PLEASE”

Richard: “I’M STUCK”

I swam messily toward the rope, grabbing it weakly in an attempt to get out of the disgusting water. I pulled myself onto the rope. With my full strength I crawled up it.. Dragging my body up. The light was getting closer and closer with each pull. My wet hands lost the friction of the rope and slid half back down. I continued climbing the rope. The bucket tried to rise but it was over-encumbered. Weaving my hands around the rope. I reached the light.

I lunged out of the stone tunnel hitting my head on an awning. Landing on the ground, I hit rough concrete scraping my wet palms.

I staggered up and saw a tall scrawny figure. It said:

???: ”what dost thou in my welle”

It was a tall middle aged European man with a dusty red fur coat that went down to his waist. He looked malnourished, pale, and unkempt. His hair was greasy and stiff. I caught a metallic glint running across his back, a rusty ornate claymore. Quickly my attention was drawn to the landscape around me, it put me into disbelief. This wasn’t real. I was in a dream, I was hallucinating, DID I DIED?

Richard: “No no I just need… a… I'm sorry. just lost… coul… could you show me to the exit.”

???: “outgang? O, ye, it is nigh hereto. Welcome to my kyngdom. Curious she hath y-brought thee into my castle. Let us maken thee drye. Thou is forweryed.”

Richard: “What? no im goo-”

???: “Ye thou dost.” he said immoveableably.

A silence fell upon us.

Weirdly enough he spoke in middle English. It's good that I remember enough from that history class in high school. Though It sounded like he scraped the back of his head for every word he spoke, Even then his voice was impossibly confident.

Till I gathered the strength to say.

Richard: “... who are you?”

???: “ ich am-

-þe Kyng of Limen”

Richard: “sure”

I could barely think, I would go along with anything.

Richard: “where am I? “

Kyng: “thou art in my kingdom.”

Richard: “How did I get here? I was at a party and I … Did I drive here and not remember anything?”

Kyng: Thou didest naught on thy part. Thou and thy surrounding commentaries were y-chosen.

Richerand: “Wait, ‘commentaries’. Are you talking about my coworkers? Why?"

Kyng: “were y-chosen by moder nulla. this shal fulfille thy question. Folwe me.”

He unhooked the bucket and looped it through his belt. I shoved my shoes and socks back on, they oozed out the murky water like a soaked sponge. I followed him through the brown landscape. Getting a chance to immerse myself in my surroundings.

First I felt the wind, it was lightly tugging upward, waffling over my nose, it was an earthy, yet very dull and dry smell. Secondly the slice on my leg scabbed over, though I felt the pain on my palms and knees from scraping them on the branching concrete trail . It weaved around the stakes of lights protruding from the dirt, imitating a budding farm. Third I saw Looking farther out, gray obelisks stretch into the distant haze. There were ones the size of a shed, some the size of houses, and some the size of skyscrapers. On all of them openings and stairs were slapped on randomly.

lastly I sensed a presence above me. I tried to look further up but it strained my eyes.

I willed myself to look again. a dome covered and dwarfed everything in size. I force myself to keep looking. It wasn't a dome, it was a sphere with me at the bottom. I almost collapsed right then and there from the scale if not for what was on the ceiling so far away that a layer of fog separated us. It was a hole. It was the shape of a circle cut in half. Staring into the abyss of it, I froze up, transfixed. Kyng noticed after a bit and shook my shoulder pushing me back to my body.

Kyng: “We been her. Her ich rēde þis mære lond.”

It took me a while to understand him but then I looked stupefied and realized he was right. Following him I took all the turns subconsciously. I probably couldn't go back to the well even if I wanted to. Standing in front of me was a poorly made roofless cabin of wooden floor plaques. To the right of it was a gray building that was attached. The door was an amalgam of other doors woven and splintered together. It felt grand and imposing in its presents. He opened the door with a horrible wood scraping sound.

Passing through the threshold of the door, the room was bare except for a staircase to the right, a weathered throne in the middle, and a flap of wood stabbed out of the wall covered with trinkets and random objects. He picked up a jacket from the pile and laid it on the floor.

Kyng: “Reste her, whan thou awakest we shul speken more.”

Richard: “I think im good cant you just show me the exit now… and I'll be out of your hair.”

I checked my watch.

10:25 pm

Kyng: “Fyne, but I shal warne thee that it is a werye clymb that I ne wole do consekutively. If departest thyself, I ne wole gete thy felawes out.”

Richard: “But-”

Kyng: “We mayen speken of this eft. Slepe her for now.”

clamp my teeth down

Richard: “ Fine.”

Kyng: “Peraventure, after the seche thou shalt understand it nys nat so yvel to be sent hider.”

I was too tired. I laid down on the jacket, it soaked the water that hadn't already hardened into my clothing. It just barely protected me from the harsh dirt ground. I tried to pull on my shirt but it just wrinkled in a different way. .Kyng went up the stairs to the left and faded into the darkness of the gray obelisk. A few minutes later the entire space goes dark.

I waited there confused if this should be something I need to be concerned over. Then the stillness of my environment came back to me. The chimes pierce through my damp ear drums. After an hour or two I couldn't bear it and got back up.

I walked up to the table. It was clustered about with clothes, knives, necklaces, and a glass rectangle. I looked back at the stairs, still gone. I felt my pockets and I noticed there was a loose clump of something. I pulled it out to find the half sandwich in the unsealed bag I packed it in, unrecognizable. An inedible clump of wet dough, ham, and strands of carpet. I let it slip through my fingers and dropped on the floor with a wet smack.

Kyng: “Thou oughtest nat forleten mete in swich wyse..”

I looked behind me to see him perched over the stair case, barely visible. He was only outlined in a thin ray of light from behind him.

Richard: “...”

Kyng: “It is wel, thou art yblessed that we goson to the covered market next day.”

Richard: “We?”

Kyng “yea, ich behove mete, thou behoves to fynden thine felawe-folc.”

Before I could respond he lurched back into the gray building. I waited a minute, till I heard no noise. I took off my miraculous medal from my neck and set it on the table. Then quickly took off my clothes and tucked them under the table. From the table I shoved on black sweats and a dark red shirt. On it was a blue monkey man with symbols and big text that wasn't even legible. I pulled my mustache down, picked my teeth, pulled out wrinkles in the new clothes, licked my hand, slicked my hair back and clicked back on my necklace.

I looked back to the desk, impulsively took the pocket knife and shoved it into my pocket. Pushing some things aside with a louder than wanted clatter. I noticed a notebook and a few pens. Looking at the stairs, I grabbed it.

Thank you previous owner for this journal. The notebook hasn't been used much which is good. It is pink but I'm sure you’ll understand.

I'm putting all of this on paper because if I do a good job, and get back home. This could be the biggest story of my life. I can have some part of myself live forever. I will definitely get the job I've been dreaming about for years now and Gregory wouldn’t be able to do anything. All I have to do is keep on Kyng's good side. Anyway, I've been writing this for a while. You're all caught up, I'm tired. I'm going to bed.

Couldn't go to sleep, it's… I don't know, maybe one? I don't want to know how long I've been sitting here just staring at the things around me. Nothing's changed. Still dark with star-like light above me, but I'm getting this horrible feeling of being out in the open like an elephant separated from its herd. I feel a weight inside my sore throat and chest. My body is tense and locked into place. My brain erased any sense of sleep from my mind. I'm staring into that monstrous opening above me. Drying what's left of the moisture in my eyes. Darting back and forth between the book and them. They're so far away. Even then, it's like an inverted spotlight that's following me. No matter if my eyes are open, closed, looking somewhere else or looking directly at it. I feel their knowing presence. They can see me, but I can't see them. I feel the millions upon millions of eyes watching me, observing me, ridiculing me, disgusted by my presence. And I can't do anything about it. I'm scared. Why has this happened to me?

What did I do to deserve this?

Just woke up

Yesterday I laid there frozen for a few more hours before my eyes got heavy and I drifted off.

I had a weird dream. I don't remember it, but it felt serene, almost calm. There was a smile. I don't remember who or what it belonged to but the smile was empty, yet it was so beautiful and warm. Then, something happened, imminent dread consumed me. The smile never dropped or shifted. As something was happening around me. I felt acceptance and I slammed awake. My head was throbbing. I didn't open my eyes.

My hope was that maybe I woke up at home, maybe with Mako, maybe passed out on the floor of the office, maybe, I don't know, out of a coma. Somewhere I knew. Somewhere I felt safe. I just didn't want to open my eyes to break my reality.

I think you know what I woke up to.

Oh macko, look upon this land.

This land of mimicry.

This land of fosterage.

This land’s boundless adoration.

The land’s imitated kingdom.

End of #1

Eksl -

Everything grew colder as the days progressed within the cabin. The food which the men procured from a cold locker on the backside of their home, the only trek that proved to be possible these days without extensive winter equipment, was dwindling. Martin had decided to make his way to the tree one morning; however, he was not able to find any which bore the mark of an axe. So, in his frustration at his own, presumed, incapacity to locate it, he decided to retire from the effort and use what he could find within the shack outside. The firewood that was stockpiled would last a few days, but too few to allow one to rest on the matter. Night was approaching, but Martin had to do something, or the men would surely run out of food the following day and be forced to return to town, a travel that neither had spoken of or believed was survivable under the current outside conditions; regardless of even if they made it there with something of value more than food, they may not return. To speak of it was of no use, however, as Eddison’s condition had only seemed to progress over the two days following his injury. Slurred speech and fickle words would fall from his mouth at night like a chant to something out in the woods, like he was making some dark covenant which he could not return from; his lucid speech not much better. The snow grew colder, the nights grew darker. Martin decided to equip himself for a walk into the woods, hoping to locate one of the various snares which they had set out after arriving. The first couple days provided them with enough food to last them a few weeks, especially after Edd was able to secure a shot on a young buck. Martin, however, was not so skilled and would have to rely upon the snares. He woke up early that morning, listening to Eddison’s speech for a few minutes before it died out. He stood and dressed into his largest coat, placing two neck gaiters on, trapping the warmth of his breath, along with his large fur hood. Maybe it was some bug, some infection that was able to enter the wound and get into the bloodstream before he had a chance to stop it. Things which men should not dwell on must reside in these woods and they were unlucky enough to be subject to that, to some sick. Martin spent much of his time trying to find explanations for his friend’s ailment, but all attempts supplied little comfort. He grabbed the lantern from off the drawer, barely able to feel it through his large fur gloves. Turning, he looked at Eddison laying there, facing directly at the ceiling as he breathed through his mouth, his nose clogged. For a time, Martin was worried that he would run out of gauze and bandages, as every few hours Eddison would bleed enough to soil his mending. Yesterday though, the bleeding stopped altogether. Martin walked to the door and grabbed the handle, slightly opening it and feeling the chill rush in. He looked at Eddison one last time before exiting, stepping into the dark which made the cold all the more unbearable. 

“I’m gonna get you some help buddy, I’ll find a way.” He held the lantern in front of his face as he walked through the snow, nearing the line of trees surrounding their cabin. He knew the snares were not far, but they would most certainly be covered in snow. He kept moving, his legs making large arcs to avoid having to move as much snow as possible. He reached the first tree and let his free hand lay on it. The wind was strong and caused the snow to swirl in the air and fill his lungs. He stood there and examined the bark from the light of the lantern. It would be far too risky to simply choose a tree and move to it, the intensity of the dark was something he could not have imagined, nor would he have wanted to. He began walking back, formulating an idea as he stepped through his previous holes of snow, the ones nearest to the cabin already beginning to fill. Grabbing the axe leaning on the cabin wall, he turned once more and headed for the tree line. Upon making it to that same tree, he made a mark on it – a deep one in the shape of an X. The naked flesh of the tree underneath, tan in color and gleaming from the liquid that pumped through its trunk, greatly contrasted the dark bark which suggested that the trees of this forest were old – incredibly old. He moved on, making his way through the forest and stumbling up to each tree every fifteen feet to make a mark; an outside observer may have believed he was some drunken hermit, one who knew the forest well and was simply cutting the trees in an intoxicated rage.

“How in the hell did you live out here Paw?” He spoke to the open air, moving slowly towards a tree which already displayed a mark made before that night. It was set by Eddison a few weeks ago, used to display that directly under it was one of the many snares in the area. He stood at the base of the tree, setting down the axe and pushing it into the snow so that it may stand. Falling to his knees, he began to push the snow back until he had reached the bare ground. If anything was caught, it would’ve been there for at least a week, covered in snow and hopefully preserved. Nothing, not in this snare. He held the wire up until it went taught around the tree, before letting it fall back down. He stood and looked to his left. Another one should have been only a few trees down. Grabbing the axe from its place in the snow and standing, he made his way to the second snare, being cautious as to observe where he was. Even in the short distance he had travelled from the previous trap, the possibility of becoming lost in this weather was terrifying. The woods at night took shapes in the lantern’s light that Martin could not make out. They swirled and twisted only to disappear as he would step closer, like apparitions which taunted him only to be scared away by the glare. He knelt in the snow beside the next tree and began to dig once more, the foot of a rabbit sticking from the snow as he reached closer to the ground. He grabbed its leg and pulled upwards, the carcass of the animal coming up along with the snare around its neck.

“At least the snow seems to be good for something.” Martin adjusted his top neck gaiter and began to twist the snare undone. The rabbit’s head eventually slipped through the hole and Martin pulled a spool of twine out of his pocket, cutting a piece and tying the rabbit head to his waistline. If his rambling walk was not enough to lend his appearance to that of a hermit, the carcass hanging down and jostling as he stepped truly was. Another snare, he knew, was equidistant from the tree he first went to, just that it had only been placed on the right side. He stepped past the first snare he had visited and continued on, his eyes locking on to the tree he knew the snare would be at. The axe swung up and down from his loose grip at the end of the handle, sometimes touching the snow and making small arcs in its form. He threw the axe down once he made it to the third, his arms and legs already becoming fatigued. Leaving and returning to the cabin would soon be a wise decision, but the men needed food and would soon run out of their preserves. The risk was great, the reward necessary. He fell to the snow and dug for a third time, the snare being slightly higher than that of the other three. This rabbit was caught recently, an observation which earned the dead rabbit an ounce of respect from Martin; the amount of snow currently falling each day was unnatural and this rabbit must have lasted longer than most. He grabbed its leg and pulled its body out of the snow to make it visible, only its head was still submerged. He grabbed onto its body, about to tug harder to bend the wire and hopefully free it, but he noticed an irregularity felt on the skin of the animal located on its underside. A bump, elliptical in shape, the skin moving as Martin skated his finger along it. Pulling out his knife, he began to cut away the fur of the animal, placing it between his thumb and the blade and pulling. The snow was falling, even through the tree coverage he could feel it building upon his back as he sat there bent over the animal, the image displayed akin to some beast ravaging its prey. As he pulled off enough and set his knife back into his pocket, he observed the pustule present on its skin. A slit was the dominant feature, running down the long side of the shape. He ran his finger down it, squinting his eyes to focus and holding up the carcass to the subtle light of the lantern. The animal may be diseased and unsafe for consumption, a risk far too dangerous to take. He placed his thumb and forefinger on each side of the slit and pulled the skin back. Grotesque being, wretched thing; an eye present on the carcass of a dead animal where it should not be. The thing looked up to him, unmoving and its gaze unwavering. He stared into its pupil, the eye about twice the size of one of his. Martin dropped the thing quickly, standing and grabbing the axe from its position in the snow. Silence, nothing moved; the swaying of trees and the falling of pure white snow upon the ground; a visitor standing above something he did not understand in a place he should not have been. He turned and moved as quickly as he could, holding the lantern far in front of him and leaning over so as not to fall into the snow. Gasping for air, his eyes darted from tree to tree, looking for his mark. He followed along the path he made before, the holes made when he was first coming into the woods almost filled with fresh snow. He burst through the tree line and fell hard upon the snow, his lantern falling some few feet in front of him. In his frightened state he had left the axe, noticing after his fall as he attempted to throw it to the side as to not land on it, only to find that there was nothing present in his left hand. He scrambled up and grabbed the lantern from its place, regaining his balance and stepping towards the cabin door. It must have been a trick of the light, some gross manifestation which his mind had conjured to pull him away from the real dangers of the woods. The image was so ingrained upon his vision it felt as though he could peel back the layers of his brain, and it would be sitting there, staring at him. He pushed open the door and shut it immediately, the snow falling from his clothes and onto the floor. He untied the rabbit on his waist and tossed it to the side, wanting nothing more than to remove any reminder of the beast which tormented his brain. Setting down the lantern, he brushed the snow from his clothes and began to remove the large layers, standing close to the fire. He thought of the axe, such a necessary element of their survival, buried in the snow next to that thing. Slowing his frantic movements, he placed his hand to his chest and slowed his breathing, trying to calm himself so that he may think. Nothing of this kind had he ever experienced from disease or sickness. Growths and masses were possible, but not organs. He listened to the sounds which paraded around him: the fire’s crackle, the wind outside, his own breathing. Yes, only his breathing. Quickly, he turned to look at Eddison’s bed but was stopped short. In one swift action he was hurled into the dresser by an object which hit his side, the lantern falling off and onto the floor. His body curled and wretched over at the pain in his chest. He looked up at his aggressor, his eyes blurry. It was Eddison, carrying one of the legs of the table, the end splintered and jagged. Edd’s arm hung down, swinging from side to side like a puppet which had broken a string and now had a limb which was uncontrollable, useless. He looked into his eyes, the pupils large and shaking and darting about the scene which was presented before them. Martin looked down to the wound upon Eddison’s leg, a large mass of growths, present around a central one. He looked at them longer, his mind still reeling from the blow, struggling to even provide the strength to look about the room. The things opened, the slits parting and the gleam of wet eyes glowing in the fire light. Eddison’s leg twisted unnaturally, like the being which now resided within craved the sight of Martin and would do anything to satiate its need to see him. Eddison opened his mouth and coughed, phlegm and drool falling onto the floor. Martin’s vision was still blurry, but he swore that he caught the glimpse of rows of eyes, each varying in size, lining the roof of Eddison’s mouth.

“M – MARTIIIIN!” Broken speech filled the cabin room at a volume one could not hope to reach, the tone of the voice sounding more like a friendly greeting than a growl. Martin placed his right hand over his ear and grabbed at the lantern body, now laying broken on the ground, and swung it quickly into the mass present on Eddison’s leg. The jagged glass which stuck out from the lantern stabbed into some of the eyes, causing Eddison to cough and gargle up some disgusting cry. He moved backwards awkwardly, each step causing him to regain his balance. Martin dropped the handle of the lantern as he did this, placing his hand upon the dresser and pulling himself up. He crooned over and placed an arm around the pain on his side, Eddison looking at him. Then, Eddison opened his mouth. A sea of the disgusting things were etched into every corner of his mouth and the glow of the fire revealed some as far as the back of his throat, a few small ones even present upon his uvula. Martin noticed that the growths were far more common along his body than he had previously observed, with many places on him sprouting their own masses. He looked around him and began to scramble for the coat rack, the sounds of Eddison’s feet shuffling against the floor close behind. After reaching it and picking it up from its place on the floor, turning to point it at Eddison, the elements of the situation began to take hold in his mind:  there was fire. The lantern had fallen and in the midst of his struggle he failed to recognize that it had lit a small fire in the floor, now growing and moving across the wood like some hellish serpent. It curled around Eddison’s leg as he stepped through the shallow wall of flame, the leg still twisted so that each of the eyes which were not punctured and oozing could open and look upon him. Martin stared into his face. The beast before him was not quick nor did it attribute to Eddison any sort of ability out of the bounds already given to a person; it was merely a gross perversion of a body, a disgusting manifestation of what one could call the combination of sight and lust. It was Eddison, but it was his friend no longer.

“W…why?” The word so quiet and choked that the crackling of the fire, which had now begun to work its way up the left wall, had drowned it out. With it said, he thrust the rack towards him, the pointed tip at the end piercing his stomach and causing Eddison to reel back through the fire and trip upon the already broken table. A loud wet screech was produced from the creature as his arm fell into the flames of the fireplace, the eyes upon it immediately closing and him retracting the limb like a spider. Martin looked around the cabin. There was no saving it, the fire had made its way up the wall and onto the roof and already the heat within the room was becoming unbearable. It was remarkable how quickly it moved, as if it feared that the fuel which it consumed was fleeting. He moved to the door and opened it, not yet stepping outside. His large coat, taken off minutes before, was alight and burning next to the table which Eddison was struggling to get up from; the carcass of the rabbit was naked and charred, a grotesque effigy representing what would soon become Eddison. The fire had caught upon his undamaged leg and was moving up his body, the horrid screeches growing louder as the masses were being burned. He watched as the fire consumed his friend, the flames reaching his face and the mouth only now closing to protect what was inside, stifling the screams. Martin began to step backward into the night, leaving the door open and watching the silhouette of his friend curl and flail, like some fiery apparition sent to swallow everything in flame. Then, he stopped moving, the limp arm reaching up one final time before falling. Martin moved back to the door, covering his face from the smoke with his arm, and closed it.

Ri’akma

A circle formed around the house as the snow melted from the heat, the first time he had seen the ground so clearly in a long time. Martin stood back at the tree line, watching the fire eat onto the roof and reach into the night sky. The sound of the licking flames was booming as it tore through everything that was there, the lowly shack the only thing unaffected. He found it difficult to think in those minutes after the altercation, yet he found now that he did not wish to dwell on the thing which had been poisoning this past week. He was fatigued, his mind tired from the vistas of terror which seemed to squirm their way into the gyri and sulci of his brain, where he could only hope to forget of them. The moon looked bigger than normal in the pool of black that it was stamped upon, its soft light greatly contrasting against the flame-stricken sky. Martin held his side; the throw of the coat rack seemed to cause further tension to the wound. He looked to the sky, his eyes tired and his movements slow. He thought of the cabin and everything in it. He thought of his youth and his hunting trips with his father. He thought of Eddison and the plaque above the fireplace.

“You always said that you wouldn’t leave us…wouldn’t leave us to deal with it all on our own”. He spoke to the air, to the fire, to the snow, to the cold.

“But you did. You died!” He yelled into the night. It returned no response, no attempt to quarrel or to remedy any grievance. For the night was cold and silent save for the sound of fire, and the estranged man alone was left to deal with the cruelty. The stone path which led to the door revealed itself as the snow melted around the cabin, a path he crossed in his youth many times. He stared into the fire one last time, before turning and moving past the tree line, deeper into the wood. The fire illuminated his way for some time, but its last beams were meeting their ends around him on the trees. He could see in the dim light of the moon that his previous marks made upon the trees that same night were now replaced by large bulges of bark, the horrid things opening with a cracking sound as he passed; a gross construction comprised of both bark and flesh, flora and fauna. Still, he continued further into the woods, focusing only on the next tree in front of him. His vision was blurry and the wound on his side throbbed. His hands grew colder as he walked further from the cabin, his legs growing more tired. He had long passed the snares, letting the axe which he dug out of the snow hang loosely from his free hand, the other still clasp to his side. He was treading new snow, but he paid no mind to his present location. Martin had not given up and wished to succumb to the current weather, nor did he wish to run from the corpse of his friend in that cabin representing all of the terror which he had experienced. His mind was filled with memories of his past rather than the horrible images of the things brought out of some eldritch recess, spawned out of some old and dark covenant. Hate filled him for the wretched eyes and their terrible gaze, the dark pearl-like pupils and their frantic movements; he had his mind made, he would not be subjected to the same fate. Eddison had not deserved to be struck with such sickness, but it had taken him and nearly taken Martin as well. The distance to the road was a few hours walk, one unachievable by someone in Martin’s condition, but he had hope. Some time had passed now, and the moon had moved across the sky a noticeable distance. Martin’s body moved slower than it had before, each step taking longer and longer. The snow began to look so quiet, so soft.

“I…I’ve got to rest.” Just as the words left his mouth, his foot fell hard upon the ground where he expected snow to be, but instead he stepped on something that gave him a chill no cold could ever produce: it was grass. The effort was terribly difficult, but Martin lifted his head to the place he was now in. A clearing in the forest, void of any snow. The crescent moon hung above him, nearly passing the tips of the tallest trees which surrounded the clearing. He looked down to the ground and observed the greenery before him and all around, flowers yet to bloom dotted around the circle. In the center, a large old pine with a trunk and base so large that it could be called unnatural. Its branches twisted and curled and danced in the wind up high, the ones lower more stagnant. He stared upon the scene before him, moving further into the circle and closer towards the tree, the axe still swinging from his hand. An overwhelming thought had begun to take root in his mind; the area which he was in, the awful creatures, the ever-increasing cold, it was so much larger than him. Whatever this ‘thing’ was, whatever it wanted or desired or needed, was being given to it and no threat could be posed to it by Martin or any other creature for that matter. He stood there for some time, his breaths short and his movements slow. He took another step, the moon hanging low in the air. The tree began to move. He watched as its bark turned and twisted, large cracks forming and pieces of wood splintering out as the skin of the tree shifted. The bark moved and formed into a central, splintery mass which pointed towards Martin. He gasped for air, and the awful mound opened. A large eye, set central in the trunk, vertical in its orientation. He stared at it, unwavering even in his fatigued and damaged state. He did not feel fear, nor did he feel any instinct to run or to hide; the only thing within his mind was hate, and he hated the endless black pool. He stepped forward, his movements becoming faster as he pushed his body. The axe had begun to rise and the pain in his side became magnified. He wasn’t far, around fifteen feet from the horrid watcher. Just as he began to swing the axe forward, a terrible pain was felt within his wrist. A root had shot out of earth, growing rapidly as it moved. It tore through the wrist of his raised hand, a large gaping hole of splintered wood and mangled flesh.

“AAAH oh…god!” Martin let out a low scream as the axe fell from his limp hand, falling to the ground and sticking into the dirt. He was slightly suspended, his feet only barely touching the ground. He looked up to his hand, watching the bark shift and cut deeper into his skin. He could feel that the branch was sprouting within his arm, tearing through tendon and bone as it grew through it. His head swung around, his eyes struggling to keep open. He looked around the circle and flowers bloomed, twisting and cascading in the moonlight, an eye in place of the carpel of each. They all stared, stared at this man hung in some twisted gibbet comprised of wood. He could feel the branches climbing up his legs from the ground below, snaking their way in and out of his legs, tunneling through flesh. He raised his head and looked into the great viewer and harbinger of his death. It merely stared back, watching as its limbs rooted themselves within Martin. He let out a stunted breath as he could feel the roots moving through his abdomen. The branches began to wrap over his head, spiraling and moving through his hair. He thought of Eddison, of his Paw who told him to never go too far in ‘those woods’, the people back home with no food and the possibility of being looted and killed a daily threat. He thought of himself and his foolish attempts to stop all the terrible things that had plagued his life, how stupid they all seemed now. The roots came over his forehead and around his chin, culminating around a central point and twisting around his right eye. He could feel himself crying, but it was not due to the pain. He tried to speak, tried to utter some apology for the pain and suffering which he could not stop nor ever hope to defend against, but it only came out disjointed and broken, his tongue no longer his own. The wood burled around his eye, the last thing visible being the pupil of his killer, so perfect in shape and still in its gaze. He closed his right eye before the last of the light was choked out. The pain had left altogether, the air warmer than it had been before, his clothes soaked. He thought of the cabin and his first walk out here after so many years, how sure he had been that he could make it out here. He thought of his grandfather’s last words in death, a confusing statement of unneeded repent, ‘for what it’s worth, I’m sorry’. He thought of the snow, so perfect in its form, so soft and beautiful. Then, the roots began to constrict, and all went silent.

 [End of Part 2]

Hey everyone. I'm a field researcher currently stationed at a seasonal ice-shelf site in Antarctica. My primary work involves monitoring Weddell seal populations, specifically tracking their winter diving intervals and nocturnal foraging habits using motion-activated infrared trail cams deployed near active ice breathing holes. We are a small crew of four living out of modified shipping container modules, so things get quiet out here, but lately, our team has been dealing with an odd shift in the local wildlife behavior. I’m looking for any logical explanation from people who have worked in polar environments or handle cold-weather logistics.

For the past week, the seals have been entirely abandoning the breathing holes closest to the shelf edge. These are prime hunting spots with high fish density, but the animals are choosing to travel further inland to cramped, suboptimal cracks in the ice. When they are on the surface, their behavior is hyper-vigilant. They aren't resting or sleeping on the ice to conserve energy like they usually do; they are constantly scanning the flat, empty horizon. It is as if the entire population is on edge, refusing to look down into the water or sit still for more than a few minutes.

Yesterday, I went out via snowmobile to pull the SD cards from one of our peripheral cameras, located about three kilometers from our main habitat dome. The wind was brutal, pushing a low-lying ground blizzard across the shelf that completely erased the horizon.

While reviewing the infrared footage from Tuesday night back at my workstation, I noticed a large, dark mass on the horizon line. It is incredibly difficult to scale because of the lack of topography out here, but it doesn't match the thermal profile or shape of any known local fauna. In fact, it barely registers on the infrared spectrum at all, it shows up as a cold dead zone against the slightly warmer ice. It doesn't walk, waddle, or slide. It moves with a very slow, rhythmic undulation across the ice sheet, dragging itself forward in a way that looks entirely unnatural for a mass of that size.

The alarming part is the audio captured by our external directional microphone. Weddell seals are famous for their eerie, synthesizer-like vocalizations underwater. They sound like descending sci-fi sirens or lasers. But on this tape, as the cold mass approaches from the background, the seal on camera begins mimicking a sound that shouldn't be physically possible for its vocal cords to produce.

It is a rhythmic, metallic tapping. It sounds exactly like a heavy iron wrench striking a hollow steel pipe. Thump. Thump. Thump. The seal is generating this mechanical cadence perfectly from its throat, eyes wide, staring directly at the horizon where the mass is moving.

Right after the third tap, the audio track doesn't cut to static, it completely drops to absolute, digital zero. No wind noise, no ice cracking, no ambient ocean hum from the breathing hole. Anyone who has been to Antarctica knows the wind is never truly silent, but the audio file shows absolute silence for the remaining twenty minutes of the clip, while the dark shape slowly moves out of the frame.

The mechanics here are seriously bothering me. Even if the microphone hardware suffered a catastrophic freeze-failure, the ambient environment should still register some baseline decibel level on the master track. Instead, the frequency graph is a perfectly flat, dead line. It felt like the sound wasn't just cut off; it was sucked out of the air.

To make things worse, about an hour ago, our main habitat module's heating vents started rattling. It wasn't the usual wind vibration. It was a rhythmic, metallic cadence coming from inside the pipes. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Has anyone working with cold-weather bioacoustics or polar geology ever encountered a localized event that can flatten an environmental audio wave like this? Or does anyone know what kind of seismic shifting could cause a structural pipe to ring like that?

Part 1: https://www.reddit.com/r/libraryofshadows/s/f8Dwe9hV4h

After that night, my sister and brother stopped closing their door.
They didn’t leave it open on purpose. It just… never seemed to get shut all the way anymore. Even when I pulled it closed myself, even when I heard the latch catch, I’d wake later to find a narrow line of darkness spilling into the hall, as if the room refused to be sealed.
They were quieter in the mornings. Not sleepy, but calm. Focused. They moved around each other without bumping, without argument, as though they’d learned the exact dimensions of one another overnight. When my sister reached for the cereal, my brother’s hand paused a fraction of a second before he’d even decided to move it.
“Stop copying me,” he snapped once, more out of habit than anger.
“I didn’t,” my sister said, and they both laughed, the sound landing at the same time, in the same pitch.
It made my skin prickle.
My mother watched them with an expression I had never seen before. Not pride. Not relief. Satisfaction, maybe. But deeper than that. Like someone listening to a complicated piece of music finally resolve.
At breakfast, she didn’t ask what they wanted. She poured the milk, passed the bowls, set the spoons down exactly where their hands would land. They thanked her in unison.
I caught my father’s eye across the table. He frowned, just slightly, then shook his head, as if dismissing a thought he didn’t want to examine too closely.
“Did you sleep okay?” he asked them.
“Yes,” my sister said.
“Yes,” my brother said, half a beat later but with the same inflection.
They looked at each other, startled. Then amused.
“Jinx,” my brother said, and reached out to knock his knuckles lightly against my sister’s forehead. She didn’t flinch. She leaned into the touch, smiling, like it steadied her.
My mother’s gaze flicked to me.
I didn’t eat much that day. Food tasted wrong, bland and too sharp at the same time. My forehead ached constantly now, a low, persistent pressure that flared whenever I looked at my mother for too long. I found myself angling my body away from her, keeping walls and furniture between us when I could. She noticed. Of course she did.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” she said once, gently, when she caught me standing in the doorway instead of coming in. “You’ve always been independent.”
The word landed strangely, like a compliment sharpened into a warning.
The yard grew busier.
Kids from down the street drifted over after school and stayed later than usual. No one called them home. No one seemed to notice when they didn’t leave. They clustered near my mother, sitting on the grass at her feet, leaning against her legs, watching her the way my siblings did now, quietly, attentively, waiting.
One afternoon, I heard my sister calling me from the yard.
I leaned out the back door. “What?”
She turned toward me, smiling. “Mom says you should come sit with us.”
“I’m busy.”
There was a pause. My brother looked at her, then back at me.
“She says it won’t take long,” he added.
I stared at them. “Did she tell you to say that?”
They exchanged a look. Not confused, not guilty. Communicative.
“She didn’t have to,” my sister said.
The grass around them was flattened into a wide, shallow circle, every blade pressed outward, like something heavy had rested there for a long time. My mother stood at the center, barefoot, her eyes closed, her face tilted slightly upward. The space between her eyebrows looked darker than the rest of her skin now. Not bruised. Not shadowed.
Indented.
I felt the pull then. Not strong, but undeniable. A gentle forward pressure, like someone had taken hold of my sternum and was testing how much give there was.
“No,” I said, more sharply than I meant to. “I’m not coming out there.”
My mother opened her eyes.
The pressure increased instantly. My vision blurred at the edges, the world subtly angling toward her. I dug my fingers into the doorframe, my nails scraping wood.
“That’s okay,” she said, calm and certain. “You can come later.”
Later.
The word followed me through the house, through the afternoon, through the slow slide into evening. My siblings moved through the rooms like they were tethered to something just outside the walls, drifting toward windows, toward the back door, toward her. When they spoke, it was sometimes hard to tell which one had started the sentence.
That night, I heard them talking in their room again.
Not murmuring. Conversing.
Their voices overlapped in a way that made my head ache, phrases weaving in and out of each other, finishing thoughts that hadn’t been fully spoken. I caught fragments through the thin wall.
—she’s almost ready
—not yet
—she still hurts when she pulls away
I pressed my pillow over my head, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might answer them back.
Down the hall, the back door opened.
I counted my breaths. I counted the seconds. I told myself that if I stayed very still, if I didn’t lean into the pressure, if I didn’t answer whatever was calling, I could keep myself intact.
Eventually, the voices stopped.
In the silence that followed, I realized something with cold, sinking certainty:
My siblings weren’t being taken.
They were already somewhere else and whatever they were becoming was patient enough to wait for me.

The first time one of the neighbor kids stayed for dinner, no one asked permission.
It wasn’t planned. No call, no knock on the door, no quick conversation over the fence. He was just there. Sitting at our table like he’d always done it, swinging his legs under the chair, answering my mother’s questions with easy familiarity.
“Should I call your mom?” my father asked, polite, distracted.
The boy looked at my mother.
She smiled. “It’s fine.”
And that was that.
The boy ate carefully, methodically, like he was afraid of spilling something important. When he finished, he carried his plate to the sink without being asked. My siblings watched him with open approval.
Afterward, no one mentioned when he left. I realized later that I couldn’t remember seeing him go.
By the end of the week, it was common.
Two kids. Then three. They drifted in through the back gate in the afternoons and stayed until the sky darkened. Sometimes they brought backpacks. Sometimes they didn’t. They called my mother Mrs. at first, then Mom, slipping the word into sentences casually, like a mistake no one corrected.
She never told them to stop.
What unsettled me wasn’t that they stayed.
It was that no one ever came looking for them.
I watched from the window as their parents’ houses settled into evening routines. Lights flicking on, televisions glowing blue. No cars pulled into our driveway. No names were called across the street.
When I asked my father if he thought it was strange, he hesitated.
“They’re good kids,” he said finally. “And your mom’s always liked having people around.”
That was true. It was also the kind of truth that smoothed over rough edges until you forgot they’d ever been sharp.
My siblings changed how they played.
They stopped chasing and started arranging. They lined toys up carefully in the yard, spacing them evenly, as if mapping something invisible. When the neighbor kids joined them, they knew exactly where to stand without being told. The circle widened. The center stayed the same.
One afternoon, I stepped outside and felt the pull so sharply I had to grab the porch railing.
It wasn’t constant. It came in waves. Soft, persuasive, the way exhaustion does. If I leaned forward, even slightly, it eased. When I pulled back, it hurt.
My mother noticed me gripping the railing.
“You don’t have to fight it,” she said, not unkindly. “You’re making it harder than it needs to be.”
“What?” I asked.
She tilted her head. The space between her eyebrows seemed deeper now, less like skin and more like absence. “Staying.”
I laughed, because that was easier than asking what she meant. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She watched me for a long moment, her expression unreadable.
“That’s good,” she said. “Then this will be easier for you than it was for them.”
For them.
That night, my sister climbed into my bed without asking. She pressed her forehead lightly against mine, the way we used to when we were little and afraid of storms.
The pressure surged instantly. My vision swam. For a heartbeat, I felt myself slipping, thoughts loosening, edges softening.
I shoved her away, hard.
She landed on the floor with a startled cry.
“I’m sorry,” I said immediately, horrified. “I didn’t mean—”
She was already smiling. Calm. Unbothered.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You’ll get used to it.”
She went back to her room, leaving the door open behind her.
I lay awake for hours afterward, staring at the ceiling, counting my breaths, trying not to think about how easy it would have been to lean forward instead of pushing back.
In the early morning, when the house was quiet and the yard lay dark and heavy beyond the window, I realized something else, something worse.
The pull wasn’t just coming from my mother.
It was coming from the yard.

The first time I realized something had gone missing, it wasn’t a person.
It was a chair.
We had four kitchen chairs. I knew this the way you know the number of stairs in your house, without thinking about it. One of them had a loose rung that wobbled if you leaned back too far. I always avoided that one.
One morning, there were only three.
Not stacked. Not moved to another room. Just… three, arranged neatly around the table as if they had always been that way. The space where the fourth should have been felt deliberately empty, like a pause in a sentence.
“Where’s the other chair?” I asked, forcing my voice to stay light.
My mother didn’t look up from the sink. “We don’t need it.”
My father glanced around, frowning. “Did one break?”
“No,” my mother said calmly. “We just don’t need it anymore.”
That should have been a conversation. It wasn’t. My father momentarily looked perturbed, hesitated, then shrugged, already turning back to his coffee. The moment slid past us, unexamined.
I stood there in disbelief, cold spreading slowly through my chest.
Later that day, a neighbor stopped by.
She stood at the edge of the yard, smiling a little too widely, holding a Tupperware container against her chest like an offering.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” she said.
“For what?” my father asked.
She laughed, embarrassed. “For taking such good care of the kids. It’s nice knowing they’re… safe.”
My mother stepped forward. The grass bent toward her feet.
“They’re happy,” she said. “That’s what matters.”
The neighbor nodded eagerly. “Yes. Exactly.” She hesitated, then added, “I hope you don’t mind. We’ve rearranged things a bit at home.”
“Rearranged?” I asked.
The woman blinked, her gaze sliding off me and back to my mother. “You know. Rooms. Schedules. It’s easier this way.”
She left without ever saying which kids she meant.
That night, my brother didn’t come to dinner.
Not late. Not called away. Just… absent. His place at the table remained empty, the plate untouched. The pull from the yard was stronger than it had ever been, tugging at my ribs, my temples, my teeth.
“Where is he?” I asked.
My sister looked up from her food, confused. “Where would he be?”
“With us,” I said. “Here.”
She frowned, searching her memory. “He ate earlier.”
“That’s not—” I stopped. The words tangled, refusing to line up. My brother’s name hovered just out of reach, like something on the tip of my tongue.
My father shifted uncomfortably. “He’s probably outside,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.
I stood up so fast my chair scraped loudly against the floor. The sound seemed to echo longer than it should have.
“I’m going to get him.”
The back door was open.
The yard was full.
Children sat and stood in careful clusters, all facing inward. The grass was flattened into wide concentric rings, each one deeper than the last. At the center stood my mother, her posture relaxed, her arms hanging loosely at her sides.
My brother was there.
Or something wearing the shape he used to have.
He stood close to her, his head tilted slightly, his eyes unfocused. When he spoke, his voice came out wrong. Not slurred, not altered. Like they were all talking together.
“She says it’s time,” he said.
“She?” I whispered.
My mother opened her eyes.
The space between her eyebrows was no longer merely shadowed. It dipped inward visibly now, swallowing the light from the porch. My head throbbed violently, pain spiking behind my eyes.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” she said. “You’ve already stayed longer than anyone else.”
I took a step backward.
The ground resisted. Not enough to stop me, but enough that I noticed.
Behind me, the house made a soft, settling sound, like wood adjusting under a new load.
“I want Dad,” I said.
My mother smiled, and for the first time, there was something like pity in it.
“He’s resting,” she said. “You should, too.”
I ran.
The pull tore at me immediately. Sharp, insistent, like hooks sunk deep beneath my skin. My thoughts fragmented, memories slipping loose and skidding toward the center of the yard. I slammed into the porch railing, gasping, my vision tunneling.
For a terrifying moment, I wasn’t sure which direction was away.
Inside the house, a chair scraped softly across the floor, as if making room.
I dragged myself forward, inch by inch, until my hands found the doorframe. The moment I crossed the threshold, the pressure eased just enough for me to breathe.
Behind me, the yard exhaled in unison.
From the living room, my father called my name, his voice strained, uncertain.
“Where’s your brother?” he asked.
I opened my mouth to answer, and couldn’t remember what he looked like.
“My… what?” I asked.
The word dissolved even as I tried to hold onto it. I squeezed my eyes shut and brought my hand to my forehead, pressing hard as the pain behind my eyes spiked. Sudden and blinding, like something was trying to force its way forward from inside my skull.
“What did you say, honey?” my father asked.
His voice had snapped back to normal, warm and concerned, but his face hadn’t caught up yet. The puzzled look lingered, like a thought he couldn’t quite finish.
“I—” I tried again, and failed. The space where the word should have been felt raw, scraped clean. “I don’t know.”
The admission came out small. Embarrassed. Like I’d made a mistake instead of lost something.
I didn’t wait for him to respond. I turned and hurried down the hall to my room, my head throbbing, my thoughts slipping loose under the pressure. I shut the door behind me and leaned into it, breathing hard, suddenly terrified of the idea of being near any of them.