My name is Oliver Stubbs. My whole life and identity are inextricably entwined with
my camera, and to say that I make a living behind the lens would
be a monumental understatement. Ever since I was a child, I've been fascinated
by the power of photography, the ability to freeze time to immortalize a moment.
At an early age, I discovered a knack for capturing more than just
images, but stories, emotions, and life itself. Though looking back,
my pictures weren't all too impressive as a child, but as I grew older,
my fascination turned into a burning passion. I studied photography at the prestigious
University of Arts in London and became known by my peers for my evocative storytelling
Through images. I had the unique ability to capture the unseen, the unheard,
the unspoken, the soul of a scene. My distinctive style was hailed
as revolutionary. My work spans a range of genres, but my underwater photography
has become particularly renowned within my small community. The unseen world beneath the waves,
teeming with life, captivated me, and I devoted myself to capturing it
in all its vibrancy and mystery. My photos full vivid detail and the uncanny
ability to transport viewers beneath the surface into the heart of the underwater world.
And at the age of thirty, I was awaiting the dreaded burnout my friends
had all complained about. I was a natural choice when the renowned historical and
marine research organization, the Sea Passed Society, decided to take on the ambitious
task of finding and documenting revened Sir Rod Britain's own Atlantis. They needed someone
who could document the submerged ruins in a way that showcased their historical significance and
capture the mystery of a town long lost to the sea, a challenge that
I knew was perfect for me. Doctor Catherine Howard, the head of the
Sea Past Society, was a well respected marine historian, contacted me personally.
She believed in my unique talent for visual storytelling and thought I could bring the
sunken town story to life. She felt my photos could inspire a global audience,
stir their imagination and allow them to connect with the past submerged beneath the
cold waters of the North Sea. Naturally, I was thrilled and honored to
be selected for such a significant project. The chance to dive into the mysterious
depths and uncovered the secrets of a lost town was a dream come true.
And although I had done similar projects, something just felt different. My flat
in London soon became a frenzy of activity, cluttered with new high tech underwater
cameras, powerful lights for illuminating the dark ocean depths, an all manner of
equipment for preserving my gear against the corrosive effects of salt water, all funded
by the Sea Past Society. But amid the chaos, there was an undercurrent
of palpable excitement. Beneath the exhilaration was a thin layer of anxiety, like
a dusting of frost and an otherwise warm window pane. It lingered there,
never once stepping into the light, but ominously hovering in the room's dark corners.
The task ahead was daunting. This was not a recreation, nor dive
into a well explored reef, but an expedition into a town lost to the
depths six centuries ago. Unease did not overshadow my enthusiasm. It feeled it
the chance to tell the story of Reverence Rod, to breathe life into its
submerged and silent streets was a thrill like no other. I relished the challenge.
Before long it was time to travel to Yorkshire. I was introduced to
my dive body, a man named Callum, a burly Scotsman with a twinkle
in his eye and a jovial demeanor. But beneath his lighthearted exterior was an
individual of impressive expertise and meticulous attention to detail. Doctor Howard had assembled a
unique team of historians, marine archaeologists and technical experts. Most of them were
to stay above the sea and through another camera broadcasting to the boat. Callum
was the Sea Past Society's health and safety coordinator. A veteran diver with an
impeccable track record, His task was to ensure the safety of the divers as
they explored the undersea ruins, and I was to be his primary responsibility.
Callum was hired not just for his expertise in dive safety, but also his
ability to remain calm in a crisis. His warm personality put me at ease,
making me feel safer about the dive. In the days leading up to
the dive, Callum and I worked closely together. We conducted practice dives,
tested our equipment, and developed a dive plan. His attention to detail,
an uncompromising approach to safety, impressed me. He was careful and cautious,
but also open to the spirit of adventure that this exploration held. The excitement
and nerves within me swirled like a tempest. The idea that I was soon
to explore a piece of history untouched for centuries, about to uncover stories that
had been silence for the sea kept me tossing and turning in my bed at
night. The day finally arrived. Our vessel was a massive, state of
the artboat, stocked with all the equipment necessary for the dive, including cutting
edge so in our equipment, robotic submersibles, and a plethora of diving gear.
There was an undercurrent of tension in the air, a static charge that
prickled the skin and raised the hair and the back of your neck. I
noticed hushed conversations among the crew, quick sideline glances that hinted a concern.
Was it the enormity of the task that caused this, or perhaps they were
wary of a new face. I shook it off. I had a talent
for over thinking things, especially while stressed, Callum meticulously checked my gear,
ensuring every piece was functioning correctly. His diligent inspection was comforting, a touch
of solidarity emidicity of anticipation. We ran through a final checklist, emergency signals,
the navigation route, the ascent and descent points. As we finished our
preparations, the moment we've been waiting for was finally upon us. With one
last nod of reassurance from Callum, we plunged into the icy embrace of the
North Sea. The sudden chill was a shock, biting through the thick near
preen of my diving suit, but it did nothing to dampen my spirits.
If anything, it heightened my senses, focusing my mind and the world were
about to enter. As we ended, the remnants of raven Serad slowly emerged
from the gloom. The water had eroded much for what remained for a spectral
reminder of the bustling town it once was. Buildings, streets, the outlines
of what might have been a town square, all blanketed in a shroud of
decay and encrusted with marine life. Intricate stonework, long worn away by the
constant current, was now home to vibrant corals and anemones, creating an eeriefusion
of man made and natural beauty. The coral had claimed these structures, using
them as foundations for their colonies, transforming them into organic, living artworks that
swayed gently with the ocean's rhythm. It was a haunting site, a tableau
of life abruptly halted and preserved beneath the waves. Statues stood guard over their
underwater realm, their features softened by sentries under the sea, the stony gaze
meeting mine through a veil of tiny bubbles that streams from my regulator. A
fish started past, a flash of iridescent color that stood out against the gray
stone and green blue water. I was caught between two worlds, the ancient
human past and the teeming marine life of the present. It was simultaneously humbling
and thrilling, a testament in nature's uncanny ability to reclaim and repurpose. With
my camera had the ready, I eagerly started documenting this hauntingly beautiful underwater world.
Calum and I navigated through the labyrinth of sunken streets. Each building was
a monument to the past, offering a unique glimpse into the lives of those
who once called roven Sarad home. While I concentrated on capturing the visual essence
of these ancient structures, other team members avoided us and engaged in their own
tasks. Their meticulously scraped away at the encrusted stone walls, collecting samples to
further understand how the sea had affected the materials over the centuries. Though this
underwater world was extraordinary, it wasn't entirely alien. I'd spent years exploring and
documenting similar sites, yet each site had its own unique character, as singular
atmosphere that made every dive a new adventure. My previous major project had been
an exploration of the underwater ruins of a Second World War shipwreck in the Mediterranean
Sea. That was a poignant journey, a testament to a grim period of
human history. But despite the historical significance and the eerie beauty of the coral
clad wreckage, the experience was different, perhaps because it lacked the element of
human life that raven Sirard held. Once a mighty symbol of naval power,
the decaying whole now lay silent and broken on the ocean floor. Raven Sirard
was not merely a relic of an ancient era, but a snapshot of everyday
life, frozen in time and lost to the ocean depths. It had once
been filled with people, their hopes and dreams, their daily routines. This
tangible human element made this dive so much more thrilling. I felt like an
interloper peering into a time capsule of lives lived centuries ago. I was careful
to capture every significant structure, every suggestive detail that hinted are the lives once
lived here. I photographed the decay, the rich marine life, and the
profound contrasts between human architecture and natural adaptations. Each click of my shutter felt
like a tribute, a way to immortalize the town in its untold stories for
posterity. The underwater world was a curious way of warping one's sense of time.
Minutes stretched into hours, and each moment is amplified in the silent stillness
of the ocean depths. Before I knew it, I dive time was up,
and the team began their gradual ascent back to the surface. As I
started to swim upwards, I felt an unaccountable tug, like an unseen current,
pulling me back towards the sunken Town. It was as if Raven Syrid
was reluctant to let us go, whispering silent please for us to stay and
listen to its muted stories a while longer, mistaking it for my thirst for
excitement, there was a mistake. A few days later, I found myself
in the Sea Pass Society's dedicated photography lab, surrounded by the familiar hum of
high end development equipment and the sharp, confident scent of photographic chemicals. Developing
photos was always a ritual of anticipation and discovery. For me. The way
an image gradually emerged in the paper felt almost like magic, a portal opening
up to a frozen moment in time. As the first of the underwater images
began to materialize, I was thrilled to see the haunting beauty of the sunken
town coming to life once more. But as I went through the developing photos,
unease started to creep in. I first noticed in one of the shots
of the town square there was a shadow that didn't align with the underwater light
refraction, a blur that felt out of place. I thought it might have
been a technical glitch, perhaps an equipment malfunction or an error in the development
process. But as more photos developed, the anomalies kept appearing. Patches of
darkness seemed to move across the sequential shots, undefined shapes lurking in the corners
of the frame, and art distortions that seemed to warp the scenery. They
were subtle and could easily be dismissed as flaws or artifacts of the photographic process,
but something about them made me feel uneasy. I reviewed the images over
and over, trying to find a logical explanation, but the more I looked,
the more inconsistencies gnawed at me. It felt as though the images were
hiding something, something that lurked just beyond the edges of perception. It was
as if the quiet town of Raven Syrod had secrets. It was reluctant to
reveal secrets that I had inadvertently brought back with me to the surface. In
some sort of sickening denial, I laid out the images before me. My
mind teetered between disbelief and fear. Something was wrong, but I couldn't discern
whether it was a simple mistake on my part or something more profound. This
was my work, and the anomalies. However, bizarre had emerged from my
own camera. I wanted it to be my error. It had to be
right. Doubt seeped into my thoughts, creating a whirlpool of uncertainty. Had
I over something in the underwater conditions? Had I mishandled the equipment? Was
there something wrong with my camera? I was well respected in my field and
known for my precision and attention to detail. A mistake like this felt uncharacteristic.
But I couldn't ignore the possibility. And then there was the question of
whether to reveal these anomalies to my superiors. I found myself wrestling with the
implications. I was not one to be easily intimidated, but the thought of
jeopardizing my position unsettled me. Despite my accomplishments, the all too familiar feeling
of imposter syndrome setting, I found myself questioning my abilities and whether I really
belonged here. Despite this, deep within me, a quiet resolve began to
form. As much as the prospect of uncertainty unknown to me, the idea
of not pursuing this anomaly felt even worse. I've always been driven by a
hunger for truth and understanding. I had to find out if I had messed
up, if not, what was causing the distortions raven Erard had presented me
with a puzzle, and I could not resist the pull the delve deeper.
I approached doctor Howard with a carefully considered proposal. I crafted an excuse,
one that was rooted in genuine scientific curiosity and made to cover my ass if
it turned out to be my fault the entire time. I suggested we needed
a more detailed visual record of the site. A series of panoramic images that
could be digitally stitched together to provide a three hundred and sixty degree view of
the underwater town could enhance her understanding of the spatial layer of the town.
Doctor I argued, maintaining an air of professional concern, Imagine being able to
virtually navigate through the streets of raven Sirid. It could reveal architectural patterns,
structural relationships, aspects we may have missed her in the first dive. I
chose my words carefully, knowing that the proposal would appeal to doctor Howard's keen
interest in experimental archaeological techniques. A prospect of contributing a unique method of documentation
to the field was too enticing for her to disregard. To my relief,
she agreed, that sounds like an excellent idea Oliver, She nodded, a
spark of excitement in her eyes. Prepare for another dive and make sure this
time we document every inch of that town. With a go ahead secured,
a new wave of anticipation swept over me. I was going back. I
found myself relieved, yet something still sat deep inside of me. In the
days leading up to the dive, I found myself spending more time with Callum.
A shared passion for ocean exploration had naturally drawn us together, but our
contrasting personalities solidified our bond. With his infectious enthusiasm and easygoing nature, Callum
was the perfect counterbalance to my more focused and often intense demeanor. Callum had
a knack for putting people at ease. He was full of stories about his
adventures from all around the world, from wild encounters with marine creatures to the
time that he got lost in a coral made off the coast of Australia.
His tales were always told with a broad grin and a glint of mischief in
his eyes, leaving anyone within earshot in fits of laughter. One evening,
as the sunset bathe the sea in hues of orange and red, Callum and
I found ourselves sitting on the company dock, just minutes from our temporary accommodations.
He had brought two hot Coco mugs, a comforting drink perfect for the
cold evening. Callum turned to me as we sipped the sweet beverage and watched
the sun sink below the horizon. You know, Ali, the iving isn't
just about the adrenaline rush with a sense of adventure, he said, his
eyes reflecting the dying light from the setting sun. It's about connection. It's
about understanding our place in the grand scheme of things and how we as humans
interact with the world around us. He spoke, his words, rich with
his accent. His words resonated with me. It was comforting to know that
someone else understood and shared this sentiment. It was this shared sense of connection,
the shared appreciation of the ocean's magnitude and mystery, that had drawn me
to this profession in the first place. As the night deepened and the stars
shone brightly above, I hesitated, weighing my words carefully before speaking Callum,
I began, my voice barely above a whisper. There's something about the last
dive that I haven't told anyone. Callum turned to me, his usually cheerful
expression giving way to concern. What is it? Oli the photographs from the
dive, There are anomalies, I confessed, watching his face nervously for any
sign of ridicule or disbelief. Anomalies he echoed, leaning back in his chair
and crossing his arms, Yeah, I nodded. Shadows that don't make sense,
blurs that seemed to move. It's as if something was there with us.
A silence stretched between us, filled only by the distant lapping of waves
against the boat's hull. Callum's face was thoughtful. Momentarily I feared I had
crossed the line. Finally, he broke the silence. Ali, we were
diving into a sunken town, a place that held life history, probably secrets
too. He began, his tone measured. Let's not forget it. We
were deep underwater, where life behaves strangely, and visibility can play tricks in
your eyes and the camera. I nodded, knowing his rationale made sense,
but also knowing that my concerns weren't mere illusions. It's more than that.
The photos they feel wrong. I can't explain it, but it's like the
town was trying to tell us something or warn us. Callum regarded me for
a long moment, the lines on his face deepening as he processed what I
just shared. Then, with a firm nod, he clapped a hand on
my shoulder. Ally, you're one of the best underwater photographers out there.
If you say something was off, then it was off. We'll keep our
eyes open and the next dive together. His reassurance brought a wave of relief,
and I found myself smiling at his words. His support and willingness to
believe my concerns made me feel better about the upcoming dive. There was a
moment of silence as Callum finished speaking. Thank you, Callum, I finally
said, my voice filled with gratitude. I know it sounds odd. I
just needed someone to know, just in case, in case of what he
asked, his eyes searching mine, Frances I paused for a moment, staring
out at the endless expanse of the sea. I'm not sure, I admitted,
but whatever it is, I have a feeling it's tied to raven Seer
d This is different from my other dives. It feels like something more than
just a sunken town. Callum continued to look at me, his eyes reflecting
concern and curiosity. It was clear that part of him didn't believe me,
but he remained silent. Well, he said, after a considerable pause,
we'll face it. As he said, this is about more than just the
town. Whatever it is, I nodded, feeling a sense of camaraderie in
his words. Yeah, I agreed, taking a deep breath as I turned
to face the sea again. The following morning dawned bright and clear, the
crisp blue sky starkly contrasting the enigma that awaited us beneath the surface. As
we prepared for the dive, I couldn't help but feel a mix of anticipation
and unease. There was a silent tension in the air, like the stillness
before a storm. Callum once again meticulously checked over our equipment, his attention
to detail a welcome source of comfort amidst my apprehension. Every buckle, valve
and gage was inspected. Every aspect of our gear was scrutinized to ensure maxim
and safety. As we began our descent, the familiar coolness of the water
enveloped us, and my senses heightened. This time, however, the thrill
of the dive was tinged with an undercurrent of uncertainty. As the town of
raven Syriard came into view and not sensation settled over me. It was as
though the town was somehow aware of our presence. There was a whisper at
the edge of my consciousness, a sense of being observed from the shadows.
The closer we got, the more palpable this feeling became. It felt like
we were intruders in this lost town, disturbing the peace of its long forgotten
inhabitants. As we began our exploration, I continued to notice fleeting shadows at
the edge of my vision, faint movements caught in the corners of my eyes,
seemingly disappearing as soon as I turned to look. My heart pounded in
my chest as a chill ran down my spine, But I forced myself to
stay composed and focused on the task, Determined to fulfill my promise that doctor
Howard, I set about capturing the panoramic images of raven Syrid. I methodically
swam from one building to the next, with Calum following close behind. I
captured every detail of the sunken town. The remains of the harbor, the
ancientcy wall, and the collapsed roofs of the houses are all immortalized in my
camera. Yet with each shutter click, the sense of unease grew. It
was as though the very act of photographing the town was disrupting something, and
with each disruption, the uncanny sensation that we were not alone intensified. It
felt like the sea had a heart beat, a throumbing rhythm that pulsed around
me, seeping into my bones. The feeling of being watched became stronger as
we swam through the main square, where a towering statue, ravaged by time
and water, stood as a testament to the town's lost glory. As my
flash illuminated the worn stone, I could swear the statue's gaze was locked on
to us, the cold eyes of stone holding a cold glare. I shook
my head, trying to dismiss it as a trick of the light, but
Callum had noticed too. The murkiness of the water seemed to thicken around us
as we continued to the outskirts of the town, the once vibrant coral that
adorned the buildings, appearing pallid and ghostly under our torch light. Occasionally a
fish would dart away, its silvery scales, shimmering briefly before disappearing into the
blue abyss, leaving us in solitude. Once more. Examining the town more,
I noticed each structure held its own tale of decay. Houses, once
filled with a hum of life, now stood desolate, the skeletal remains encrusted
with marine life. The town's church, with its toppled spire, lay half
buried under the sand. I captured the eerie beauty of the forsaken town etched
in each frame. As we neared the end of our exploration, the sensation
of being watched peaked. The water around us seemed to ripple with an unseen
presence. Suddenly, gust of underwater currents swept past us, an inexplicable chill
that froze my blood. A dark form darted in the corner of my eye,
but when I turned, there was nothing but the ancient ruins and the
haunting darkness beyond. My heart pounded in my chest as I watched Callum signal
or ascent, his eyes wide with fear. A dark shadow darted towards him
from the corner of my eye. A surge of adrenaline rushed through me as
I turned to look, but it was too late. An unseen force struck
Callum, rushing him with a violent current into the decrepit wall of a nearby
building below. His regulator was knocked free. Bubble was bursting from his mouth
in a panicked rush, yet his training prevented him from breathing in water.
Callum, I screamed into my regulator, my voice muffled and carried away by
the water. Frantically, I swam towards him, my heart pounding in my
chest. His eyes were wide and shock and his hands desperately grappled for the
regulator as he struggled against the new unseen current. I grabbed him, anchoring
myself and fighting the force battering us. I swam down and holding onto Calum
with one hand, I grabbed his backup regulator and shoved it towards him.
He took it, jamming it into his mouth. He purged the water out
of the mouthpiece, and his paniced eyes softened slightly as the life giving air
flowed once more. I turned to face the town, a sense of anger
burning inside me. Whatever was lurking in the forgotten depths of raven Serad had
shown itself, not just as an uncanny presence, but as a threatening force.
The water seemed to pulsate with sinister energy, the town's ruins casting ominous
shadows in our torchlight. I could feel it watching us, pressing against us,
making his displeasure known. I signaled and a cent to Callum, who
nodded, his eyes wide but resolute. He kicked upwards, each stroke taken
us further from the menacing depths of raven Serard. As we rose, the
water grew lighter, the pressure eased, and the sense of dread began to
dissipate. Just as we thought we were clear, a sudden force pulled us
back down, even stronger than before. It was as if the entire ocean
had become an invisible hand, dragging us back towards the malevolent town. I
screamed into my regulator again as I saw him get pulled away from me,
his form disappearing into the murkinger. Desperate, I tried to swim towards him,
but the force was too strong. Then suddenly my grip and my camera
slipped and it began to sink. It's attached light flickering like a falling star
into the watery void. I watched horror stricken as it fell into a crack
and deeper into the abyss. I cried out, I've voice lost in the
aquatic emptiness. That camera was my lifeline, not just for my profession,
but now it seemed for our survival. It sank rapidly, swallowed up by
the eternal darkness of the ocean. Whatever was targeting us was weak, as
if it needed us to be closer to the town to fully overpower us.
As I was about to dive after it, I felt a hand gripped my
arm. I turned to see Callum, his eyes wide with fear and confusion,
but alive. He shook his head. He was right. Going after
it spelt more danger than either of us could imagine. We ascended again,
with nothing else to do, hoping the loss of our evidence calmed the town.
The effort was physically taxing, the cold sea water churning around us as
we battled to ascend. Each kick and each push felt like we were fighting
against a relentless tide. My muscles screamed in protest, but I forced myself
to keep going, pushing past the pain and exhaustion. Callum was ahead of
me, every sinew in his body straining as he too fought against the pull.
Determination was etched on his face, yet he kept his eye on me.
Slowly, painstakingly, we began to gain distance, the poll of the
town lessening. I could see the lighter waves above us, the sun's rays
penetrating the deep blue, beckoning us towards safety. We broke to the surface
and found ourselves clinging to the side of the boat. Our breaths ragged and
our bodies exhausted. Our crew helped our heavy bodies aboard, their faces masks
of concern and confusion. We exchanged no words. The terror of our experience
had left us momentarily speechless. As we docked back at the mainland, doctor
Howard was there to meet us. She looked troubled eyes scanning Callum and me,
noting our bruised and battered bodies. We were a far cry from the
enthusiastic team that had embarked on a journey to chronicle the sunken town. Oliver
Callum. She began, her voice a mixture of concern and something else,
something I couldn't quite place what happened out there. I exchanged a glance with
Calum before turning back to her. Taking a deep breath, I recounted the
inexplicable experiences, the unseen force, the threatening shadows, and the attack.
Doctor Howard listened, her face paling as we described our encounter. As I
mentioned the loss of the camera, I saw a flicker of disappointment across her
face, but it was quickly replaced by a serious expression as I continued.
I know this may sound impossible, I concluded, brace myself for a reaction,
but something is down there, Doctor Howard, something that doesn't want us
there. For a moment, there was silence. Doctor Howard seemed to be
processing what we told her, her gaze distant. Then, to my surprise,
she nodded, I believe you, Oliver, she said quietly. In
fact, I hear you both. An apology. She took a deep breath
and then began to explain. Teams before us had reported the same strange feelings,
the same sense of being watched, but it was more than that.
After their third dive, members started returning with inexplicable injuries. Those who were
brave enough to attempt a fourth dive, they never returned at all. I
had hoped, foolishly, perhaps that capturing photographic evidence would help us understand what
was happening, doctor Howard confessed, her voice wavering slightly. I didn't want
to believe that the town itself could be dangerous while we were gone. Doctor
Howard admitted that she had examined the photos from our first dive. She also
admitted to noticing the strange phenomena. I had ghostly figures, inexplicable shadows,
things that didn't make sense, But she dismissed them, attributing them to light
or damage to the camera. But now hearing your account, I understand that
there's something more at play here, she admitted, her eyes reflecting her deep
remorse. I should have warned you, should have stopped the dives, but
my desire for discovery overrode my caution. Her confession left us shocked the realization
that she had known at least partially of the potential danger, but had not
shared it. It's stung yet looking at her, seeing her genuine remorse,
I could only feel a deep sense of sadness. I shook it all away.
As doctor Howard's confession hung in the air, a deep sense of betrayal
began to coil in the pit of my stomach. Anger, hot and quick,
started to rise within me. Seeing away the icy dread that had gripped
me since the dive, I stared at Doctor Howard, my mind a whirlwind
of disbelief. My chest tightened, and my heart pounded in my ears.
The woman who had entrusted us with an assignment of a lifetime, a woman
we respected and admired, had knowingly led us into a trap, a trap
that could have costed us our lives. We had trusted her, relied on
her, and she had betrayed us. The pressure built inside me, a
physical weight pressing against my chest, the corners of my vision growing red with
rage. The sting of betrayal cut deep. A flash of memory, the
cold, unforgiving waters, the threatening shadows, and the deep Callum's terrified eyes,
the invisible force that had almost claimed us, all came crashing down,
feeding the fire of my anger. You knew. My voice was low and
harsh, carrying the weight of my bruin anger. You knew, and you
still sent us down there. Doctor Howard tried to respond, her voice placating,
but the words were lost on me. The anger was all consuming,
now, blotting out any reason we could have died, Howard Callum could have
died. The words tore from my throat, raw and furious. At that
moment, I felt a sudden urge to leave, to put as much distance
between myself and doctor Howard as possible, to escape from the bitter taste of
betrayal. But instead I stood there, my fists clenched, my body trembling
with unspent rage. My career, my love for the ocean, and the
trust I had in those I worked with all felt like they were sinking.
A shiver ran through me, a mix of anger and something else, a
deep, echoing sadness as profound as the ocean itself. I walked out after
that, in a rush of adrenaline. I packed away my belongings, leaving
behind the new equipment tainted by the darkness of the project, and left.
I hope whatever inhabits that town stays there. Let's consider some hypotheticals. Let's
say you got yourself a master's degree. Let's say you've got a job at
a small branch of state government. Let's say you work there for the better
part of your early adult life. You built everything around that job, got
an apartment, moved in with your girlfriend, had an orange cat with seemingly
a single brain cell. Life is good, right Hypothetically, Then comes along
this man says he works in conjunction with the federal government and the private sector.
The guy reeks corporate, got a suit with a custom cut, no
labels on his clothes, tells us that we're going to be working closely with
a small department that has recently got a boost. Apparently there's a need for
expansion, and some people from my branch will be moving on up. Let's
say that one of those people is me. Hypothetically, all right, I'm
going to stop with that. Sorry, it still gets to me. You
can safely presume that I've changed a couple of details to make myself less recognizable.
I got to get through the filters. I had moved from Milwaukee up
to Superior. Sarah and I tried to make it work, but she couldn't
leave the city behind. He came down to a choice between me and the
rest of her life. It made sense for her to stay kind of annoyed
me. She kept the cat though, that thing I loved. I started
working at the DUC in September of nineteen ninety eight. At first I didn't
even know what the acronym stood for. It wasn't a matter of secrecy.
But they had these stupid sayings plastered along the walls that people followed to a
t. For example, water off a duck's back. This was the standard
operating procedure. Don't ask too many questions. Let your questions and worries drift
right off like water. Offer ducks back. They displayed this proudly in the
lunch room with a picture of a duck peacefully sleeping by a pond. We
worked in collaboration with other agencies in Michigan, Iowa, and Minnesota. Mostly
Minnesota. I helped them develop software to codify reports of invasive ecological species.
It would break down verbal reports with the bare bones takes the speech program,
which in turn is transcribed and separated into categories. Categories were measured, analyzed,
and turned into probability reports. Once information had been categorized, the most
prominent reports will be sent to the department lead. Seemed simple by today's standards,
but back then it was cutting edge staff. It was November nineteen ninety
nine when we finalies the first version of our system, lovingly named Daisy.
Hours before the launch party, the department lead took me to his office,
closed the blinds, and sat quietly across from me for about two solid minutes.
This man, the department lead, was Thomas Rubin, a sixty seven
year old extra sergeant with a penchant for the dramatic, kept his head as
bold as his lies. Having worked there for over a year. I thought
I had a foot in the door by then. Turns out I was still
on the outside until that very moment. Thomas poured me a shot mint schnaps.
To a job well done, he said, raising his glass. I
accepted the invitation and down the shot. What the hell right do you have
reoccurring nightmares? He asked? Seeing something strange at night those last few hours
before the sunrise? Do the shadows gain a peculiar tint? No, sir,
you're not a very haunted man, are you. I'm not, sir.
I can work with that, he bored me. Another drink. I
can get you working on the real deal, he said, But you're not
going to like it. You're not going to like it one bit. That
sounds like a party to you. I took the glass and studied it.
Little sugar crystals swirling around, back lit from a lone computer screen. I
down the second shot and Thomas smiled. Imagine a lighthouse, he said,
and whenever someone thinks about the lighthouse, it lights up. You're with me
so far, yes, sir. And this lighthouse draws in all kinds of
things from far and wide, traders, smugglers, warships, everything. But
you don't want that. The beach is closed and these ships are bad news.
What do you do? We turn off the lighthouse, sir ah,
But it comes right back on whenever someone thinks about it. Even when you
do. We demolished the lighthouse, sir, same thing pops right back once
you think about it. Try again. We forget about it, sir.
You can't unkno something. Then you'd have to go after the people that know
about it, and you'd have to be careful not to learn anything about it
yourself. And that's what we do, said Thomas. We turn off the
lighthouses. Thomas elaborated over the course of three more shots. What he was
describing was an invasive ecological agent, something that literally grew from the ground.
Its very presence acts as a sort of go ahead for other more dangerous enteredies,
but thinking about it too much causes it to appear, not immediately but
slowly over time. The more you knew, and the more intimate your knowledge
about it was, the stronger the connection would be. I was safe,
though you had to know the details to trigger it. Thomas gave me the
example of a red lily. You couldn't just know it was red or a
lily. You had to know both these things to imagine it clearly. Once
you did, there's a chance it starts appearing more and more in your everyday
life until it takes physical form, and by then you've opened an express highway
to something far darker and far worse. The DUC, or the Department of
Unknown Crisis, was founded to combat these entities in a way that doesn't endanger
the general populace. We were preventative. Mostly. The software we made scrubbed
all details and simply stated an address, sometimes a person in the likelihood of
their being at least one physical manifestation of the invasive species present. As the
system was automated, there was no way for us to know the details only
the computer knew. According to Thomas, there was a time when these things
had been completely eradicated, right before the start of the Second World War.
There had been a concentrated effort to remove them. The methods they used was
later adapted in creation of the DUC. Turns out those things can't ever be
truly removed. There was an author who documented these ecological entities to such a
degree that it could be used as a gateway. While he passed away in
nineteen twenty six, possibly as part of the containment, his diaries were discovered
in the sixties. Since then, the invasive species had free reign with no
one to stop them. There'd been some loose efforts, mostly from the private
sector, but it took the creation of the DUC to start the work on
a larger scale, and there we were. From that point forward, I
started to work with more specific field equipment. Since being able to imagine the
object is something that triggers it to manifest, we needed a way for field
agents to physically remove them without putting themselves in danger. We came up with
something we called the Blurguard, a full headset that removes all color dampened sounds
and mildly blurs your vision. Going back to the example of a red lily,
the blur guard turned it from a red lily to some kind of flower
that's not enough detail to trigger a manifestation and thus deemed safe. Since our
software knew what to look for, we incorporated a camera and basic image recognition.
There'd be a little green light showing up whenever what we were looking for
was in few. From that point, our field agents could play hot or
cold until they found what they were supposed to remove. And when it came
to people, well, we can't kill them or have them unlearned something,
so instead there was a targeted effort to hurt them into place where we knew
this problem was prominent enough to go unnoticed. The DUC had done it for
decades. These were personalized, targeted efforts, maybe sending a particularly juicy job
offer enticing a target to move things like that. We focused on two main
sites, a rural town in Minnesota and one in West Virginia. There were
talks of one up in New England, but that was a separate department.
These places have been absolutely scrubbed to this day. You can't even find them
on the map. Our colleagues and the private sector brought up pretty much everything
there is to owe, giving the DUC close to full control. It might
seem cruel, but most of these people had no idea they'd been manipulated.
They lived good lives. We did our best to turn off as many lighthouses
as we could, but in a town like that, some were bound to
pop up eventually. Let's skip ahead a couple of years. In the summer
of two thousand and four, I had been on rotation assisting the development of
new equipment. I was also regularly updating both Daisy and the Blurguard. We
had implemented generalized search filters looking for the trigger words that Daisy could use,
increasing our information input tenfold. Hell about ninety percent of forum infrastructure could be
breached the sense of descriptions of the invasive agents if needed. We had basic
bots prowling most major discussion forums to contain eventual spread. One night, I'd
taken my work home with me to work on a camera light. Some field
agents had mentioned image recognition issues in low light areas where the camera refused the
work, so I figured an extra light source would go a long way.
I was blasting my worktime playlist on my laptop, sipping on my second room
and coke. If I was going to do extra work from home, I
might as well make an event out of it. Just short of midnight,
it was time to try it out. I turned off the lights, put
on the helmet, and checked to see if the camera light auto activated as
instructed. It did. Strange thing, though I was getting her green marker,
the helmet was recognizing the invasive element right in front of me. I
know my own apartment top to bottom, so I know exactly what I was
looking at. Blurred helmet or no. I'm obviously not going to describe it
to you, but it had the appearance of a household plant, quite large.
I had it in my window for years. For the sake of storytelling,
let's call it a red lily, like in Thomas's example. Suddenly it
dawned on me. Now I knew what the invasive agent was. I couldn't
unlearn it. From that point forward. I was going to be a threat
to the department. This was an invitation for red lilies to pop up out
of nowhere, possibly making everyone aware of them. But first and foremost,
they'd be a lighthouse for other things to come. I pulled a lily to
the pot, roots and all, and shoved it down the garbage disposal.
I swear that damned thing screened. The empty pot was left on the window
sill. Moments later, my phone rang. Turns out my blurguard was actively
connected to the daisy system. It probably sent out a report to the department
lead with my neigh and address the moments it recognized the species. I held
my breath, trying to calm down. This was going to spark a series
of events that'd be a report, an investigation. I'd most likely lose my
job and be forced to relocate. No worse, this was unprecedented. As
expected, the call came from Thomas. What's going on, he asked,
I'm working on the internal camera light. I think there's a malfunction. We've
got a positive match on your location. I know, I know. It's
not a big deal. It's nothing. We're going to stick to protocol on
this one, said Thomas. Expect three field agents on site within fifteen minutes.
Don't go anywhere. I pulled my hair. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.
I usually get the shakes when i'm losing control. I figured I better
remove all traces of the plant, whatever parts were stuck in the garbage disposal,
and whatever remained in the pot. Except when I looked back up,
there was another red lily growing from the pot, almost exactly the same,
like it had never left. I can't stress this enough. You can't unlearn
things, you can't unremember something. I tried not to think about it,
but that just made me think of it more. I fetched a ruby's cue
from my desk to focus something else, but as soon as that color showed
up, my mind sank back to thinking of it. I got a garbage
bag and through the whole potting along with the rest of the garbage. There'd
been nothing left. I went room by room looking for anything remotely resembling it,
but there was nothing. So I left the apartment intent on throwing it
all away. But see, there's this communal garden project outside my apartment building.
It was filled with these things. There were dozens of red lilies.
My mind blanked and I could feel my pulse rising in my throat. This
entire neighborhood could be compromised, possibly more. I couldn't, for the life
of me remember if the litters had been there earlier that day, or if
it was a reaction to my realization these things were insidious. They're not only
appeared when you think about them, but they made a conscious effort to pop
up when they at least expected or wanted. I called my landlord Jerry,
and started pulling up lilies from the community garden with my free hand. Some
of them screamed. It was like a tiny whale from a baby. Some
of the lilies clung to the dirt, digging their roots deeper. Others came
willingly. One of them withered in my hand, giving up completely. When
Jerry finally picked up, I was out of breath. I need to ask
about the communal garden project, I said, I work with the Department of
Fish and Wildlife. There's a bit of an invasive species growing here, and
I need to establish a time frame as to when they appeared. All right,
the red lilies, the community garden lilies. They're actually a dangerous and
invasive species. Do you have any idea how long they've been here? Red
lilies? Oh, yeah, we've had those for a while. How long?
There was a silence on the other end, Maybe he was thinking about
it. I didn't have that kind of time. How long, Jerry,
I look, I don't know, eight maybe nine years. I grabbed my
hair and pulled. The pain in my scout forced me to concentrate a handful
of hair gave way. Thanks Jerry. If you see these, throw them
away immediately. I'll do that, and don't tell anyone. We don't want
to want to alarm people. I hung up. I was flailing, breaking
protocol left and right. I was breaching, waiting to be sealed. I
was on my knees in the dirt, pulling up red lilies by the handful.
One of my neighbors walked past, and I could hear a dog whining
in the side of me, or maybe it saw something I didn't. There
was no telling what this could mean. Most breaches would encountered was one or
two of these things. At most they were usually contained to the Minnesota side
of operation. Them having skipped the state line and latching unto me was alarming.
This could prompt a whole new level of response. I knew Thomas held
a level black response, where termination of lives would be necessary to contain the
threat, but we'd never employed it, not yet. But looking around me
and running the numbers. This might be it. This could be the first
time they'd have to kill people, and I'd be the first in line.
The field agents would be there at any moment. My hands were red and
raw and pulling up lilies and stuffing them into the garbage bags. I was
so frantic that I grabbed everything that even remotely resembled them, anything red,
anything lily shaped. I tore up more than half the community garden in ten
minutes flat. I could hear a car coming, I couldn't take any chances.
I looked over the garden again, I couldn't see any of them,
and sprinted to the garbage cans. The moment i'd thrown it all away,
I saw headlights turning the corner. I recognized them. I brushed my hands
off the best I could and shoved them in my pockets. A white hatchback
with government license plates pulled up, and three people got out. I tried
to stay calm, I tried not to think about red lilies. I tried
to smile. I could tell that I was looking at Agent a step as
young and Owens. I had worked with these people plenty of times to prep
them for excursion, never to this extent, though, and never on this
side of the States. They all fixed and activated their Blurguard helmets. Rough
Night asked the steps. Yeah, yeah, I nodded, working on an
update the helmet kind of. You know, sure, sure, we'll just
check out the apartment and be on our way. You mind waiting down here?
No, that's that's fine. They turned on their image recog, singed
their combs and gave me a pat on the shoulder. We'll be an inn
out, said Young, Sorry about the trouble. I watched them. I
send the stairway while I stayed out by the garden. I was going to
make sure nothing popped up. If the agents just up and left, I
could come with a plan, I tell Thomas eventually, but I had to
be clever about it. I had to assess the damage and spread to make
sure I could trigger a quarantine rather than an eradication level response. Still looking
around the apartment complex, there were probably hundreds of people living there. These
things could have made their way into every single household, opening the way for
pretty much anything, not that I had the slightest idea of what that might
be. I was lost in thought for the better part of half an hour.
What the hell was taking them so long? Had they found one?
I walked up the stairway and put my hand on the apartment door. It
was quiet. It shouldn't be quiet. I got this sinking feeling, like
my body heat was leaking out of my feet. My mind started to race
with possibility. Maybe they left, went to the wrong apartment. Maybe they're
watching TV and my couch, having a beer, burning a red lily in
the bathtub. Whatever they did, they wouldn't do it quietly, and this
was quiet. I pushed the door open and was met with a chemical smell,
like a moist mix of methanol and iron. It was strong enough to
taste astavers. I coughed out, are you guys in? There? No
response. I stepped back out, gasping for fresh air. The smell by
my nose hairs. My eyes teared up as I tried not to sneeze.
I didn't want to go back in. I knew it was bad. I
could feel it in the pit of my stomach. Still, I didn't have
a choice back in and shut the door behind me. I turned on the
lights. I turned on the lights. They'd been torn to pieces. There
was blood dripping from the ceiling, two severed arms on the kitchen table,
an armless, legless torso resting on the couch, the blood sinking into the
cracks in the leather. The floor was covered in gore, torn straight from
their bodies and left in the open, muscle, sinew, vital organs,
all splayed out on the floor and furniture. There was a single red lily
in a brand new pot resting on the window sill. There was a bright
red handprint on the bathroom door. I gently pushed the door open, only
to reveal the severed heads of Esteva's younger owens, unceremosely thrown into a pile
on the floor of my our cabinet. I don't know how long I stood
there. My mind went completely blank. I could honestly not tell if it
was real or a nightmare. For a moment, I was awash with this
intense relief. It had to be a nightmare. It didn't make sense for
something so terrible to happen so suddenly. It took me a while to realize
that there was something looking at me from the bathroom mirror. I turned to
it. My face wasn't there, just the dark space where my face ought
to be. It was like staring into a hole. Vaguely shaped like a
humanoid. It followed my movements as I leaned my head left and right.
We looked at one another in silence, hearing only blood dripping from the living
room ceiling. A trembling whisper burrowed into my spine. Hello, This was
one of the things Tom's had warned us about. This was one of the
ships that came to shore following the lighthouse, one of the countless entities invited
into my world, drawn by this thing, the thing that ought not to
be. I hate calling it a red lily. I want to scream what
it is and have them torn apart, but I can't describe them or they'll
spread out of control. The longer I stared at the thing in the mirror,
the more I understood. It was one thing to know about the red
lilies. It was a hundred times more potent to know exactly how they worked.
For an average person to know their appearance might invite a few to pop
up, But to know them at the level that I did, that was
an entirely different league to these things. I was precious cargo. I could
light a hundred lighthouses A thousand. They perceived A. Stev's and the other
agents as a threat and disposed of them immediately. I was the equivalent of
a carrier patient zero. I was stuck in the eye of the storm,
and everything around me would be torn to shreds. I ran a hundred scenarios
in my head. Destroying myself was the obvious choice, but that would be
the nail in the coffin that would force Thomas to take violent action on this
entire apartment complex. Without context, he wouldn't know how to contain it.
Losing personnel was the final criteria for a black lever response. However, if
it was attributed to a breach of protocol or faulty equipment, I could bring
it down to a quarantine. There was hope, but I had to explain
it. I had to stay alive. As I pondered my options, I
heard a running motor outside. I stepped out of the bathroom and out into
the walkway. Another two white Hatchbacks had pulled up. I'd lost track of
time. No one in the Stevis's team had reported and all clear or anything.
This had prompted a standard backup response. If these teams found traces of
anything, our entire field division would be called in. They'd probably put people
all the way down in Des Moines on high alerts within the next fifteen minutes
if there was no de escalation. There was already new red lilies growing in
the community garden. They wouldn't let me speak. Talking was a hazard,
since I could verbally describe what they were looking for. I could yell out
they looked like red lilies, and the entire squad would be compromised. Up
until this point, we'd never had to worry about that kind of wilful exposure,
and there was no plan for it that the UC didn't have enemies in
the active sense. We were preventative. There was no way they'd let me
talk or leave, not with three human remains in my apartment. At best,
they'd gag me and burn this place to the ground. At worst,
they'd shoot me and then do the same. I scurried along the walkway,
turning left at the far end, I took the fire escape to the ground
floor, hugged at the wall of the building, and circled back to the
parking lot. I burst into a sprint for my sedan. Luckily, no
one noticed at least no one that cared. As soon as I got on
the highway, I called Thomas. I had trouble staying in my lane.
My hands kept cramping up. Thomas picked up. I could hear him opening
a door, putting on a jacket. You've got to tell me what's going
on, he said, where are you? I had to go. I
had to The place is infested, so let's deal with it. I didn't
know what to say. There was no good place to start. I leaned
back in my seat, tried to keep the car straight and took a deep
breath. There were flashes of read by the roadside, could have been lilies.
The back seat was dark, dark enough to hide a possible shape.
I thought I saw an outline in the rear view mirror, but it might
have been my mind playing tricks. Stay where you are. I'll have someone
pick you up, and we'll deal with it. I can't. I said,
it's bad, Thomas, it's real bad. How bad are we talking?
We're talking our quarantine breach a protocol at least three casualties. Thomas took
a deep breath the line for a few seconds. I could hear him get
into the car. You know don't you. Yeah, that's I'm sorry.
They're everywhere. I can't stop seeing them. Don't tell me anything nothing.
I shouldn't be talking to you. He was right. Talking to someone like
me who knew was like trying to pit a rattlesnake. It could be over
in a snap. We've got to bring you in. What are you going
to do? Did we lose people? Mists his team? I said,
something came through. Jeez, are you saying you're causing manifestations? I don't
know, but you do know you if anyone knows, so tell me.
Looking back in the rear view mirror, I knew there was something riding along,
something that had caught on to me, something that had stepped into our
world following the light of the red lilies. There was no point in denying
it. I'll figure it out, I said, I'll deal with it.
Before Thomas got the chance to object, I turned off my phone and chucked
it out of the window. I drove for the better part of an hour
before a familiar sound snapped me to attention. Whatever surface level plans I'd made
in my head dissolved completely. I heard the sound before I saw the flashing
lights. A siren. I was probably swerving left and right, trying to
keep the car straight. No wonder I was being pulled over. This could
get real bad, real fast. I thought about bucking it and hoping for
the best, but that had just draw more attention to me. Instead,
I found a secluded spot and pulled over. It was only as I pulled
the handbrake that I remembered I'd been drinking early that night. I'd had about
two rum and cokes. I'd completely forgotten about it. I tried to consider
my options, but there was no time. I was told to turn off
the engine, rolled down the window, and placed my hands on the dashboard.
There were two officers, a man and a woman. I could barely
hear them over my pounding heart. To them, it was a routine stop,
but I was trying to save lives. They had no idea what kind
of trouble there are in I tried to wrap my head around it to come
up with something plausible that they'd understand. I could tell them I had a
bomb strapped to me or anything, but there was no time. I hadn't
even heard them asking for my license and registration. I could feel a flashlight
shine in my face, but I barely registered it. They asked me three
times. Then they changed tactics. Sir, we needed to step out and
place your hands on the hood of the vehicle. I fumbled my response.
This something in the car, I said, You've got to be careful.
There's, sir, is there currently a weapon on your person? Something that
can puncture wound my partner? A pencil, a knife, a sharp set
of keys. No, listen, you, you got to step back.
There's something. My thoughts blanked. There By the side of the road,
I saw one, a red lily, clear as day, growing through the
cracks in the pavement. Sir, I needed to cooperate with me. The
officer insisted, have you been drinking tonight? I couldn't take my eyes off
the red lily. It was like a reminder that this was already over,
that my fate and theirs was sealed. The moment we met dead men walking,
please, I whispered, let them go. For a second, I
thought that it might do it. I was willing to listen, to give
in if that's what it took for these people to live. The red lily
knew. I know it knew, But like a lighthouse, it can't help
but to shine and bring ships to shore. And with that a familiar tremble
rose in my stomach. Hello. There was a flicker as one of the
light posts went out. I closed my eyes, trying to keep the tears
in. The officer to my left started screaming. I heard a gunshot,
but muffled, as if firing into something at close range. I heard fabric
being torn, then flesh, then sinu ine arteries. No one ever told
me it was possible to discern the sound of marrow separating from breaking bone,
But now I can't stop hearing it. Hello. Primal animalistic screams a program
response in a biology to alert other humans to stay away, to run Spotches
of blood rained down on the concrete and the hood of the car. I
could feel something warm splatter across my face and run down my cheeks. The
screams stopped. I had sunk to my knees. I looked like a crying
older boy, praying for it all to stop. When I finally forced my
eyes open, the world was red with blood. In the flicker of a
dying light post, I saw something vaguely human drop the sundered remains of a
torso he followed my head like movements left to right, mimicking me. I
could tell it was proud, like a dog bringing back a stick to its
master. Hello. I stumbled to my feet, leaning against the car to
steady myself. The concrete was slippery with blood, and I kept stepping on
something indiscernible. I tried to look straight ahead as to nut look at the
entity too closely. It was just standing there in the middle of the street,
looking at me, waiting for me to say or do something. I
looked straight ahead, pretending it wasn't even there. The car took a few
turns of the key to start. The steering wheel was slippery with blood,
but I managed to steer back on the road. The windshield wipers smeared the
gore into a thin red veneer. I had to go away, far away,
and there was only one place I could imagine. As I mentioned earlier,
the DUC had certain contaminant areas, previously user spaces where they simply moved
people of interest. But with me there, they'd have to leave it alone.
It'd be too dangerous to interact with. They'd have to trust that I
wouldn't interfere as long as I kept to myself and out of the way.
I burned my car in a field and walked nine miles. I washed myself
off in the river. This was a town designed to keep people comfortable enough
not to ask questions, so having a stranger wandering off the streets wouldn't be
a problem. And everywhere I looked there were red lilies. They were in
the windows of every house by the roadside, in every garden. Hell they
were even used as a logo. I'd seen that logo a hundred times.
Maybe they had no idea what it meant. I've stayed in that rural minace
of the town ever since. I've seen more horrors than I dared to count,
but they seem to ignore me. They treat this place as a nesting
ground or a staging area. Considering how many of them there is, I'm
astounded that anyone is still alive. Do you see has declared this entire town
a hazard. I've tried getting in touch with Thomas again, but all my
attempts at communication with the outside world has been censored. If this, by
some miracle, gets through the filters, I urged that do you see to
get in contact with me. I want to be an asset I want to
help, and of the lighthouses. And as for everyone else, the best
thing you can do he stop asking questions. Don't question the armed men with
strange helmets, don't look too closely at the strange plant in the community garden.
Don't look for anything abnormal, and if you see something, try to
consider it might be artificial. Don't dig too deep into this. If you're
not involved, consider yourself lucky, and stay out of rural Minnesota. It
was my best friend Luke's idea to form our own detective agency, inspired by
the shows we loved watching together. We lived on Brook Street in a small
town in Oregon, so we called ourselves the brook Street Sleuths. We advertised
our services on the community board in Elmer's Market, which usually cost twenty five
cents a week, but mister Elmer kindly allowed it for free. We worked
on various cases in the space of a month or so over one summer.
Who's been taking the blackberries from Miss Jacob's brambles solved almost everyone who passed by?
And lots of chipmunks? What made the small hole in Lowery's front yard
solved a chipmunk? Yeah, we had an abundance of chipmunks in town,
but not all the mysteries involved the little critters. They were clearly not mysteries
to the adults who hired us. But the best thing about living in that
kind of community was the willingness of our neighbors to contribute to our idea of
fun. Luke and I were rewarded with many sodas and candy bars for our
sleuthing skills. Despite our success rate, the brook Street Sleuths was a short
lived agency. Our last ever case began with a very real mystery, where
is mister Page's dog? Frank Page was a retired widower and happened to be
my next door neighbor. His dog, Milo, a Yorkie, was what
Frank referred to as a pain in the proverbial. Milo was an expert escape
artist. He was always getting out of the yard and causing mischief in town,
but would usually come back home with his tail wagging after an hour or
two. One evening, we could hear Frank calling for Milow from the doorstep.
He had escaped as per but it had been several hours Ernie still hadn't
returned. I'd had offered to drive around the neighborhood to look for him,
but had no luck. The next morning, I helped Frank make a missing
poster. We stuck a photograph of Marlow and a sheet of paper using a
glue stick, and I neatly wrote the details underneath in black marker, as
dictated by Frank. Then we went to Elmer's market to use the photocopier and
made ten copies. It should have cost us a dollar, but mister Ellmer
said there was no charge and wished us luck in finding him. Frank brought
me a kola as a thank you. You're a good kid, Ricky,
he said, patting my back. I could hear he was upset. We'll
find him, mister Page, I said, the brook Street sleuths are on
the case. He chuckled. He's a piece of work, but I'd be
lost without him. I'll go knock for Luke just as soon as we've put
up these posters. We left one on the board in Elma's, then stood
the remaining posters on telegraph poles earned the two bus shelters in town. I
asked Frank if I could keep hold of the original photograph of Milow. That
way I could show it to the local residents during our investigation. Before I
knocked for Luke, I went back home to tell my parents. Don't wonder
too far, Ricky said, Mom, and stay out of the woods.
I don't like the thoughts of you boys. And there alone. There was
a woodland area that lined the back of town. I absolutely planned on looking
in there. I told my mom I wouldn't though, of course. I
grabbed my bike and rode to Luke's to fill them in on the details.
There we rode around town and knocked on doors asking if they'd seen Milow.
It was mostly unsuccessful, but one lady had some potentially useful information now that
I think about it, she said on a doorstep, I did see a
little dog snifficker around the brambles and Maple Road yesterday. Thank you, ma'am,
said Luke. We discussed it as we retrieved our bikes from the end
of the driveway. There are two houses on Maple Road with brambles in the
yard, he said, Miss Jacobs, I said, and the Deans.
Why did it have to be the Deans. The Dean family were not known
for their warm community spirit, especially the oldest son, Tommy. He was
a senior and notorious troublemaker who had caused Luke and I a lot of grief.
The family also had a much bigger, meaner dog that would probably treat
Marlowe as a snack. We'll go to Miss Jacob's house first, said Luke.
If we're lucky, we won't have to go to the Deans at all.
We left our bikes on the sidewalk and knocked on Miss Jacob's door.
Well, she said warmly, if it isn't the brook Street sleuths. Hello,
Miss Jacobs, we said in unison, what can I do for you?
Boys? We're looking for my neighbor, mister Page's dog, I said,
showing other photo. He went missing yesterday afternoon. Oh no, she
said, I'm familiar. I sometimes see him in the yard by the brambles,
but I haven't seen him for days. Thank you anyway, Miss Jacobs,
said Luke. Of course, she said, I'll keep my eye out.
Oh and help yourselves to blackberries. As we walked down Miss Jacob's pathway,
we looked at each other with concern, knowing we now had to visit
the Deans. We took the opportunity to eat a few of the ripened berries
before braving it then wheeling our bikes to their house. The yard was in
as kempt as the others in the neighborhood. It was overgrown and there were
scraps of metal from various vehicles dartted around like a junkyard. We slowly walked
up the path. As soon as we knocked on the door, they came
loud barking from inside that made us jump, followed by shouting. The door
flew open and mister Dean was standing there, holding back their monster of a
dog by the collar. Were just barking at us like crazy. Shut the
hell up, he yelled down at it. It quiet and down, but
growled under its breath. What do you want, hello, sir? I
stuttered. We were asking around to see if anyone has seen my neighbor's dog.
I took out the photo he went missing it today. What makes you
think I had anything to do with it? He snapped. It's not like
that, Sir, said Luke. We're just asking if you've seen him,
that's all. He sometimes wonders around the neighborhood. Who do you think you
are, he said, Colombo or something. Luke and I turned to each
other like it had been a bad idea. I'm sorry to have bothered you,
sir, I said, turning to leave. Believe me, he said,
if that rat had been anywhere near here, Caine would have sorted it
out. The dog started barking again, and we hurried back down the path.
I don't want to see you boys and my property again, he yelled
after us. I won't hold him back next time, he laughed loudly as
we quickly rode away, my heart beating hard. We stopped around the corner
to catch our breath. Then we started to laugh uncomfortably. God, I
hate that family, said Luke. We heard the roar of an engine,
and a ross bucket of a car came hurtling around the corner, its tires
screeching on the road. It was Tommy Dean behind the wheel. When he
noticed Luke and I, he gave us the finger and sped away out of
sight. So suspicious, I said, but maybe too obvious, Luke shrugged.
They're assholes. But I think we need to investigate more first. When
it felt like we'd exhausted all avenues in town, I suggested we look in
the woods. Luke was apprehensive, as like me, he was forbidden from
the woods. Without an adult, but it seemed logical that a dog would
be drawn to the woods, especially with all the chipmunks the chase. If
we do find Miller there, I said, we'll just pretend we found him
someplace that won't get us in trouble. We looked around for an hour or
so, shouting Milo's name from time to time. He got to the point
where we figured if Milo was somewhere he could hear us, he would have
made himself known by now. Before we left, we both confessed in needing
the bathroom badly, so we went in opposite directions to find a secluded spot
to p Rickie. I heard Luke scream after a few minutes. I quickly
finished and retrieved my bike. Where are you, I yelled, my nerves
on edge over here? I saw him standing in a small clearing and rushed
over. What is it? I asked, out of breath. He didn't
answer. Luke had found what looked like the sight of a sacrificial ritual.
There were strange symbols drawn onto several tree trunks and what appear to be blood.
In the center was a slab of stone with a chalk drawing of three
triangles, all pointing the same way, but overlapping each other. In the
center of that it was a severed animal paw. It had the same auburn
colored fur as Milo's. Oh my god, I said quietly. I really
want to leave now, said Luke in an almous whisper. I nodded,
yeah, come on. As I went to pick up my bike, I
saw a small satchel sitting by a log I walked over to it. Luke,
spotting it too, leave it, ricky, He said, it's evidence.
I said, about to pick it up, but then I remembered not
to contaminate it. I used the stick to lift the flap open and peek
in side. There was a pack of cigarettes and some school textbooks. Senior
biology and math student. I said. I found a large leaf and used
it to cover my fingertips, opening the first page of the biology book written
in pencil in the top right corner, Tommy Dean. A shiver went through
me. As I told Luke, we got on our bikes and rode like
the wind, heading straight to the Sheriff's office. We burst in and both
started yelling whoa fellas said Deputy Campbell from behind his desk, garm yourselves now
what seems to be the problem. We explained everything. Luke and I were
escorted back to the woods to show the deputy what we had found. Sweet
mother of Jesus, he said, calling it in. It was a search
conducted at the Dean's house. Inside Tommy's bedroom, they not only found an
ancient book of the occult containing the very symbols found at the scene, but
also Milo's collar. Apparently he protested his innocence as they took him in for
questioning. I heard all of this through the walls as my parents talked about
it that night, having been banished to my room or Mister Page was devastated.
The disturbing nature of it rocked our sleepy community, but Luke and I
were commended for our help in the investigation. We both received honorary badges from
the Sheriff's department, making us feel like real investigators. After a couple of
days, Miss Jacobs required our services again. My mom was reluctant for me
to carry on play detective, as she called it, but my dad talked
around. Luke and I went to visit Miss Jacobs late afternoon and were greeted
by a wonderful smell. Take a seat, boys, she said, I
begged you a BlackBerry pie. Co let it. Thank you for your services
to the community. Thanks, miss Jacobs, we both said together, excitedly.
Sitting in the dining table, where a warm pie sat in the center,
she cut two slices and played them up, handing us one each by
an appetite, she smiled, taking a seat as we started talking into the
delicious pie. Well done on your investigation. That must have been quite a
shock discovering such a gruesome scene. Luke nodded. It was scary, it
wasn't it, Ricky, Yeah, I agreed, But we handled it like
professionals. She chuckled. I'm sure you did. I always knew that Tommy
Deane was a rotten apple. I can't help but wonder what it was all
for, though, Why sacrifice that little dog? We looked at each other
and shrugged. With mouthfuls of pie. And those cymbals, what do they
mean? My dad said it was devil worship, said Luke. I'm sure
he's right, she said, to think I'd only seen that poor dog a
few hours before Tommy took him. I can't help but think I could have
done something to help you couldn't have known, Miss Jacobs, I said,
it's not your fault. She patted my hand. Thank goodness, you hero
has found those school box of his heather scene. Imagine what else he could
have done if it weren't for you, I tread to think. Luke and
I looked at each other and smiled with pride. Excuse me a moment,
She said, I'll be right back. We're heroes. I chuckled when she'd
left the room. We found a villain and saved the day. Luke giggled.
As we kept tucking in. I couldn't help but feel like something wasn't
quite right. Then it hit me, Wait, didn't Miss Jacobs say she
hadn't seen Milo for a few days when we were investigating. He shrugged,
Yeah so, but she just said she saw him a few hours before Tommy
took him. His brow furrowed. Oh yeah, she's an old lady though,
Ricky, my grandma is very forgetful. I contemplated it, but it
still didn't feel right. My eyes widened. The Sheriff's department didn't release the
evidence, I said, quietly, how does she know about the books?
Luke's eyes widened to match mine as Miss Jacobs came back into the room.
Well you look at that, she said, you've almost finished your pie.
Let me cut you another slice. No, I said, clearing my throat.
It was delicious, but very filling, Very well, she smiled,
let me take this dish away. Then, when she lifted the pie dish,
Luke and I both stared in horror. Scratched in the wooden table with
three triangles overlapping each other. Oh yes, she said, there was a
mystery for you to solve, a mystery ingredient. I wonder if you've got
the detective skills to work it out. Luke looked at me like he was
about to cry, and I he felt exactly the same. He coughed a
little and put his fingers to his mouth, pulling something out. What is
it, Luke, she said. He covered his mouth like he was about
to puke. Hair clue number one, she said, and you ricky,
I shook my head. We'd like to leave now, Miss Jacobs, nonsense,
she said. She took my plate away and put the pie dish in
front of me. Go on, have a look. I looked at Luke,
who was clearly terrified. My hands were shaking as I picked up the
fork and pulled pieces of pastry away. As I searched the thick, dark
purple filling, my fork made a clink sound. I picked it out with
my fingers. I could instantly feel what it was, A long canine tooth.
I threw it across the table and pushed myself back, grabbing Luke's arm
as we made a run for the door. It slammed shut, and the
light that had been coming through the windows dimmed. The symbol on the table
began to glow as if it was drawn in embers. Luke and I had
her arms around each other as we sniveled, not being able to comprehend what
was happening. Miss Jacob smiled from across the room, her hair flowing as
if caught in a breeze. What are your findings, she asked. The
brook Street sleuths must be able to figure it out. You killed my Looe,
I shouted, and the thought of it made me sick. Bravo,
she clapped, make the sacrifice, feed the innocent. But why, screamed
Luke, I am far older than any humans should be. She cackled,
that takes a bit of dark magic to maintain. She grabbed Luke and I
tried to pull him away from her, but with a flick of her hand,
I was forced against the wall. She threw him down onto the symbol,
and he screamed out as smoke began to rise around him. It burns,
he screamed in pain. Leave him alone, I cried, but she
turned to me. The features that made her miss Jacobs faded, revealing something
ancient and decayed. Loose skin hung from visible bones, empty sockets, whispy
strands of hair, teeth surrounded by split, leathery gums. You're next,
Ricky, she yelled, deep in demonic. Her mouth opened wide, and
she took Luke's whole head inside. His arms and legs began to kick about
as I could hear muffled groans coming from inside her. There were snapping sounds
as part of her dislocated like a snake to swallow him whole. Before long,
his shoulders could no longer be seen. She made greedy, gatural noises
as she forced his body down her throat. I was paralyzed against the wall,
forced to watch as my best friend was eaten alive. I could feel
my mind snapping like her ancient bones. Luke's legs were still kicking as she
reached his knees and her long bony fingers gripped around his ankles to push the
last bit of him inside. There came a loud bang, something that startled
her as well as me. The doors to the dining room flew open,
and three officers burst into the room, led by Deputy campbell Us. He
yelled, taking aim at what was once Miss Jacobs. She wretched and Luke's
whole body slipped out of her, collapsing on the table in a cocoon of
translucent goop. I fell from the wall and hid the floor hard as the
officers opened fire on her, forcing her back with a multi layered scream.
The window shattered and natural light poured in, making her scream even louder as
if burned by the rays. I ran to Luke and pulled him from the
table, relieved when he was still breathing. The glowing cymbol was fading,
and with a final shriek, the former Miss Jacobs became a cloud of smoke
that was seemingly sucked into the symbol. Then everything went deathly silent for a
few seconds. As it happened, Tommy Dean had managed to convince the sheriff
to investigate miss Jacobs. He insisted that he had seen her on his property
and that is Satchel couldn't be found afterwards. Thank god he did, because
Luke and I would not be here to day if it wasn't for him.
We carry the mental scars, but we live. Suffice to say, the
brook Street Sleuths were no more after that day. I've spent the better part
of a decade as a cybersecurity analyst for Trident Cybersecurity or TCS for short,
a highly regarded private agency whose name is whispered across government halls and boardrooms.
Our client list ranges from powerful conglomerates and discreet billionaires to governmental bodies looking for
invisible defense lines in the current digital healthscape. Over the years, I've worked
on a myriad of complex cases. I helped take down an international ring of
hackers intent on disrupting the national power grid of on Earth digital scams hidden in
the most intricate labyrinth of code. My work with Trident led to the arrests
of some very dangerous people you will never hear of, who have alluded international
authorities for years. I am naturally introvert, referring the company of a glowing
screen and encrypted data to people. My colleagues often joked that I could talk
to computers. If patience, diligence, and the uncanny ability to find patterns
in chaos are characteristics you'd attribute to a conversation with computers, they might have
been right. When I was handed the case labeled Deep Web Anomalies, I
rolled my eyes. I had seen a hundred similar files. Authorities who can
afford our services scared of the deep Web's reputation, thinking every glitter of system
hiccup was a malicious entity or person from the darker corners of the Internet.
However, it's either just them unable to explain an online behavior in getting spooked,
or someone hitting sights at random to test vulnerabilities, or just cause chaos
for fun, just another day at the office, I thought, ready to
explain why the smoke and mirrors surrounding whatever tricks they were seeing. As I
began the investigation, I traced the incidents to an obscure message board, a
niche digital hotspot where Internet users exchanged experiences and data about purported paranormal events.
The board was a melting part of the uncanny and unexplainable. Stories ranged from
inexplicable system crashes in strange apparitions on video calls to personal accounts of spectral whispers
through headphones. Even some were claiming that AI personal assistants had started speaking in
tongues just imagine the x Board on steroids. This board, however, was
more than just the usual conspiracy theories. The sheer number of incidents, the
sporadic nature, the detailed accounts of TICKSAV users failing to find an earthly explanation.
It made me pause, a flicker of uneased threading through me. The
paranormal has always been an interesting all, be its abstract concept to me,
I'm not dismissive of it, but I've always found comfort in the logical explainable
While sifting through the digital chaos. A particular thread titled the Shadow Codex piqued
my interest, A thread teeming with frantic narratives and vague cautionary tales, pinned
by a user named cortex Phantom. Among the clutter of posts, one stood
out, a cryptic encrypted file ominously titled Damon's Whisper. I've encountered countless clandestine
files during my tenure, each hiding keys to the locks of my investigations.
The damon's whisper seemed like it could be one such key, maybe an encoded
message or a hidden bread crumb to lead me to the source of these anomalies.
I let out a low sigh as I stared at the encrypted file.
Downloading files from unknown sources was never without risks. It always set off a
quiet alarm in the back of my mind, reminding me of the potential digital
landmines I could be walking into. But as part of my job, I
had learned to weigh the risks against the potential rewards. The careful dance of
curiosity and caution was a familiar one. I remembered a case from a few
years back, or a similarly obscure file led me to a worm that had
been slowly eating away at a corporations security infrastructure. Despite the inherent risks,
my foray into the digital unknown had been vindicated. I decided to take the
plunge. Encased within my virtual machine, a fortress of firewalls and isolated sandboxes.
With a series of deft keystrokes, I set all my security options to
the highest, prepping for potential digital fallout. Each click closer to the download
felt like a step deeper into an unexplored cave. At that moment, I
believed I was simply, I think, another piece of this complex puzzle.
I thought the Damon's Whisper would be another mysterious yet manageable obstacle. But I
was wrong. As the decryption software did its job, the file unraveled not
into a clue to my perpetrator, but into a haunting phrase that would soon
seep into every corner of my reality, shadow dwells within. It was far
from the solution I had anticipated. I devoted the next few hours to examining
Damon's Whisper. My screen illuminated the room as they traced through the intricate web
of code, the secting each line twice over. At the surface, it
was a complex, yet seemingly harmless array of encrypted data. As I delve
deeper, peculiarly charities emerged, recurring snippets of nonsensical data, obfuscated commands,
sequences that seemed to replicate themselves in a bizarrely organic fashion. Despite the oddities,
I couldn't pinpoint any concrete threats or leads. The file was just a
maze of riddles layered with digital noise. Frustrated, I concluded it was simply
a cleverly designed decoy to mislead curious minds like mine. Unresolved mysteries have a
way of gnawing at your psyche. As fascinating as the file was, I
knew keeping such an unpredictable element in my system was unwise. As I harbored
the mouse over the delete button, I was momentarily frozen by a fleeting sense
of disappointment. All that build up was a dead end. With a reluctant
sigh, I clicked delete. A strange sensation washed over me. As the
file vanished from my drive, the room seemed colder, the hum of my
computer louder. I shrugged it off, attributing it to the late hour and
the eye strain. But then my screen flickered, displaying what looked like snippets
of the same code from the deleted file. A cold, dread prickled at
the back of my neck. I frantically ran a system diagnostics check, but
it came back clean. The screen returned to normal as abruptly as it had
glitched. Then, in the eerie silence, my speakers crackled a life whispering
a distorted echo of a phrase from the file Shadow dwells within. My heart
pounded as the words lingered in the air. As soon as the serenade that
threatened to shatter my composed demeanor, I swiftly muted the speakers, staring at
the now silent machine and disbelief. A chill swept over me, as if
the room itself had taken a deep, cold breath. I sat there in
the computer screens, glow, fear creeping into my veins. I could rationalize
the system glitches, but this it was as if the digital entity had manifested
itself in my very workspace. I simply made myself believe it was a coincidence
or a trick of my mind scaring itself. I dismissed the claims of the
paranormally inclined users on the message board. But now I was the one sitting
in a dark room, feeling the tendrils of the inexplicable encroach upon my reality.
I was afraid, confused, and in deep waters that my knowledge of
code and cyberspace hadn't prepared me for the sun of a new day brought no
respite. Strange occurrences now followed me beyond the confines of my workspace. Digital
devices I owned began acting oddly. My smartphone screen sometimes flickers, showing glimpses
of the same strange code I had encountered. My smart watch would vibrate randomly,
displaying nonsensical strings of data instead of time. Even my smart home system
seemed to be in the grip of this digital haunting, the thermostat fluctuating wildly,
lights flickering on and off at their own accord. At first, I
tried to rationalize it. Perhaps it was a newly made worm or virus that
had made its way through my devices, new enough to bypass all my currency
security. But the nature of these disturbances felt less like malicious software and more
like a presence. The digital world had been my playground for years, but
now it felt tainted and hostile. The familiar hum of my computer was now
a haunting reminder of the inexplicable. The boundary between my professional and private life
began to blur, replaced with a mounting dread that made my home feel alien
and unfamiliar. To my growing horror, these occurrences became more frequent, more
intrusive, more distorted whispers would echo from my speakers. The chilling phrase shadow
dwells within, now a regular, unwelcome intrusion. I would find my computer
on in the middle of the night, the screen pulsating with the eerie glow
of that nonsensical code. Sleep became a luxury. Each waking moment, dominated
by an oppressive sense of unease, my mind would dart to each digital display,
anticipating the next bizarre occurrence. Anxiety clawed at me, replacing the analytical
calm of my professional persona with a man living on the razor's edge of fear.
But as disturbing as the developments were, a part of me remained stubbornly
defiant. I refused to be intimidated by what seemed like a digital poltergeist.
Driven by a fear of mix and determination, I decided to dive back into
the murky depths of the Shadow Codex. The thread was still there, exactly
where I found it. Equipped with a new resolve, I meticulously gathered every
information I had, cryptic, message and anomaly. Each clue was a lifeline
back into the abyss, a breadcrumb on the path to my unseen tormentor.
On the message board cortex. Phantom's posts took a more ominous tone. Rereading
them fell like descending into a dark well. The words a spiral into madness.
The thread was a digital relic, a testament to the silent chaos that
the codex had apparently unleashed on others before me. When I first reencountered the
haunting phrase, shadow dwells within my blood ran cold, but fear was now
my fuel. With each repetition of the phrase, I felt less like a
victim and more like a hunter closing in on its prey. Hours turned into
days, each instance of the phenomenon pushing me further down the rabbit hole.
It was a battle of attrition, me against the abstract horror lurking in the
depths of cyberspace. The Shadow Codex was an enigma, a digital wraith that
defied definition. As the lines between my work and the creeping terror blurred,
so did the boundary between my mind and the digital I started seeing the haunting
code in my dreams, the patterns weaving themselves into the fabric of my nightmares.
Every digital flicker, distorted whisper, and chilling message were all signposts to
my slowly eroding sanity. By the end of the week, I was a
shadow of my former self. My once pristine workspace was now a storm ravaged
landscape of discarded coffee cups and scattered notes. My reflection in the dark screen
was a haggard, haunted face, eyes wide with terror, that had become
my constant companion. I was adrift in a sea of digital horror, a
lone sailor battling a storm that defied understanding. The Code was no longer just
an anomaly in the digital realm. It was an eldrigentity, a relentless force
slowly eroding my reality's edges. The seemingly random sequences started to make a twisted
kind of sense in my subconscious, forming a grotesque pattern that invaded my every
thought. Yet when I tried to formulate these thoughts, they would quickly lose
sense. It was like knowing the definition of a word but not being able
to name it. The Codex was reaching out from the digital realm into my
mind, reshaping my sanity into its own terrifying image. As the toil of
my descent into the Codex became increasingly TANGI the once familiar digital landscape had transformed
into an abstract nightmare. The culmination of the horror was not just the code,
but the creeping realization of my own insignificance, my inability to comprehend the
depth of the abyss I'd stumbled into. I was losing myself, piece by
piece, my sanity, slowly succumbing to the darkness of the pits I was
delving into. By the time I looked away from the screen, my surroundings
were painted with the echo of the horrific code. I was now a prisoner
in my own home, the walls whispering, the chilling chorus shadow dwelves within.
As I descended into a darkness that was both digital and psychological, one
thing was clear. The Shadow Codex wasn't just dwelling within my machines. It
was in my mind. It had become a part of me. Each day,
my reality became a hellscape of twisted code and creeping shadows. The Codex
dominated every waking moment anomaly. There was now a Leviathan consuming my life.
My mind felt like a battleground, a storm tossed sea, in the grip
of a monstrous entity. Driven by desperation, I threw myself into my work
hoping to find a solution, a way to rid the Codex from my reality.
I spent countless hours poring over every line of code, every fragment of
the bizarre sequences, trying to discern some pattern, some key that could unlock
the nightmare I was trapped in. But every attempt to decipher the code was
met with failure. It was like trying to comprehend a language from a long
dead civilization, its meanings obscured by the sands of time and the vast void
of cyberspace. The more I tried to decipher it, the more my mind
was consumed by its eldritch patterns. Sleep became a forgotten luxury. My meals
were consumed in front of my screen, my appetite overtaken by a hunger for
answers. Every personal boundary, every sanity preserving routine was lost in the wake
of the Codex. Even the simple act of leaving my workspace filled me with
dread. Every time I stepped away from my computer, I was assaulted by
the echoes of the Codex. My once safe haven was gone. Each veiled
attempt to rest control from the Codex only deepened the darkness swallowing my reality.
Yet paradoxically, the closer I inched towards madness, the more determined I became.
A part of me clung to the belief that I could make it to
the other end of the tunnel, that this was my way to fight back.
It was a beacon of hope in the sea of despair, a desperate
lifeline in the face of ever encroaching darkness. But with every failed attempt,
the Codex's grip and my reality tightened. My mind was now maelstrom of digital
horrors, my sanity reduced to a fragile thread dangling over an abyss of madness.
I was caught in a perverse dance with the Codex, each step dragging
me deeper into its shadowy realm. The boundary between my mind and the code
Dex was becoming increasingly blurred, my thoughts echoing with its haunting patterns. My
once rational mind was now an echo chamber of a monstrous entity, my sanity
slowly being eroded by the ceaseless whisper. It was no longer just a digital
anomaly. It was my reality, my nightmare, my inescapable fate. In
a desperate bid for sanity, I finally decided to do the unthinkable, disconnect
from the digital world. I switched off my computer, my smartphone, and
every device that linked me online. The hum of the technology, once a
comforting presence, now sounded like the ominous drone of some unseen beast. The
silence that followed felt like a gasp of fresh air after being submerged in a
dark, turbulent ocean. But my respite was short lived. Even devoid of
the digital manifestations, the Codex's influence was not gone. The silence was not
the comforting void I had hoped for, but a stark, cold reminder of
my isolation. My home, once my sanctuary, was now a prison of
silence and shadows. Without the hum of the machines, every creak of the
house, every rustle of the wind outside seemed amplified My mind, so used
that the digital chatter now started playing tricks on me. I saw patterns in
the grain of the wood floor and the plaster on the walls. The ordinary
and mundane were twisted into grotesque reminders of the Codex. The physical world was
not a refuge. It was just another canvas for the Codex to paint its
horror on shadow dwells within. The phrase had followed me out of the digital
world, insinuating itself into the very fabric of my existence. The patterns in
the wood, the whispers of the wind, and the playoffs shadows in the
corners of my vision all echoed the haunting mantra. As the sunset, casting
long, menacing shadows around the room, I missed the computer screen's eerie glow.
The real world was no less terrifying than the digital Each shadow seemed to
pulse with a life of its own, as if the Codex had extended its
reach from the digital realm into the physical. The darkness around me seemed to
throb with an unseen presence, the Codex perhaps lingering at the edges of my
option. The creeping sense of horror was more profound and more intimate. In
the real world. It was no longer a threat lurking behind a screen,
but an all encompassing entity that had split into every corner of my existence.
In the depth of my despair, I reached out to the only place that
seemed to hold any semblance of understanding, the message board where it all began.
With trembling hands and a mind teetering on the brink of insanity. I
reconnected to the digital world, back to the humming chorus of machines and the
eerie glow of the screen. The fear was tangible, but my desperation rushed
me past it. A grim sense of nostalgia washed over me as the familiar
form loaded on the screen. This was where my nightmare had started, and
maybe, just maybe where it could end. I poured out my story,
every detail of my encounter with the Codex, the bizarre happenings, my subsequent
isolation, and the profound terror that now consumed my life. The words came
out in a disjointed, chaotic stream, a madman's rambling to the void.
I didn't sugarcoat my fear, didn't hold back my despair. I was beyond
caring about sounding crazy or desperate. If anyone could understand, maybe offer some
insight or help, it would be these fellow dwellers of the digital shadows.
And then I waited, every passing second, stretching into agonizing eternity. I
stared head of the screen, the harsh light stinging my eyes, the silence
of the room amplifying the pounding of my heart. I waited for a reply,
any reply a lifeline in the endless digital see. The notification pink startled
me, breaking the oppressive silence. My heart pounded in my chest. As
I opened the response. Two words stared back at me, their brevity more
chilling than any verbose response. Two late, a chill ran down my spine.
The finality of the words echoing in my mind. It was like a
death sentence, the crushing weight of my doomed fate. They held no sympathy,
no offer of help, just a cold, hard acknowledgment of my plight.
I was truly alone, left to face the monstrous Codex and its terrifying
grip and my reality. A sense of profound dread washed over me. This
wasn't just a fight against the digital anomaly anymore. This was a battle for
my sanity, my very existence, against an entity that had already claimed victory.
The Codex wasn't just in my computer or my home. It was in
me, And, according to someone who had managed to look past my ramblings
as insane gibberish, it was already too late. As the days bled into
each other, my life became a relentless cycle of dread and despair. The
Codex's haunting echo never left me, persisting in my every thought and sense.
I was trapped, lost within my own mind, and there was no way
out. Each sunrise was not a new day, but another descent into madness.
I stopped trying to tract time. Days, hours, minutes, They
lost their meaning in the face of the all consuming horror. Food lost this
taste. Sleep became a fleeting memory, and my once cherished solitude became a
tormenting isolation. Each day was a test of endurance, a struggle to hold
onto the last vestiges of my sanity. The house seemed to take on a
life of its own, the walls whispering with the echoes of the Codex.
It was no longer a haven, but a haunting reminder of my entrapment.
I could see the Codex's patterns in everything, the way the dust particles floated
in the sunbeams, the way the shadows played on the walls. It was
as if the Codex had woven itself into the very fabric of reality. I
was living in its shadow, my life a twisted reflection of its nightmarish design.
I started to fiercely, knowing they would only bring more terrifying visions but
staying awake was no better. Every waking moment was filled with a creeping horror
of the Codex. The outside world became a distant memory. I couldn't remember
the last time I had left the house, seeing another human face, heard
a voice other than my own. The Codex had effectively isolated me, cutting
me off from the world. My life reduced to a terrifying echo of the
digital nightmare. My once robust spirit was breaking, my will eroding under this
ceaseless onslaught of the Codex. The shadows grew darker, the silence more oppressive,
and my despair deeper. I was losing myself, my identity being swallowed
by the monstrous entity. I could no longer tell where I ended, and
the Codex began. Its patterns had edged themselves into my thoughts, its influence
seeping into every corner of my mind. I was not just a victim of
the Codex. I was becoming part of it. And in the cold,
heartless world it had created, I was utterly alone. And the worst part
the silence, the isolation, the creeping terror. They weren't just a result
of some demonic entity or a malevolent ghost. They were a product of my
own, making the content point of my journey into the abyss shadow dwells within
the phrase had become a cruel prophecy, a chilling truth that was impossible to
deny. Through lucid moments of clarity, I kept digging my mind, clawing
from the deep depths it had sank. I am a digital splunker, lost
in the abysmal depths of the shadow codex, its endless chasm, drawing me
in with an irresistible pull. However, the more I tried to understand it
and decipher its language's cryptic patterns, the more I was consumed by it.
Despite this, the pulsating symbols and my computer screen had become my obsession.
In a trance like state, each moment, each hour was consumed by the
pursuit of comprehension, the tantalizing possibility of a breakthrough, despite where that I'd
leave me in the end. It could be salvation, or it could be
my demise. It'd be an end regardless. I labored over intricate patterns woven
through labyrinthine forums, drew and redrew cryptic symbols, seeking connections, finding none.
Yet with every pattern I unraveled, every theory I spun, and every
code I broke, I found it harder to remember who I am. Memories
of my life before the Codex, before this haunting dread become as elusive as
the solutions I was seeking. Faces and names blurred into obscurity, replaced by
the mesmerizing patterns of the Codex. I was losing myself in this digital abyss,
eating the very beast I was trying to slay. Each deciphered code leads
to another and never ending maze of horror, resisting understanding, and I realized
the terrifying truth. My futile attempt to conquer the Codex wasn't a path to
salvation. It was a death march into oblivion. I understand the full scope
where the Codex is monstrous design with chilling clarity. This isn't a war I
can win. With every step I took to fight back, I was simply
sinking deeper into its clutches. And thus I descend not fighting, not resisting,
just falling, falling into the endless, inky depths of the Shadow Codex.
This realm, the futility of it all, was crushing. Finding myself
to be a pawn in a game I cannot understand, let alone win,
And finally my mind snapped. I fell into a rhythm, dance with insanity
and the unknown. The message board becomes my canvas, my stage, my
confessional. I spell secrets of another realm under the page. Ideas beyond comprehension,
Names that no human tongue has uttered, Descriptions of entities so foreign,
so other worldly, they defy reality, Alien landscapes that extend into endless twilight,
Creatures formed from impossibilities, names that ring within ethereal echo. Each post
is a chilling sonnet to the Codex, a testament to my fall. These
aren't just simpol or coded messages. They are whispers from the abyss, confessions
from the edge of my sanity. Every time I hit refresh my posts,
my mad ramblings, they vanished, devoured by the digital void. Each disappearance
echoes the fimilality of my sanity. But it doesn't matter. I keep posting,
and I keep pouring the madness onto the screen. I'm driven not by
the hope of salvation, but I need to express, to expel the Codex's
influence, even if only momentarily. Then finally I resurface the madness the chaotic
symphony of the incomprehensible thoughts recedes like a passing storm. I find myself sitting
in front of the computer screen, fingers poised over the key board. My
last post, an amalgamation of cryptic symbols and alien words, displayed on the
screen. I hit refresh. The post disappears, as it always does,
but a familiar post catches my eye in the refreshed list of threads, the
original thread of the Shadow Codex, the digital Pandora's box that began my descent
into this never ending nightmare. Compelled by a sense of dread, I click
on it. They're highlighted in the dim light of my room. Is a
new comment on the thread. It's from the original poster, the unknown harbinger
of my ordeal. The message is as simple as it is chilling. The
codex has been updated. Whatever I did, it seems it's ready for the
next person to download and add to the annals of their sacred texts. Fishhooks
a penny from nineteen seventy one, something bent and warped, too light to
be valuable, A bit of old jewelry, perhaps smashed against the rocks.
Why am I doing this? I must like standing in the rain. I
must like the heady smell of seaweed and salt, the crisp sound of wet
sand beneath my feet, the inevitable feel of it between my toes. Despite
the sturdy shoes and thick wooly socks that I wear, this beach is littered
with cheap tat and nothing else. I've been coming here for years, drawn
by the excitement of a silver coin found in two thousand and eight. Since
then I found the odd musket ball, but nothing of any real value.
Most of the time, when I get down on one knee, I anticipate
disappointment. And yet here I am still scanning the sand and rocks, looking
for another one in a million find with my detector. But there's nothing here.
This place has been combed thoroughly, not by competing hobbyists, but by
myself, slowly and painfully, over a process of years. This is hardly
a place for sunbathers. The sloping cliffs rise overhead as I pick my way
along what little sand lies between the rocks and the ocean. Seagulls coast lazily
in the sky, but down here on the ground, the wind is fierce,
and so is the sea. White horses race furiously towards the land,
breaking not far to my right, folding themselves to pour, lazy at all
clumps of rotting seaweed and stubborn rocks. I am alone, standing at the
feet of giants for a moment. I take my headphones off and look around,
my senses battered by the wind, I stinging. I scanned the way
back. When I began, there was an old man going for a walk,
but he's nowhere to be seen now not long, and the tide will
raise the way back. This isn't a popular beach, not with families.
Nudists sometimes come here during the winter to go racing into the waters, screeching,
giggling, titilated and thrilled. Those nude retirees visit this place for much
the same reason I do. It's not good for bathers, swimmers, surfers,
or much house The rocks are dangerous. Riptides funneled by powerful geography have
claimed more than a few lives. It does well to do your research before
going for a dip, but if you're prepared you can be safe, and
the tall cliffs make for an attractive privacy barrier. Only those who know the
area can find the rocky path that leads down to the sand. Most don't
even know it exists, one of the world's forgotten little corners. I wonder
why I'm still here, when I've wasted the afternoon looking for nothing, so
far from comfort and warmth. It is a long way back to the car.
I picture the feel of a cup of tea held in both hands,
the sound of wind buffeting my house and wheels, and I'm ready to finally
call it a day and go home. When something catches my eye. It
glitters on the sand, not far from me, and I approach it,
expecting a piece of litter, a foil wrapper. Perhaps. I pick it
up and trace its shape with my fingers. My mind moves at a glacial
pace. It it is a gold coin. It is cold to the touch,
handmade pre saxon. The ancient head stamped into its metal is strange,
warped with time. It resembles a man with the mouth of an angler fish.
It is beautiful. It is everything I've ever wanted, solid gold and
thicker than a smartphone. Six months rent in the palm of my hand.
Didn't even have to use my metal detector. It was right there on top
of the sand. It must have come from the water, placed here by
those rapid waves. My mind conjures the image of a sunken shipwreck a mile
or two off the coast, its waterlog coffers filled with coins, just like
these clusters of jewels gelded with silver and gold, an ancient treasure that has
finally broke loose after centuries of tidal warfare. That might mean there's more.
I look around, but there's only shale and sand hundreds of meters away,
where the rocks become hard to navigate. Something else shimmers in the sun,
but that could easily be a rock pool catching the sun. I should go
back, I tell myself, as I scan the beach once more. The
sea is coming behind me. The sand is narrowed to just ten meters.
I know from experience it will disappear faster than seems possible. Then there would
just be water and cliffs. If I get caught. The best case scenario
is that I'll be able to scamper up the safety somewhere and get rescued by
a helicopter. My humiliation paraded for all to see on local papers. Happens
at least once a year, but the stakes are higher than you might think.
Another coin would make a year's rent. Again, that image of a
sunken chest full of treasures flashes into my mind. Absurd. I tell myself
a child's fantasy, but I'm holding the evidence of it in my hand,
a goal old coin. How often in my life has a fantasy come true?
I dig my fingers into the gold as hard as I can. I
want to make sure it's real. How often does a fantasy need to come
true? Just once? I mutter my words? Lost to the wind,
it is uneasy. The rocks here are sharp and treacherous. As a child,
when my mother first brought me to this beach, I imagined myself walking
across a giant's fingerprint back then I glided across stone ridges, pivoting the arches
of my feet like a spinning top, moving effortlessly across the strange landscape.
Some of the caps are three four feet deep. Falling would have hurt,
but I didn't fall. I was young, nigh invincible. It isn't like
that now. It might be my knees, It might be the fear,
It might be the nerves. But I wobble each time I lift my foot,
my body struggling to balance ridges as thin as a pencil. I fall
twice, and the second time it hurts like hell. Ripped jeans, ripped
skin, blood, a gash that takes thirty seconds for the pain to reach
consciousness. I grip my teeth. Determination floods me. I look back and
realize that the sand is no longer there. Turning back now means wet socks
and shoes ankle high water. I'd be humiliated. I looked down at the
cut of my leg, watching the blood flow thinly into salt water until it
turns a pinkish yellow. There's another gold coin. All thoughts of turning back
dissolve as I fumble for it in my fingers. I want more. I
want the coffer. I want to run my fingers through gold like it's liquid.
I want to submerge my arms elbow deep into the treasure. I can't
stop picturing. But the tide is coming. The tide is here, furious
waves falling just a few feet short of my position. This will have to
do two coins, a year's worth of friend I accept this compromise and begin
to turn back. A wave hits me. It is worse than any punch.
No boxer has ever hit this hard. Here is a force that shapes
continents, and it has me firmly in its grip. I can't tell you
how long this next part lasts. There is salt, spray, foam.
I am tossed about in a way that I've never been before, like a
roller coaster without the tracks. A rock smashes my ribs, another, my
ankle. Something breaks. There is darkness, there is light. I'm dying,
I'm sure of it. When I awake, it is to the feeling
of my lungs fighting for air while I lie on my back. For a
second, I'm just an animal and loving it. Then the rest comes flooding
back, the tired, the beeches, the coins. I lurch upwards and
stare at my palm, clutched so tightly I have to will the muscles to
open. Sure enough, the gold coins are still there. I laugh,
but the movement hurts, and even worse, it starts something. In just
a few short seconds, I am forced to reckon with three terrible facts.
First, my ribs are broken. Second, my ankle is broken. Third,
I'm going to be sick. The salt burns, but it is nothing
compared to my ribs and ankle. As I struggle to roll over, I
cannot help but cry as of vomit. I've never known pain like this.
I manage four pitiful heaves of sea water and bile before collapsing in a breathless
fit. My chest feels full of gravel. After a few long breaths,
I sit up, secure the coins in a pocket with a zipper, and
look around. I realize how strange the world has become. I am lying
on a flat rock at the mouth of a cave. I must have been
deposited here like one of those coins, and I count myself lucky. I
want to look outside. I want to take register of how far I am
along the coast and how low the sun has fallen. But I cannot stand,
and movement is beyond difficult. The best I can manage is a crawl,
and I soon realize I'm going to need all my energy. A gentle
lapping of water reaches my feet and soaks my legs and ass. I haven't
even managed to catch my breath to contemplate the jagged ruin of my ankle,
and already the tide is catching up with me. It makes sense. I
suppose the sea put me here, so of course it isn't far behind.
Damn, I hiss out loud for the first time since finding the coins.
My mind snaps back into what feels like a normal speed. I am in
incredible danger, and it's still not too late for that look to run out.
I pat my pockets. My phone is broken and unresponsive. My only
light is a water proof torch. I keeper my key chain, a Christmas
gift from my mother. She likes that I have a hobby. She says
it makes it easier to shop presents for me. I turned the torch on
and almost cry at the serendipity of it all. Until now, I've never
used it. The cave ahead is roughly waist height, and it goes deeper
than my torch can reach. The ocean is rising behind me, furious at
losing its catch. Thankfully, the cave slopes upward a few meters in,
so I begin to crawl, seeking higher ground. I dragged myself off the
flat rock and further into the cave. I make slow progress across the collection
of a roaded gravel, a random crap. The water is deposited here over
the years, fishing tackle old nets, driftwood, a cat's skull. I
cannot help but stop at the last one. Hollow eyes glare back at me
like a warning. I shake the feeling off and move onwards. I am
losing the chase, I realize as the water catches up to my belly.
Damn it, damn it, damn it. I dragged myself elbow over elbow,
like they do on those army adverts. Be the best, I think
over and over as my ankle catches on the stones and my ribs grind in
my chest. I haven't cried like this since I was a child, but
I don't stop. The water is at my chest now. The cat's skull
is floating somewhere behind me, buoyed by the rising sea, I don't want
to join it. At last, I make it to where the ground begins
to rise. The darkness makes for an ominous savior, but here is my
only chance of survival, and I cling to it. I ignore the caveman
inside me. He is terrified of this place and is banging every warning drum
in my mind that he can reach. But I forge my way ahead regardless
arm over arm My progress is slow, maybe a meter for every ten minutes,
I cannot say for sure. I'm no athlete. When the rising tunnel
becomes too steep for my elbows that offer much attraction, my fingers into cracks
in the stone and pull myself along that way. Meanwhile, the water climbed
still. I feel it's icy touch, reach my collarbones and let out an
audible cry. I don't want to die. It terrifies me, the thought
of it, the pain most of all. How painless is drowning? I
wonder less painful than this. I want to weigh up the pros and cons
of letting go and sliding back into the water, but my brain won't let
me. It's all or nothing. Instincts older than the continents propel me,
fighting to hold my chin up. As the water reaches my bottom lip.
I failed to notice the ground changing direction, a sudden downward tilt that leaves
my hands flailing. I want to pause, engage the way ahead, but
it's are too late. I am carried over the top by a mix of
gravity and the water's currents for a moment, and then there is total darkness.
For the second time that day. I pass out. When I awake,
I am on my stomach and in so much pain that I am actually
able to register a glimmer of anger at the world around me. This is
starting to feel personal, and that spark of frustration is what gives me the
strength to lift my head up and try to gauge where I am. Luckily,
my torch states strapped to my wrist, and I use it now to
see that I'm in a head hike. Cavern. Nearby is a crack in
the rock, and from there the water drains. Lucky for me, or
else I would have surely drowned. Behind me lies the way I came.
It is a nearly vertical wall of rock, ten meters high and slick with
algae and eroded smooth by millennia of waves. I have no more chance of
climbing it than I do the Empire State building. I watch as another wave
crest the top and strikes me like a thrown bucket. Nearby, that crack
has begun to fill backwash lapping eagerly at my feet. If I stay here,
I will likely drown in less than an hour. But this isn't a
death trap, not yet anyway. The cave carries on another tunnel chest height
big enough to crawl through it. Bends gently out of sight, and something
about the darkness beyond makes my stomach curdle. For all I know, it
terminates after a meter, but I have no choice except to try. I
possesst crawling onwards around the corner. It seems safe at first, but then
the tunnel begins to narrow. I try not to let it worry me.
I'm on my stomach and there is room to spare as the ceiling gradually lowers
from six to five to four feet. When it starts to graze my shoulder
blades, I have to suppress the need to hyperventilate. Then it's not just
the ceiling that's getting closer. The walls on either side encroach my arms,
and the panic becomes very real. I keep hoping they'll widen any second,
but they don't. They just keep pressing closer and closer. I want to
turn back already I can feel water reaching my knees. I tried to turn
back and find I can't. This realization seems to drain the world of all
color, but I try, and as the dwell on what it means,
I keep going without realizing what I'm doing. I leave my arms out in
front until the walls narrow so tightly I can no longer bend them at the
elbow. I'm forced to move entirely on the motion of two wrists and one
functioning ankle. If I thought progress before was slow, this was a thousand
times worse. Time crawls to a halt as I struggle against my own intubment,
and I spend what could be ten seconds or ten hours staring at a
single bit of rock, the fingers of my right hand working furiously, or
my left foot tries to push me forward. I move no more than a
centimeter at a time without warning. The panic hits me like a hammer blow.
I can't move. I tried to thrash an anger, but it's more
like a seizure. My wrists and ankles flick a left and right, looking
for leverage, but there's nothing. I should try to think clearly, but
most of my mental energy has to go to fighting panic. My emotions reach
breaking point and I begin to sob out loud and curse. Soon I become
hyper aware that I cannot breathe in fully because the tunnel is compressing my ribs.
There's no budge in the stone. It is so unyielding every breath is
limited, and so they start to come faster and faster in a desperate bid
to chase away the overgrowing sense of suffocation. I just want one deep breath,
one deep breath, but I can't. The more I struggle, the
more desperate the need for oxygen becomes. I'm trapped in a downward spiral that
feels like it is killing me. This is the worst case scenario. I
realize I was better off drowning. Nothing can possibly be worse than this.
I want to pass out, I want to die. Neither happens. The
world goes a bit woozy. I'm overcome briefly by dizziness, but there's no
changing this. Instead, I am forced to face my fear, and while
I cannot beat it, I can at least observe it. I don't really
have much of a choice. Neither the cave nor I are going anywhere,
so I pay attention to the lightheadedness, the pain in my chest, the
weight of the earth above and below me. My heart raises so quickly it
feels like it might just seize up and stop. I focus on its rhythm.
I count each beat in the tattoo slowly, without meaning to This heightened
awareness causes some of the panic to ease up. I can describe it only
is a sort of out of body experience, except I never leave my body.
I'm inside it, painfully, aware of every constraint and bondage and every
ache and pain. At last, I notice something new. If I breathe
out, the rock is no longer squeezing me to death. If I exhale
and keep the air out, the feeling of constraint becomes almost tolerable. It
is the only physical sensation of relief I have felt since this began. And
just like that, I'm back in the driver's seat. It is so obvious
in hindsight. I want to laugh. I exhale and keep the air out
of my lungs and wiggle my foot. My body moves. I try it
again, and this time I inch forward. I do it maybe fifty a
hundred times. All in all, I travel a meter, I think,
and then the rock gives way. I weep plug a baby. I can
breathe a full breath, and the tunnel keeps widening. Before I know it,
I have my arms back at my side, and I'm using my elbows
to drag myself forward. Soon there is no time scraping my shoulder blades at
all, no rock to bang my head against. I emerge head first and
drag myself out of the tunnel and drop a few feet onto a rocky floor
below. I roll onto my back and let rip a laughter. It is
howling and mad and like nothing I've known before, weeping without a joy.
I looked to my left and right, ready for the next step in this
nightmare. There is a man smiling at me. Geez, I squeal,
scrambling upwards and away without meaning to. I kick him in the face,
and his head loves backwards like he's trying to laugh. I see his mouth
in a bloody ruin. His eyes and teeth are gone. He isn't smiling
at all. He's dead. Something has torn his jaws open and removed his
teeth. The result merely looks like a joker esque grin. Terrified, I
shuffled over and briefly flick a hand out to touch him a quick shove to
the shoulder. He does not react. It takes another three or four pokes
before I finally convince myself is a nert Reality asserts itself with a kind of
nun dread. This really is a dead body, I tell myself. His
face is pale in the glare of my torch, but a quick hand to
the forehead tells me he's still warm, and that windbreaker is awfully familiar.
I rack my mind and summon an image of that old man on the beach.
He'd been wearing a jacket much like this one. But it can't be
him. I decide it simply cannot be him. This place is a nightmare,
I think, a real life underworld. I look around and try to
imagine how this body came to be here. There are strange things bundled against
the far wall. I approach and go through them, but their effect is
similar to the gold coin. My thoughts become frozen and sluggish. I inventory
them like some idiot, unable and unwilling to see the bigger picture. Six
coats, fifteen shoes, countless hats and gloves, all of them torn or
ripped in some fashion. Three backpacks, exercised books from a school paper turned
a much long ago. A pencil case stuffed with soft pencils and broken pens.
I dropped the last item to the floor and swiven light across the room
behind me. I don't like this, my mind raises with possibilities. Suddenly
I'm scanning this small chamber like my life depends on it, desperate to answer
a question that supplants all others. Maybe I should have listened to my caveman
thoughts. I think I may not be alone down here. There is writing
on the wall. I cannot recognize the language, but it frightens me.
Paragraphs of it scrawled in neat blocks, one after the other. Occasionally it
is broken up with simple pictograms of ships and spear wielding men. If it
tells a story, I cannot make heads or tails of. Something about the
scene is getting to me. Nonetheless, the body, the pile of forgotten
things, an ancient language. I stopped myself sinking into another full blown panic
by remembering that these are all irrelevant details. I need to leave this place,
no matter what. There are several tunnels leading out of this cavern,
all much larger than the last one. I pick one at random, Hopefully
it is more reliable than the last. I crawled through. Fighting the pain,
I rise onto my knees and hands. It hurts like hell, but
it lets me leave swiftly and quietly. I scamper along offering only one last
sad glimpse of the body. The old man is looking at me. He
is still grinning, and I'm glad to take the light away and put distance
between us. Whether or not this path leads out, I appreciate that at
least stays wide open. At points it is even large enough for two or
three people to walk abreast. I've never been thankful for this kind of room.
Before, just the day ago, this would have felt like a crowded
elevator. Now it's like an empty stadium. And lets me stop and catch
my breath, lets me raise ahead and make progress. Either can happen on
my terms. Minutes slide away in the dark where time has no meaning for
long periods, I turn the torch off and navigate by sound and touch,
relying on my echoes to tell me when the tunnel takes a sudden change in
direction. This is something that if you had asked me this morning, I
would have told you I could never imagine. But it is surprisingly easy.
More than once I did. Take the change in what is otherwise uniform soundscape
and stop lighting up my torch and seeing a sharp bend right or left,
I am acquiring a competency that gives rise to a flickering hope. This confidence
fades when I come to a fork in the tunnel. For a moment,
I'm caught by indecision. But then something familiar catches my eyes. There is
a gold coin, another pristine, just like the one on the beach.
This time it does not exhilarate me. No images of sunken chests come to
mind, only the leering grin of the pallid corpse I left behind, and
the grim words into stone. The world is heavy, weighing down from above,
and I am so small and alone down here, the darkness so complete
as to suffocate. I stare at the coin and it's positioning in a tunnel
that takes a hard left turn out of sight. I don't like it.
I don't like its placement. Taking it would place me right at the threshold
of the unseen. I'm certain of nothing in this underworld, possessing only the
risk averse instincts of a prey animal. But I decide that coin is a
trap based only on those instincts. It is almost arrogant, unsubtle. I'm
wide eyed, with a smell of blood still freshen my nose. A twitching
hair ears raised. I have a feeling that whatever set that trap is near
enough to hear my every breath. I am separated from death only by the
gossamer thin limits of my perception. It's right there, and it expects me
to take the bait. I realize, with some disappointment I already have.
I'm two coins deep into this nightmare. This whole thing a carefully laid trap
from the start. My only hope is that I'm no Highland hair. I
can think beyond action and reaction, but I have to be quick. I
weigh up my options. If something is there, do I really want to
let it know I'm aware of it. I suppose every ambush, sooner or
later, has to release itself. Better to be in control, I decide
I find a rock. There are plenty of them. Slowly, quietly,
I back away from the fork and find a ridge in the stone walls that
I can hide behind. It is small and offers little shelter, but it's
the best I have, and I hope it'll work anyway. I thumb the
switch and my light goes out. I throw the stone in my fist and
squeeze myself back into my hiding space and hold my breath just in time.
The stone smashes into the wall of the right hand tunnel. This is the
one without the coin. There is silence for what might be five ten seconds,
and then there is only the gentlest of sounds, the touch of something
soft against the stone. What a far cry from the synthetic world of engines
and buzzing motors I'm used to. I have spent my life training myself to
ignore those kinds of sounds, barely perceptible scuffles, a cat's footfall, a
bird's wings, a scurrying rat. But down here the sound is like thunder.
It makes my blood run cold, and the hair and my scalps stand
on edge. A part of me had thrown the stone, convinced I would
only prove myself wrong. But now the terror is so real that I can
almost reach out and touch it. It is as tangible as the wall I'm
trying desperately to dissolve into, as real as my own flesh and blood.
I am being hunted. Whatever was in hiding has seemingly taken the bait.
The sound of its movements disappears down the right hand tunnel. Thank God for
that caveman, he remembers the plan. Acting on instinct and painfully aware of
the ticking clock, I force myself to peek around the rocky outcrop and turn
on my torch. There lies the fork again, and if I had any
doubt about the trap before, it is thoroughly beaten down. When I see
the gold coin has disappeared, I waste no more time and scramble on all
fours down that turning, pausing only briefly to consider if my hunter has employed
a double bluff. Oh well, I think it's too late. Now around
the corner, I go and find nothing but darkness. I could try and
perform some mental gymnastics convince myself there was never anything there in the first place.
But on one of the walls, I spot a streak of something reddish
brown. There is just enough time in passing to be sure that it is
blood, and then I'm gone, desperately crawling further into darkness. Occasionally I
stop and check over my shoulder for signs of something giving chase. If it
took the bait and followed the wrong tunnel, who's to say it didn't quickly
realize and is now barreling down on me. Or that the tunnels don't intersect
down the line. If something lives here, it must be incredibly familiar with
a layout of these sprawling caverns. I am merely a tourist in the shadows,
hopelessly lost and ill equipped for this kind of survivalless nightmare. But each
time I look, there is only empty space, a frighteningly sterile landscape,
brutal and haunting looming over me and my hands and knees, rock walls curved
and jagged, ribbed and rippling, a concrete colon where light can only reach
so far. Each time I look, I have to force myself to break
eye contact with the darkness and resume my journey. I do this sixteen times.
I do not know how long elapse is between each glance. I only
count the number, until at last, the everlasting tunnel takes a break and
I am deposited and yet another cavernous room. This time I am almost minded
by the light it emanates. For a moment, I turned my head upwards,
expecting to see a bulb. Instead, there is a hole in the
roof, and only the faintest glimmer of sunlight makes its way down. But
after hours in pitch black darkness. It felt like staring right at the sun.
It is too far to see the way out, or to get any
real hint of the sky beyond. I can't say if it's night or day
up there, but I know the sky must be close, so close the
hole itself isn't far above me, and using my light I can spot a
kind of ancient rusted ladder embedded in the rock. It won't be easy climbing
it so injured, but given my limited choices, I'll have to manage.
For the first time in hours, I stand at my two feet. Reaching
upwards hurts everything from my chest to my toes. Broken ribs grind, A
swollen angle pulses pain through deadened nerves that seconds ago reported nothing but hissing static.
I swear it is so bad my heart stops, or at the very
least, it misses a beat. This must be the kind of stress that
can kill healthy men, and I'm not even healthy. My elbow doesn't even
get past my shoulder. When I'm forced to gasp for breath and the whole
house of cards comes tumbling down, I fall back, and even that hurts
more than I can imagine. Suddenly, I find myself questioning if I really
haven't in me to climb that pitted, rusty ladder. Something screams, it
isn't far away. This room, like the others before, has many ways
in and out. It is rising on the walls too, picked the grams
of something strange with a head of angler being worshiped by men the size of
ants. My torch flashes across the moor and makes nightmares of the shadows,
but nothing yet leaps out at me. I realized, this is it the
only chance I'm getting. How many chances do I need, I asked myself,
Only one, I mutter. I force myself upright, and before my
nerves have time to register the landslide of pain ready to collapse me, I
hop on one foot. It is all I need to reach the ladder with
one swinging arm, then the other, so that I'm there, clinging on
for dear life, feet barely an inch off the floor, with tears streaming
down my face. This already feels like too much. But before I have
time to give up and fold into myself, there comes another scream. This
one is so close I cannot help but imagine that whatever lies in the dark
is excited to finally catch up with me. That last thought tempts fate.
It seems still swinging eyes darting to and fro from the several tunnel holes.
I catch a glimpse of something. It is racing towards me. It is
human, vaguely in the way that the monsters in our nightmares often are.
I let out my own scream or something like it. It is the cartos
sort of yelp. Because whether I really liz it or not, my muscles
have kicked into gear and I'm somehow doing a pull up, my legs kicking
furiously. I drag my way up until the first rung is at chest height
and I am able to grab another overhead. The pain in my chest retreats
to a dull throb. I try foolishly to use my bad ankle to climb,
and realize there aren't enough indorphins in the world to let me put weight
on a broken bone. I let out another cry and switched tactics. I
have to use my arms to lift myself and rely on one good foot as
a stabilizer. This would be difficult but manageable if I had all the time
in the world, But with the memory of that thing bearing down on me.
It is akin to torture. I am flooded with a sense of futility,
of pain and needless suffering. But if I've learned anything in the last
few hours, it is that the human body runs on its own firmware,
and it isn't slaved to your brain. My arms move their own accord.
My body rises one rung at a time, too fast for common sense injuries,
a bound, grazed skin, a bumpt head. Each step up as
me clumsily bashing or banging some sensitive parts of me into the barely visible rocks.
Instinct may be in the driver's seat, but it's happy to leave me
with the consequences of its recklessness. I feel every ache and pain, every
stinging wound, embedded with grit, every ligament stretched to breaking point. Oddly,
I don't mind this arrangement. I want to live. I am glad
there is a caveman inside me to take air of moments like this, especially
when I glanced down between my legs and see pitch black eyes glaring up at
me with thoughtless glee. I cannot get over how human that faces. I
expected something insectile, maybe even a rachneid. Whatever is below me, whether
it's some hybrid or mutant, it is vile and fast approaching. The vibrating
in the ladder tells me it is climbing too. I try to climb faster,
but I really am operating on all cylinders right now. There's nothing left
to spare. I don't want to, but I look down again, and
there it is even closer. It is smiling with a rubbing mouth full of
glassy teeth. I hate it. I lash out with my bad foot without
meaning to, and hurt only myself. The pain is so severe I'm forced
to stop climbing and sob. And it is in that moment I feel claws
sink into the hot, swollen flesh of my calf. I let out a
hell of a noise. It empties my lungs and burns a mark deep into
my being. I will remember the way this scream feels until the day I
die. It is the moment in time where I give into despair, where
I lose all hope as my nervous system gives into a pain in jue seizure
that sees my fingers go numb and my limbs go limp. The last thing
I remember as I fall is the sight of an iron grate overhead, only
ten twenty meters away. A man I think is standing there and shining a
torch straight down. He says something I cannot hear. I tell myself this
is a hallucination, nothing more. I enter free fall. My head hits
a rocky outcrop beneath me. Something crunches darkness. I come too in a
hospital bed with a feeling in my chest that makes me think of war.
A lash left to right. Grab a hold of a table and jerk it
across the floor, ready to wield it like a club. The nurse in
the corner is afraid. She doesn't realize it. But I'm fighting for my
life, or at least I think I am. Slowly, I blink the
Halligan glare away and take in my surroundings. The battle ground fades. I
realize where I am. I try to hold back tears. It doesn't work.
Within seconds, I am bawling. Arms embrace me. I don't know
who they are, and I don't care. I embrace them back. I
seize them and cling unto their unfamiliar body with such severity. They mutter words
that someone near by along the effects of ah Jeez is hurting me more rust
movement a needle. I must sleep again. Hours, maybe days later,
I awakened to find my mother and a policeman near by. This time my
senses return in time to stop panic. I am finally given the story of
my rescue. They were looking for me the entire time, and by chance
they heard me near the old storm drain. They came rattling down no more
than a few minutes after I hit the ground, and found me lying there,
bleeding and broken. Strangely, they say I had no real injuries from
the fall itself, a bumped head and a broken wrist on the way down.
But from that height I should have broken my neck. Something cush in
my fall, I think, and laugh uproarously. My mother looks worried.
She must think of gone insane. Who can blame her? I was down
there for over twenty four hours, although it didn't seem like it to me.
I explained this to them, the elasticity of time in the dark,
and they nod like they understand, but of course they don't. Somehow,
it takes me another hour to realize I'm missing leg. This perplexes them as
much as me indiscrepances in the nature of the wound. An expert stands to
the side and explains as much to me, but the words are a distant
drone. I'm taken aback by the sight of the stump, all neatly bandaged.
Apparently it took a lot of surgery to neat an up. Despite everything,
I am angry. I thought I was dead. There should be a
small price to pay, and yet the knowledge that a part of me went
to feeding that monster makes my stomach churn. I want to be sick.
A piece of me is down there somewhere, dissolving in stomach acid, waiting
to be excreted in some folated corner of the monster's lair. When I start
to cry and shout in impotent age, they have to sedate me once more.
They assume it is simple shock. But there is more to it than
that. I am consumed by a deep hatred that is hard to explain.
Months later, I find myself recounting this story to try and purge that hateful
feeling. All this time, I cannot escape the sense of unfinished business.
Every time I mess up with my prosthetic, slip, stumble momentarily forget it
is there. I feel the anger burning inside me. Every night I spend
hours in agony from phantom pains, trying to soothe a wounded brain using a
mirror of all things. Sometimes I think I would have rather died if it
meant killing that thing all my weight. Such a steep drop, I picture
myself crushing it and leaving it a gory, broken mess. I've never felt
this kind of enmity. Evidently I'm not alone. One morning, a knock
on the caravan door. It takes me far too long to get ready.
I'm not yet practiced with a limb. Putting it on, taking it off
takes me nearly twenty minutes to get myself together. My mood is darkened since
my rescue, and I practically kick my door open with a raw ready to
curse out anyone who disturbs me. I find no one there, only silence
and another gold coin back. In my final year at MSU, I was
invited to take part in a research expedition to the Zionia Wetlands in northern Sweden.
It was part of an exchange through the AWC Arctic Wellness Cooperative, funded
by members of the Arctic Council and private actors in the area. Me and
Roger Roger Dawson took a flight in early May. During the fifty five minute
layover at Arlander, Stockholm, we met up with Helena and Germark from the
Royal Institute of Technology. When we arrived at Umau Airport, we met up
with a last member of our expedition, Camilla Ostemo, from Lulaire University.
From there it was just a long drive north. The Siona Wetlands are enormous.
We're talking about seven hundred thousand acres of maya and wetland just above the
Arctic Circle. In optimal conditions and excluding factors such as sleep, food,
terrain and weather, it had take about eleven days to walk across. In
my head it conjured up images of the dead Marshes from Lord of the Rings,
but Helena assured me it was nothing quite as dramatic. Roger and I
had no idea what to expect. We'd got our equipment prepurchased. The suites
were in charge of everything practical on sight, excluding our personal equipment. We
were scheduled to spend four days in the actual Maya and four more days accounted
for travel in Sure we had wildlife encamp experience, but you can't prepare for
something like the Arctic. Myers May is a strange time in northern Sweden.
While technically spring, it can still dip into subzero temperatures. The weather can
range from blazing heat in the afternoon to frost in the early morning. So
while we had a variety of clothes, we still had to be flexible enough
to change throughout the day. There's no one thing fits all up there.
The further north we drove, the more things started to look the same,
long stretches of road through the wilderness that seemed to go nowhere, nothing but
moss, undergrowth and sprinkles of spinley trees. I was chewing on my last
lim gym when Helena brought up a laptop. So we have eight designated sites
where we need to do some sampling, she said. But Camilla and I
have been talking and we think we ought to get at least one further in.
We have to go a bit off road to get some reliable results.
When do you talk about this? I asked Gott to read the group chat,
said Roge, I told you to get in on that. I'm in.
I'm just not getting notifications, then you're not in. I'm telling you
I'm in either way, said Helena. If we take a detour north after
sight three, we ought to get some reliable samples before we reach four.
It should work with your schedule. You're the locals. You got this,
said Roge. I'll either steer your judgment. We're not locals, said Camilla.
I'm from Lulu. That's like a four hour drive. Stockholm is like
a twelve hour drive from there, So we're going in blind, I asked.
None of you have been there before. That's kind of the point to
get acquainted with it, said Camilla, to get something for the next group
to compare when they do another expedition in five or so years. All about
long term cooperation, smiled Helena, like it says on the website. Roger
leaned over and patted me on the shoulder, holding up his phone. I
just checked, and you're not in the group chat. We were stuck in
that car all day. We reviewed our notes, plans, equipment, and
route. Much of what spurred the expedition to begin with reports of wildlife changes.
The indigenous Sami people had moved their reindeer herds north, claiming that their
animals were getting sick from the soil. They had also been reports of reduced
fish population and increased bird my in the southwest. We were there to measure
possible toxins and so changes too, if possible, determine a cause, but
first we needed samples, which was the meat of the expedition. This started
to pop up little villages along the forest road. Well, maybe not villages,
more like loose collections of houses within view of one another, red houses
with white corners and metal roofing. How anyone could live that isolated was beyond
me. Still at great phone coverage, though somehow, we passed through a
town with a name I won't even begin to pronounce or spell too many vowels.
It was our last stop before we got to the wetlands, so we
made sure to stock up. Camilla got us some extra batteries. When we
finally arrived, it was dark. We've been following a gravel road for the
past forty minutes. There were six houses in a semicircle along the road,
one of which we'd rented for the night. The rest were abandoned. Camilla
dragged us stuff in and collapsed on the living room couch. Helena took the
downstairs guest room. There was a second bedroom upstairs with three smaller beds for
me and Rodged to occupy. I was asleep the moment my head hit the
pillow. The following early morning, it was all hands on deck. Helena
was preparing sandwiches in the kitchen what Camilla checked her equipment, all batteries charged,
all containers properly marked and sorted. She was meticulous, and at five
thirty am we were ready to go. I took a moment to soak up
the atmosphere. The smells felt alien yet familiar. The air was buzzing with
insects. I could hear nestling birds in every direction. Despite the four of
us being the only people in the area for miles and miles, it felt
very much alive. It was a vast forest without a canopy, with the
waking sun gazing down on us from an endless sky. Helena took lead,
with Roge following suit. Then there was Camilla, and finally me. There
were paths marked with orange flags showing us the intended way. Anyone know any
good songs, asked Eleanor you could teach us some, said Roge. Probably
something we can pronounce. As long as we make noise, said Camilla,
it keeps the bears away. We began our rendition of smear Grodner as we
trotted along the path, going deeper into the wetlands. Minutes later, it
was clear to me there'd been no way to navigate the Maya without those little
flags. Everything looked the same, the same trees, the same bushes,
the same moss, and no clear paths to follow. We weaved and bobbed
through the miya. We all wore those tall rubber boots and pants, along
with backpacks that only reached halfway across our backs. There'd be spots where we'd
have to wade through water that could reach over our knees, so we had
to keep as dry as possible. It was a pain to walk through,
and I could feel a rash growing in my thighs within the first fifteen minutes
of walking. We reached our first site at seven am. Camilla brought out
the testing equipment. She and Rodge took turns calling out what kinds of samples
they were getting, while Helena recorded it all on a laptop. I catalogged
and stored everything. Took us about thirty minutes all in all. As we
packed up and moved to the second site, Camilla pointed out something in the
undergrowth. Lots of animals here, she said. Look, she pointed at
the ground, but I saw nothing. I shrugged. How do you say
it? Short? Run, Helena? What's that in cloudberry? Right?
There should be cloudberries here? See the petals. What the hell is a
cloudberry? Chuckled Rodge Never heard of it makes a great jam, added Eleanor
maybe we'll see some further along, said Camilla, where there's less animals.
It took us another four hours to get to the second site. We spun
around in circles for a while and had to get the satnav to find our
way back. Standing out there with water up to my knees looking for those
orange flags, it was scary. Camilla seemed confident though. At worst,
we will just go straight southwest, she said, as long as we can
see the sun, we can navigate. True enough. When we got to
the second site, there was a stretch of dry ground where we could rest.
We stopped for lunch. Helena set up a portable stove to make us
some coffee. More Camilla and Rog got the samples soil, water, vegetation
more kind. Still nothing, said Camilla, poking around the moss of their
feet. No short run. Cloudberries, Roger added, right, cloudberries all
gone? Is that strange, I asked, sort of reindeer, Usually don't
go this far out. We finished up and moved to side three. We
were finished just after dinner time. We had a few more hours until sunset,
so we decided to move north. Camilla and Helena had mapped out of
place where we could get more reliable samples, and it'd just be a few
hours off the trail. There'd be plenty of dry land to set up camp
as well, so it didn't mess with our schedule too much. When we
stepped off the trail and left the orange flags behind, I got this itch
along my spine, like I was stepping into something out of my control.
Those little flags were the only trace of civilization left. Without them, we
were in the deep wilds and still no cloudberries. We set up camp around
eight pm. The sun was getting low, but we had plenty of flashlights
with us. We changed our clothes, set up our tents, and crawled
into our sleeping bags. Camello read an article on erosion, and Helena uploaded
the best images to Instagram. Even now, we still had great coverage.
Roger has taken notes and double check in our batteries. I twisted and turned
back and forth for hours, but I just couldn't get any shut eye.
My eyes kept popping back up. Long after the others were asleep, I
was still It was useless to keep trying, so I decided to walk it
off. I stepped out of the tent and wandered around for a while.
The horizon was blood red, and the sparse trees cast long, gangled shadows
across the camp. The thought hit me we'd forgotten to set up the mosquito
lights this place, or to be flooded with mosquitoes. But there was nothing.
It was all quiet. Not a bird, not an insect, nothing,
just creaking branches carefully swaying in the wind. Compared to what we'd felt
when we first stepped into the mire, this was dead. It was almost
midnight when I saw something in the distance. There was this long stretch of
ankle deep moss water next to our campsite. I'd looked out across it for
at least ten minutes before I realized that one of the trees wasn't a tree.
It was a reindeer. The thing had been standing perfectly still, not
even moving its head, and mistaken its auntless for branches. I sat there
looking at it for at least half an hour, and in all that time
it didn't move a muscle, not a twitch of the neck, nothing,
never seeing anything like it. Eventually I got back in my tent. I
barely got any sleep. The reindeer was gone by morning. I told Chamella
about it, and she insisted that they were skittish creatures, they'd stay away
from us. Maybe it was just curious. We got the extra samples early
in the morning and started to move east towards our main route. By then
we all had soggy feet in a sour mood. Chamella and Roch had a
long and intense discussion about the persevation efforts and eregulations, while Helena kept stopping
to take pictures. Around nine am, we all heard something in the distance.
The discussion died down as we all tilted our heads and listened. At
first I thought it was a wounded animal. There was this rising and falling
squeak, like a big bird call. It took us a few seconds to
REALI eyes that it was a person, a monotone scream, over and over,
the exact same pitch and tone, This desperate, heartwrenching death scream.
Help, said Helena. Someone's calling for help. We so goed back and
tried to locate the sound, but it just seemed to get fainter and fainter,
as if whoever called for us moved further away. We tried yelling back,
but they didn't seem to get any closer. After about half an hour,
we couldn't hear them anymore. Roger was visibly shaken, his cheeks flushed
a nice watery We were all a bit uneasy about it. Camilla tried to
make sense of it, saying it might have been an animal, but we
couldn't figure out which one. Still, it had to be an animal,
had to be. As we made our way to sight four, we shared
our thoughts. There were a lot of things out there that didn't add up.
No birds, no insects, no animal droppings or markings. It fell
off. We found our way back to the main route with the orange flags
following them. We spotted something that would come to haunt us forever. On
the path ahead was this large, overarching tree, much larger than others in
the area, and from the tree hung no less than four reindeer carcasses.
They were seemingly placed there. The antlers tangled into the branches, dry and
added flesh, dangled like sick fruit. Who's gently tapping against one another in
the mild breeze like a nightmare wind chime. Helena put away a phone and
Camilla stared slight jorde. Rog looked at me for reassurance, but I had
none to give. Camilla tried to say something, but lost the words along
the way. Composing herself, she gave it another try. Sometimes the bears
they hide their prey. This isn't hiding, said Rog, this is full
display. I don't know what to tell you. We looked around, spotting
strange markings in the bark, mostly hoof marks, but also something else.
We were all shaken after seeing it. It haunted me. I could almost
imagine hearing the dead hoofs if I stopped to listen. Helena had gotten a
phone back out and didn't look up from it. We got the sight four
at one pm, saying procedure as always, Camilla and Rug got the samples.
Helena took notes, I catalog and stored it. We had a late
lunch but couldn't find anywhere to set up the kitchen to make coffee. We
were going deeper. We were going into the deeper Miya, and dry land
was getting sparse. Following the orange flags, we had to stop several times
to navigate. We were coming up and what should be a large lake,
but there was nothing there, a slope into more moss with no trees,
if any thing. It looked like the water had been drained. Helena took
some pictures, but Camilla was convinced we were off track. There was no
way a lake would disappear on its own. We had to be going the
wrong way, no matter what the sat nav was telling us. Still,
we followed the flags and just past two pm we got to this enormous open
space with a tree spread out. We could see for miles ahead, and
somewhere out there we heard it again, someone calling for help, the same
monotone scream, the same pitch. This time, we didn't call back.
Instead, we just stood there listening. We identified at least two sources,
one to the north east and one to our west. The screams were coming
from two different directions. It has to be a bird, said Camilla,
A mating Callaura. That's not a damn bird, whispered Helena. That's a
person. What's more likely, Helena asked Camilla, a pair of identical twins
are following us and calling out to us, or that we're hearing the echoes
of a nesting bird. I don't think anyone here is an ornithologist, said
Roger. So we can't tell for sure, but yeah, I don't think
that's a person. It's saying help. Birds can't pronounce L or P,
say what you want, but that's something else. We went through site five
and stopped for the night. Halfway to Site six, I was getting nervous.
I kept imagining that repeated call for help out in the maya. I
thought I saw her as among the dead trees A few times. I was
getting paranoid. Side six was our furthest point before we started to circle back.
But this was dangerous territory. One sprained ankle could mean aboating this whole
expedition. The orange flags had stopped some time ago. They didn't reach across
our whole route. We were on our own from this point forward. Camilla
was confident, though, and with only three more sites, to go.
We were ahead of schedule. There was barely enough dry land for us to
set up our tents, but we made it work. The ground was moist
and I had a puddle of something cold next to my feet. It was
uncomfortable, to say the least. I collapsed into an uneasy but welcome sleep.
Rog gently shook me awake sometime in the middle of the night. He
held a finger to his lips and motioned his hand to his ear, as
if telling me to listen. There was that scream again, and it was
much closer. I dressed myself and got out of the tent. Camilla and
Helena were already up. We all huddled together at the edge of our camp,
looking out across the Miya. It was too dark to see, but
the screamer couldn't be far off. Camilla held up a flashlight and gave us
a nod. We nodded back. We had to see what this thing was.
She turned on the flashlight. There are a dozen reindeer about sixty feet
ahead of us, all standing at the exact same angle, looking directly at
us, no one blinking, moving or recoiling from the light. We all
froze, not wanting to make any sudden movement. These was supposed to be
timid woodland creatures, but something was off. One of them slightly opened his
mouth, stared at us, and called out a perfectly human help. Helena
covered a mouth, holding back a scream. The reindeer one by one called
out to us, all with the same mechanical movements, an identical voice.
Help. It was eerie. Roge decided enough was enough and got up.
He tried to make himself big, stretching out his arms and waving them up
and down. He huffed and yelled, trying to scare them off. They
didn't react in the slightest, that is, until the reindeer at the very
front turned its head to look directly at him. It slowly raised his front
legs and leaned back. In a matter of seconds, it was standing upright
like a human. The others coalesced around it, circling like a school of
shark. All was screaming out over and over calling for help. Don't provoke
it, whispered Camilla. They're sick, they look sick. We should go,
said Helena right now. No one argued Camilla stood guard well. The
rest of us packed up as quickly as possible, all to the sound of
constant screams for help. We were sloppy, but considering the panic I had
building in my chest, it was a miracle we got anything at all.
Roger and I were halfway through stuffing the tent into its bag when we heard
something movement in the woods. Another scream for help, this time from the
west. Roge got another flashlight and checked it out. As he turned it
on, I could see a dozen more eyes looking back at us. They
were much much closer. They were everywhere, gasped Roge. It's a herd,
said Helena. They Sammy, They used to move herds through. She
was interrupted by another scream, this one by a reindeer right next to us,
within arm's reach of Camilla, but the scream was lower, drawn out
and much clearer. The upright deer in the middle of the mire was still
standing there, staring at us. As the scream died down, we all
held our breaths. No one wanted to move, no one wanted to act.
It all hung on a threadbare balance, and anything could tip The scales.
Hoofs came trembling through camp, these massive three hundred pound creatures, running
completely wild, knocking into one another, crashing through bushes, running head first
into trees, stumbling over rocks and roots. They were like frenzied sharks,
smelling blood in the air. One of the reindeer reared up and bore down
and cambilla over and over again. I could hear a chest snap as all
air was pressed from her lungs. A flashlight tumbled out of her hands,
rolled into the mossy water, and was swallowed by the dark. Raj took
off running but didn't get far. One of them bit into his arm as
he tried to get past, sending him reeling onto the ground. From there
they had no trouble, pounding him into a pulb heavy hoofs, breaking bones
like they would dry past her. It was absolutely, dreadfully morbid. I
crawled on all fours, trying to keep out of sight. There were so
many of them, but they only seemed to attack what was directly ahead of
them. Still, one might stumble over me and decide to kill me,
but I was running out of options. I kept to the ground and moved
slowly, my hands sinking into the inch deep moss, the ice cold water
floating to the surface. My veins ached there was screaming all around me,
and somewhere in the torrent of whales, both Rog and Camilla had gone silent.
One of them almost tripped over me, given me a mild kick to
the chest. I say mild only because it didn't kill me, but I'm
pretty sure it bruised a couple of ribs. Another stepped to my thigh,
ripping open a two inch long cut along the side. Still, little by
little, I made it out. I kept going forward, no matter the
sound, no matter the pain, I kept going. As the sun rose,
I couldn't hear them anymore. I'd collapsed in the moss, panting.
I could just run a marathon. There were no songbirds, no insects,
nothing, just me, the sun and the Miya. I used the elastic
band from my underwear to make a mateshift bandage, using dry moss from a
tree to soak up the blood. It wasn't a deep cut, but it
could easily get infected. I could still stand, but I felt this sting
of pain in my chest. With every breath I took, I could see
a deep bruise forming, going straight from blue to a reddish purple. I
was lost. I was in the middle of nowhere with little to no equipment.
I've never been so freaked out in my entire life. I screamed and
cried. I don't know for how long. One moment I wanted to lie
down and just wait for someone to find me. The next I wanted to
run blindly straight ahead. After a while, I composed myself. I thought
about what I'd learned about the area and what I'd seen. I knew there
were flags put up along safe roots. I could also use the sun to
navigate. If I went straight southwest, I should stumble upon flags again.
From there, I'd just had to follow them. I'd either pop back out
where we started or on the other side of the wet lands. Still,
neither way would be a long walk, and there were no guarantees that I'd
make it, but I had to try. I tried not to think,
not to reflect. I focused on the road ahead and the position of the
sun. Everything else was secondary. But every flash of what happened that night
felt like a cut in my stomach, the way Camilla's flashlight disappeared, Roger's
screamed with our first bite. The only one I couldn't account for was Helena.
I hoped against hope that she got out, that she had the same
idea as me. Maybe I'd meet her down the line. If not,
I could tell the police there was at least one person unaccounted for. They'd
have to send a rescue party. I must have walked for hours. It
is surreal to walk in a space where all you hear is yourself. There's
usually some sort of external sound, a cart passing by, a squawking bird,
a humming motor, something somewhere off in the distance. Out there,
there was nothing, just the ever present crackling sound of dry branches snapping under
my heels. As I limped forward, step by step, I lost all
concept of time and swayed back and forth between single minded purpose and scatter brain
despair. But in a moment of clarity, I stopped to listen the screams
again. They were ahead of me, so they weren't following me. They
were merely in the area. I flinched as I saw branches moving the wind.
I rept our brain thought they were antlers. I hunker down and listened,
Helena. This scream wasn't like the others. It wasn't the same sound
over and over. They were different and irregular. She wasn't screaming for help,
but in pain. She was alive. Now I had two choices.
I could try and keep moving until I found the flags and just hope to
get out somehow. Or I could try to find Helena and her things.
She had the sat nerve last time I checked. It was a battle between
my instinct and my reasoning. I'd be putting myself in danger either way.
But if I could help her, I had to try. At the very
least, I could try fetch some supplies. I followed Helena's screaming. She
was heading straight north, deeper into the Maya. She was on the move,
slowly but surely. I measured the distance. After a while, she
stopped screaming. I figured she passed out. It took me about an hour
of searching before I found something. There was a young tree that had been
stripped of leaves and covered in blood, like someone had grabbed the bottom of
it and dragged the hand along it. There were clear red stains across the
leaves. There was no trail to follow, but I could hear something moving
to the north, maybe more reindeer, maybe Helena. The ground started to
get muddy. They were algae and reeds drying in the sun. I could
hear screaming in the distance, not like Helena, not like a person,
just those each us, pretending to be people. But there were more of
them now, so many more. I could hear dozens of them screaming back
and forth, screaming for help. I pushed on. I had to see
to know there was something up ahead, and I needed answers. There was
a small hill, and after that a sudden drop. I crouched at the
edge, looking down. There was this dried out lake with a deep crack
in the ground going down the middle, revealing parts of a dark underground cave
through the mud and debris. I could smell the moss drying in the sun.
It must have been midday by then, and the sun was casting harsh
shadows across the miya. There were one hundreds of reindeer, hundreds, some
standing up, others shuffling along on all fours, all moving in a circle
around the crack in the ground where something massive moved. Some of the reindeer
were dragging things along, pieces of flesh, dead birds, and fish.
I could have sworn one of them was dragging parts of Camilla's tent. They
were neatly lined up and took turns, dumping whatever price they had into the
crevice. Those who had nothing to contribute stayed on the sidelines, eating.
Everything looked so different in this light. I could have sworn most of the
moss and flowers they ate looked strangely blue. And there among the debris was
Helena. Her unconscious body was being unceremoniously dragged to the mud and dumped in
front of the crevice. I could see her head moving, struggling to regain
consciousness. I could hear a mouth moving, but there was no way to
hear her over the wailing screams of the creatures. But for a short moment,
I could have sworn she saw me, just a moment of recognition.
Then, without a sound, something emerged from the crevice, A long,
bone, white hand, large enough to wrap its fingers across a chest,
carefully dragging her into the dark. For a moment, the reindeer got quiet.
An awful crunch echoed through the makeshift clearing, and seconds later the reindeer
made a new sound, this time in Helena's voice, tired, barely conscious
voice. Calm down, it said, help me. These four words were
repeated over and over by all of them in her voice, in all constellations
and combinations. Come help, help, come down, help help down.
The horrid screams replaced by a dying whisper, a whisper intended for me.
I was too afraid to move. I stayed there, looking down. Every
now and then, that large bone white arm would emerge, sometimes to put
away something inedible, sometimes the grab hole of a reindeer, to drag it
into the deep. At one point, a white finger touched the forehead of
a reindeer, making it stand up on its hind legs like a humanoid.
Those who stood up seemed to be of great importance, and the others circled
them. But there was no one to save, and there was nothing left
for me to gather. Or that was left was for me to leave and
never look back. I kept going south. Every now and then i'd hear
them, a whisper of come help me, making its way through the sparse
vegetation. Come help me. These things were everywhere, and they were looking
for me. Reindeer have a great sense of smell, so I took a
short dip in stale lake water to hide my smell. My leg would definitely
get infected. A to my way through the undergrowth, stopping only to listen
for clues and what paths to avoid. By nightfall, I still hadn't found
any flags. My leg was in such a burning pain that I couldn't lean
on it anymore, and my muscles ached. I was constantly out of breath,
not wanting to draw too much air into my lungs, but I had
to keep going. There was a good chance that I'd die out there if
I had to spend the night in the open, temperatures could easily dip into
freezing. Once the blood red sunset started to gleam in the distance, I
knew I was short on time. My hands were shaking and I could barely
stand. I could barely move Everything in me wanted to just sit down and
hope for everything to be okay in the morning. It was so easy to
trick myself into doing so, but I just kept going. I stopped there
was something up ahead. I caught a glimpse of eyes reflecting the setting sun.
For a moment they locked onto me, and a second later it burst
into a sprint. I thought I was done for I had no fight left
in me. I turned to run, but I only made it a few
steps before I tripped. Then a gunshot. The reindeer collapsed next to me,
whose big black eyes meeting mine. It struggled to breathe help me,
and whispered in Helena's voice, come down, come help me. Didn't understand
what it was saying. It was just noise. But there was something there,
And as that reindeer opened its mouth to speak again, I caught a
glimpse of it, something thin and bone white, lingering far down its throat,
something vaguely humanoid. A second pair of eyes looking up, Then another
gunshot. I was blinded by a flashlight. There were three men, all
speaking Swedish, all dressed in some kind of logging company jackets with trucker caps.
They all had these yellow reflective vests on them. I told them I
didn't understand, and they changed the heavily accented English, British, American.
One of them masked American. I said, we there was I attack.
Yes, they attack, He nodded, we know, we know. Come.
The three men dragged the reindeer away, tied a rope around his antlers,
and made a great effort to hoist it up and nearby tree, just
like the tree I'd seen with the others just days prior. Keeps them here,
said the man who helped me. Makes a good uns border. Like
a warning. I added, yes, like a warning. He nodded.
They understand. We looked up at the dead body hanging from the tree.
They smarter here no more. I was taken back to the base camp,
about eight people living in caravans. They gave me fresh clothes, hot dogs,
beer, and warned me up by the fire. They disinfected my thigh
and stitched me up while I tried to sleep off my upcoming fever. They
called the police and the embassy in Stockholm, and the next day I was
on a plane back to the States like nothing ever happened. The aftermath that
has been pretty much nothing. It was classified as an animal attack and dismissed.
I talked to a few people from the AWC about it, and they
called it a sincerely regretful incident and asked me to remain discreet as to not
discourage future climate change studies. The AWC still operate in the area. By
the way, I've gotten no answers as to what they've done with the soil
samples, or if they ever looked into what I saw in the Maya.
All I know is that no one wants me to talk about it. The
only people have gotten answers from with the hunters. They were eager to share
their stories, claiming that the government refuses to listen. I'm still in email
contact with some of them, and there's a lot to unpack. But in
short, there was a quake in the Maya. Something came out of the
lake. It did something to the wildlife in the area. It stole hundreds
of reindeer from local Sammi herds. It seems to be expanding, stopped only
where it finds immediate and violent resistance, and over time it seems to learn