People always talk about the number of monsters that reside
in our country's vast tracts of uninhabitable land, the dense
forests, deep caves and the remote mountaintops, and the
danger these creatures present to us their right to warn you,
especially about the areas around our national parks.
But did you ever stop to think about why the vast majority of
people that go missing? Our last seen in some of our
largest cities. For every one person that goes
missing in the American wilderness, 3 vanish in our
cities. Granted, some of these
disappearances on both sides can be contributed to murders,
accidents, kidnappings, or runaways, but a growing number
each year can be contributed to those things that live in the
shadows. And it's getting worse,
especially in our cities. Ask any homeless person on the
street. They'll tell you 99.99% of the
people they tell. Will write them off as crazy or
under the influence, but I promise you they aren't lying.
They saw a huge sticky tongue latch onto a woman and pull her
into a dumpster. So have I.
They saw a little girl lure a man into an alleyway before
pulling his arm off and lapping up the puddle of Crimson.
Not crazy. I've seen that too.
A living shadow that envelops its victims in a suffocating
black slime. I haven't seen that one, but I
know a guy who did, and I believe him.
These things are all around us and you'll do well to listen to
my story and take heed. This could save your life.
A girl had gone missing. Young, blonde, blue eyes.
The kind that gets her face all over the news when they go
missing. Her name was Amelia Meager.
I'm sure the entire city had her name and face memorized by the
time my story started. Seems like it was all they
played on the news for a week, about a week after Amelia's
disappearance. I was walking home from the
bars, drunk and cursing myself for not being able to close with
the girl I was talking to when a voice called out to me.
Normally I wouldn't have paid any attention.
Not too many people you want to hang out with or on the streets
after 2:00 AM, but this was a woman's voice.
Being the young guy that I was at the time, I came to a
screeching halt and turned in the direction the voice called
from. The voice originated from a dark
shadow beneath a highway overpass bridge.
Hello. I called into the darkness, my
eyes straining to pick up and shapes moving around in the inky
black. Can you help me?
The voice called back from somewhere in the darkness.
I think I'm lost. Something about the voice was
strange. The cadence was slightly off,
like whoever was speaking was reading lines and didn't fully
understand what they were saying.
It reminded me of students reciting lines in Spanish class
back in school. I still couldn't pinpoint where
exactly the voice was coming from.
As it reverberated between the buildings and the overpass
above. Where are you?
I said to the darkness, still standing just outside the shadow
of the overpass. I can't see you.
I heard movement from within the shadow, not footsteps, but
something dragging along the ground.
I'm here, the darkness said closer.
Now I fixed my eyes on the source of the voice, and as my
eyes adjusted, a figure came into focus.
Just faintly through the darkness, I could make out a
dirty white sun dress. The ethereal glow of the fabric
created a stark contrast against the darkness that enveloped her
and made her facial features that much harder to see.
I still can't see you. I strained my eyes, squinting
into the dark. Come out into the light.
I watched the outline of the sun dress move.
It seemed to glide through the air slowly.
I heard no footsteps, and I didn't hear the dragging noise
either. It came to a stop about four
feet from its original position, still sequestered well within
the shadow, but I could now see a little more in the dim light.
I could see the blonde hair and blue eyes of Amelia Meager.
She was bruised, and scabs dotted her face, arms, and legs. 00:04:18,709 A look of crazed terror filled
her eyes, like she was trying with all of her willpower to
scream. But she couldn't.
Amelia. I asked, sobering up quickly.
Are you Amelia? I took a step towards her.
Please help me. Amelia said as she abruptly
reached a handout in my direction.
I took a step back. This time something wasn't right
about her. The extending of her hand was
too jerky and choreographed, and her mouth when she spoke was
downright unnatural. Her jaw moved up and down in a
chomping motion, but her lips never moved.
It was like watching a dubbed over foreign film.
Nothing about this situation felt right at all, but I had to
do something. This was Amelia Meager.
The girl who had been all over the news for the last five days. 00:05:03,700 I recognized her right away.
I couldn't just leave her there. I had seen her family on
television crying. I took another step towards her
and reached my hand into the shadow to grab onto her extended
hand when suddenly a car drove by.
The headlights illuminated her for half a second, just as I was
about to grab her. She wasn't standing.
Her bare feet hung pointed to the ground, her chipped toenails
dragging along the cement. She had fine, barely perceptible
threads intricately wrapped around her joints, her knees,
wrists, elbows and shoulders. A few other fine silky threads
were attached on both sides of her jaw and both sides of her
head. Her eyes were screaming at me.
I've never in my life seen anyone look so helpless in that
half second of light. My eyes followed the thin
strands of silk that attached to her joints, to their origin on
the ceiling, the overpass made above us.
Barely visible, a giant hulking spider pressed up against the
overpass. Each of its eight legs were
manipulated by a strand of silk controlling their marionette
below. I took two steps back out of the
shadow, staring at the massive creature.
I watched it twitch its legs, and my eyes darted back down to
Amelia as she was dragged back into the darkness under the
bridge to be used as bait for the next guy unlucky enough to
walk in this direction. I left her there, and I ran
straight home. Amelia Meager was never seen
again. I've seen a lot of weird shit in
this city over the years and stuff like that seems to be
happening more and more often. I said All of this to say, don't
think you have to be out in the countryside to run into a
monster. They are everywhere.
Sometimes they even look just like you and me.
You probably walk by a few of them every week without knowing. 00:06:45,700 So keep your head on your
shoulders and don't do anything stupid unless you want to spend
your last few days being used as bait like Amelia.
Or maybe even worse, June 15th, 2021, during my first week at
Outpost Aurora, I faced an unsettling cycle of sleepless
nights and ceaseless days. This was a result of the
unyielding Arctic sun that refused to set during the
Alaskan summer. It was challenging to acclimate
to my tiny quarters. Forcing myself to rely on the
blackout blinds and my wristwatch to keep track of time
instead of the ever present sun, I had willingly traded the
relative normalcy of anchorages 19 hour summer days for this
endless disorientation, all in pursuit of my doctoral field
research on the impacts of climate change on remote Inuit
communities. Outpost Aurora, a climate
research facility, accommodated around 30 inhabitants, A diverse
group of scientists, researchers.
And a handful of maintenance and support staff.
As an anthropologist, I was somewhat of an oddity among the
geologists, climatologists, and biologists who dominated the
research team. We got along well enough, but
there was a clear professional disconnect.
Their world revolved around weather data, rocks and polar
flora and fauna, while mine centered around the stories and
experiences of indigenous people.
Being the only Inuit speaking researcher in this remote
expanse of northern Alaska, I felt a profound obligation to
chronicle and protect the rich oral traditions of the local
communities before they were lost to the shifting snow and
ice. I felt like I was straddling a
fault line. I was the sole link between
these isolated villages and the outside world.
On this particular evening, I'm engrossed in transcribing my
interview with Katak, an elderly self-proclaimed shaman.
Boasting about harpooning a seal the size of a walrus when a
soft, slightly raspy voice broke my concentration, Dr. Kalak
Looking up from my work, I met the gaze of a young woman at the
far end of my table. Her face was brightened by a
warm smile, her luminous blue eyes shimmered with an
indescribable intensity, and a tangle of chestnut hair escaped
from under her woollen beanie. I'm sorry, I replied, removing
my headphones. You're Doctor Noah Kallik,
right? She repeated.
Well, technically, I'm still a PhD candidate.
I sheepishly clarified. My apologies, PhD candidate Noah
Kallik, she said, her tone dancing on the line of
playfulness and sarcasm. I'm field technician Rebecca
McKenzie, but you can call me Becca.
Her joke garnered A genuine chuckle from me.
And you can call me Noah, I said, extending my hand.
She shook my hand. Tyco.
She exclaimed, clearly pronouncing the Inuit word for
welcome. Intrigued, I asked.
You speak Inuit? Just that in my momaca?
She admitted, shrugging, struggling to contain my
laughter. I corrected her.
Becca, you just said you're a Musk ox.
Her cheeks turned a bright shade of red.
The village children told me it meant nice to meet you, she
mumbled. I hope you didn't say that to a
lot of people. I chuckled.
Just to about a half dozen villagers.
And to the site director, she admitted, her face paling in
realization. You said that to Doctor
Anderson? I asked aghast.
Oh dear. Yeah, but I don't think she knew
what it meant either. Becca responded, which brought
me to fits of laughter, in which she soon joined anyway.
Noah, She started as she pulled up a chair and sat across from
me. I saw your name on the roster
for tomorrow's ice core sampling trip.
It's your first one, isn't it? Yeah, I said.
The word stuck in my throat as I pictured the steep, ice covered
mountain range I had agreed to climb.
You don't climb much I'm guessing.
She asked. I've done a fair bit of hiking
and mountain climbing, but nothing on this scale.
I confessed. I'm into it.
We mostly stick to the lowland coast.
Peering out the window, my gaze fell on the towering peaks
dominating the horizon. The mountain we were to ascend
was known to the locals as The Den of the Dead.
An ominous title for anything. Let alone a treacherous peak
covered in ancient, shifting glaciers, the name was part of
an old Inuit legend. One of the many tales I had
collected from the village elders.
The story painted a picture of vengeful spirits purportedly
inhabiting these glaciers, ready to wreak havoc on anyone
audacious enough to disrupt their icy abode.
While I didn't believe in spirits, the hazardous crevasses
and unpredictable weather that awaited us felt like wrathful
spirits in their own right. Becca could sense my
apprehension. It's all right to be nervous,
but don't worry, Doctor Anderson wouldn't send you out on your
own. You've been placed in good
hands. Whose hands, exactly?
I asked skeptically. Her grin widened, mine actually
raising an eyebrow. I wasn't sure whether to feel
comforted or more concerned. Yours.
What? Don't look at me like that,
Becca protested playfully. I've got plenty of experience.
No offense, Becca, but you look like you just stepped out of an
undergrad class, I told her. She laughed at my comment, but I
noticed the pride in her eyes. Looks can be deceiving.
I've navigated those passes dozens of times.
I can handle both of us. So what's it like being up there
in the glaciers? I asked.
It's an incredible experience. When you hold an ice core in
your hands, it's like you're touching history, feeling the
Earth's past in your palms, she explained.
Well. When you put it that way, I
said, finding her description oddly relatable.
I'm almost looking forward to it.
That's the spirit, she exclaimed, clapping me on the
back. Her laughter echoed through the
mess hall, cutting through the tension that it settled there.
June 16th, 2021. The morning was a whirlwind of
activity. By 5:00 AM, the common area was
already bustling. Our departure from the base was
anything but a silent affair. Instead it was a cacophony of
barking Huskies and buzzing chatter filled with last minute
discussions about the plan and route.
Our team of 6, clad in heavy winter gear, was busy loading
equipment onto the dog sleds. The sun glared in the cloudless
sky, its blinding light reflecting off the snow and ice
making it seem as if we were about to journey across a white,
unending desert. The air was palpable, with a
strange blend of excitement, anxiety and a touch of the
unknown. As I loaded my pack onto a sled,
Becca approached, dressed in snow pants and a parka, her face
framed by a fur trimmed hood. She resembled an Arctic explorer
from a bygone era. She methodically inspected the
gear I had packed to ensure everything was present and in
working order. Leaning in, she imparted some
final words of advice. Keep close, stay focused, and
remember it's not a race. The goal is to get there and
back safely. Drawing confidence from her
words, I nodded. As we began the journey, there
was an eerie calm, the hustle and bustle of the camp fading
into the vast, icy expanse. The first few hours of our trek
were uneventful, the terrain mostly flat.
Each sled accommodated 2 people, with Becca and I paired together
while the sled dogs forged ahead.
We passed the time making small talk and trading stories about
life back at Outpost Aurora. I told her about my disconnect
with my colleagues. Becca said she understood.
Confessing to me that she was much lower on the pecking order
than her confident demeanor the previous night might have
suggested, which explained why she was assigned the task of
looking after the new guy. Despite the teasing tone, there
was a hint of relief in her voice and appreciation for
having someone to talk to during these long, perilous excursions. 00:14:48,560 As the day progressed, the snow
swept landscape morphed into steep, rocky inclines.
The dogs pulled valiantly, their breath fogging in the chill air. 00:14:57,950 A torrent of awe and anxiety
warred within me as I surveyed the brutally beautiful landscape
around us. I was reminded of the tales from
my grandmother's childhood, how the indomitable Inuit people had
traversed a polar wasteland spanning a greater distance than
New York to Los Angeles, and yet managed to carve out a life for
themselves. I felt as though I were walking
in the footsteps of my ancestors, arriving at the foot
of the mountain. The daunting process of setting
up the drills unfolded. These colossal machines,
disassembled and transported on sleds, had to be carefully put
together again. In these unforgiving conditions,
the team had the monumental task of drilling a mile into the
mountainside to reach ice that hadn't been disturbed in
hundreds of thousands of years. Each layer of ice was a snapshot
of the Earth's climate at that point in time, capturing tiny
bubbles of air, volcanic ash, pollen, dust, and even
microscopic life forms. Watching Becca maneuver her way
around the equipment, coordinating with the others, it
was clear she was in her element.
Unlike the rest of the team, my expertise wasn't required for
drilling. Instead, I was on a different
mission. The rapidly melting glaciers had
started uncovering secrets that were long hidden beneath their
icy surfaces. Fragments of ancient cultures
that had been engulfed by the glaciers over centuries were now
resurfacing. It was my job to recover and
catalog any artifacts we discovered.
As the drilling continued, my eyes were drawn towards a cave
not too far from our location, shielded by an overhanging ledge
of ice and snow. It seemed untouched by time.
Becca. I called.
Catching her attention. I pointed towards The Cave.
Her eyes followed my pointing finger, and her eyebrows rose
slightly. You want to go in there?
Caves are a treasure trove of ancient relics, I explained.
As there was a lull in the drilling, she decided to join me
in exploring The Cave. Upon entering The Cave, the
first thing I noticed was the cold, which was even more
intense than outside. A shiver ran down my spine.
Not entirely from the temperature, my eyes struggled
to adjust to the darkness, the meager light from our
flashlights barely illuminating the frozen cavern.
I swept my light across the jagged cave floor, searching for
any hint of an ancient bonefish hook or an Obsidian spearhead.
Suddenly, Becca's voice echoed through The Cave.
Noah. Over here.
My heart skipped a beat as Becca's urgent voice pierced the
stillness of The Cave. I hurried toward her, my
flashlight trembling in my hand. As I approached, I saw her
kneeling over what appeared to be a body slumped against The
Cave wall. My mind spun with questions.
Had someone been stranded here recently?
Were they in need of help? I attempted to lift the body for
a clearer view, but it was frozen in place.
Hey, can you give me a hand? I asked.
Yeah, sure, she replied with hesitation in her voice.
We each took an arm and pulled the icicles, anchoring the body
to The Cave floor broke with a crack, a gasp caught in my
throat as we were greeted by the macabre side of a woman.
Her face was an eerie porcelain mask lined with intricate blue
black tattoos that curled from her forehead around her eyes,
down to her chin. Her jet black eye socket stared
back at us, frozen forever in an expression of terror.
Her mouth was half open in a silent scream, her teeth sharp
and unnaturally white against her frostbitten skin.
The light from our flashlights danced across her body,
revealing the tiny form huddled in her arms, a child perfectly
preserved in the ice, its body as desiccated as the woman's.
The little one's face was a haunting mimicry of its
mother's, frozen in time like a delicate porcelain doll.
Recoiling in shock, Becca let out a small gasp, covering her
mouth with her hand while I sat paralyzed, my mind grappling
with the sight before me. I didn't recognize the tattoo
patterns on her face, and her clothing didn't match any styles
known to the Inuit people. The attire suggested a culture
far older than what I was familiar with.
My flashlight caught the glint of something metallic.
Next to the mother and child was a knife with an ornate handle
made of ivory. The blade itself was crudely
crafted, like it was beaten into shape with stones and had a
black tint to it. I knew that precontact Inuit
tribes only had one source of metal for their tools, iron ore
extracted from meteorites. I I think there are more, Becca
said, her voice trembling. She pointed deeper into The
Cave. Slowly, our lights revealed more
bodies, each in varying states of preservation.
Some were mere skeletons. The ice having worn their flesh
away over the centuries, while others were as impeccably
preserved as the woman and child, a shared feature among
them was the hollow crevices where their eyes used to be.
As I shone my flashlight along the icy cave wall, it revealed a
sequence of well preserved cave drawings.
They told a disturbing tale of people similar to the bodies we
discovered chased by terrifying shadowy figures.
Their fear echoed the eternal screams on the frozen faces we'd
found. The final scene showed the
people in a cave horrifyingly familiar to our surroundings,
with the ominous figures looming over them.
A chill ran through my veins that had nothing to do with the
frigid temperature. What do you think happened to
them? Becca asked, sounding like she
didn't want to know the answer. It's difficult to say without a
thorough analysis. I rationalized disease,
starvation. Perhaps they were caught in a
snowstorm and succumbed to exposure.
Exposure. She asked.
The word alone seemed to have disturbed her more than the
bodies themselves. Her naturally light complexion
turned to shade paler before I could respond.
The piercing sound of Becca's radio crackled into life,
shattering the quiet stillness of The Cave.
Becca, do you copy? This is Doctor Khan.
We've got an issue here. The voice of the team lead came
through. Becca quickly unclipped the
radio, her fingers fumbling in her haste.
This is Becca. We're in The Cave.
What's wrong? One of the drills ruptured a gas
deposit, releasing some sort of unknown toxic substance.
Get out of there immediately, Doctor.
Khan's voice held a note of urgency we'd never heard before. 00:21:25,510 Without a moment's hesitation,
we scrambled to our feet and bolted towards the entrance of
The Cave even before reaching the mouth of The Cave, and
intense chemical odor replaced the familiar scent of the
tundra. Our Husky team was a lifeline in
the unforgiving wilderness. Aspen, the fearless leader,
blazed the trail ahead. Behind her, Willow and her twin
brother Cedar mirrored each other in perfect harmony, their
connection beyond just their matching silver coats and ice
blue eyes at the back, Pine, with his unyielding strength,
acted as the powerful anchor. As we started our journey, the
wind whipped around us, carrying with it the biting chill of the
air. The sleds cut through the snow
effortlessly, the dogs pulling with an eagerness that defied
the unforgiving conditions. Look, Noah, Becca started, her
eyes trained on the horizon. I want to apologize for what
happened back there. I didn't mean to sound so harsh. 00:22:24,140 I looked at her, surprised by
the sincerity in her voice. No, Becca, If anything, I should
be thanking you, I admitted, giving her a small, grateful
smile. I'm glad to have a polar expert
watching my back, I added, knowing she'd appreciate the
compliment. Her cheeks flushed from beneath
her protective gear. Whether it was from the cold or
my compliment, I couldn't tell. As we ventured farther from our
drill site, the landscape underwent subtle yet
unmistakable changes. The sun, perpetually casting a
sallow glow, illuminated the pristine snow with an eerie
light. The snow no longer glistened.
It had a matte, lifeless finish, as if its vitality had been
drained. The animals we encountered were
behaving unusually, too. The snow hair that hopped across
our path moved sluggishly. It's normally white fur tinged
with a sickly, bluish hue. An Arctic fox, usually shy and
elusive, showed No Fear, no recognition of us as potential
threats. It just stared at us with glassy
eyes as we passed by, as if it didn't comprehend what it was
seeing. The most disconcerting change,
however, was the silence. The Arctic is usually filled
with sounds, the crunch of snow under foot.
The chattering of birds. The howl of the wind.
But now it was as if nature itself had fallen into a
stunned, deathly silence. Even the wind seemed muted,
whispering rather than wailing. By the time we reached the
village past midnight, the ever present sun hovered overhead,
bathing the icy mountains and vast Arctic Ocean in an alien
glow. The frigid air nodded our faces
as we approached the village. Even from the outskirts I could
tell something was wrong. The chimneys of the colorful
houses were smokeless. The village known as Silapinua,
or the Spirit of the Universe, was eerily quiet, a stark
contrast to the vibrant community life we had witnessed
just days before. Navigating the snow laden paths
between homes, our breath formed small frosty clouds in the
freezing air. We called out for any
inhabitants, but our voices echoed back, swallowed by the
desolate silence. Discarded remnants of everyday
life littered our path, children's toys scattered in the
snow, piles of half chopped firewood next to silent homes
and fishing Nets abandoned by the river's edge.
We entered the largest house, that of the chief and his
extended family. The door was ajar, with
untouched meals on tables and clothing strewn haphazardly.
Inside, we detected A faint, sickly sweet odor, eerily
reminiscent of the smell from the drilling site.
Do you think it's the gas? Becca whispered, her eyes wide
with fear. Must be, I replied, grimacing as
the smell hit me again. But where did everyone go?
Maybe they evacuated, Becca suggested, although she sounded
unsure. I hope so, I said, examining a
pot of soup that was still warm. It doesn't look like they had
time to prepare, everything's just left, Becca noted, picking
up a doll made of walrus ivory. We need to look for signs.
I suggested they might have left a message saying where they
went. Becca and I systematically
searched each house. We reached Katok's house late in
the afternoon. The elderly shaman lived alone
in a quaint dwelling on the village outskirts.
I had interviewed him only days earlier.
As I pushed open the door, the creaking sound echoed ominously. 00:25:58,840 We entered the dimly lit room,
the weak sunlight from the window illuminating the dust
particles suspended in the air. Everything was just as I
remembered, the walls adorned with tribal masks, the aged
wooden floor lined with fur rugs, and the hearth at the
center, now cold and lifeless. My gaze was drawn to a corner of
the room, where a message was hastily etched onto the wall.
The text was in the native Inuit syllabary.
The normally round characters were inconsistent, as if
scrawled in haste. A black tinted blade, similar to
the one I saw in The Cave, lay on the floor next to the
message. Becca walked up behind me.
What does it say? My heart pounded in my chest as
I translated the text. It it says, beware the spirit of
the ice, the IJA Rock have returned, and then it just cuts
off. What's an IJA rock?
Becca asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
I paused, unsure of how much to reveal their spirits from Inuit
folklore. They're said to be
shapeshifters, creatures that exist in the realm between the
living and the dead. They're like Inuit boogeymen.
My grandma used to tell me that if I didn't behave and age, Rock
would get me in my sleep. Yeah, but that's just a story,
right? Becca asked incredulously, like
an attempt to explain natural occurrences.
A tense silence filled the room. There was more to the myth, but
I didn't see any point in scaring her with ghost stories.
Catoc was always a little eccentric, I said dismissively.
He believed in a lot of weird stuff, like saying he could
communicate with foxes and that they would give him messages
from the spirit world. I would take everything, he says
with a grain of salt. A sudden harsh gust of wind
rattled the window panes, causing us to exchange a glance
of concern. We ran to the window.
The first thing I noticed was how dark things had gotten.
With the ever present midnight sun.
This should have been impossible.
Outside the sky, dark and ominously.
The yellow green hue swallowed by a mass of angry Gray clouds.
I had goosebumps as the first snowflake landed on the window.
The weather forecast hadn't predicted a storm, but there was
definitely one brewing. Storms coming, Becca said, her
eyes wide as she looked out the window.
A big one. I could feel the air around us
getting colder. We need to find shelter, I said,
scanning for a good place to hunker down.
The gas hadn't affected us yet. And we'd be exposed to more of
it if we tried to trudge through the storm with its own inherent
dangers. Spotting a large communal
building on a hill towards the center of the village, I
gestured towards it. There, that house.
It's higher off the ground. We should be safer from the gas. 00:28:45,920 There we gathered the Huskies
and hurried towards the house, the dogs rushing in ahead of us. 00:28:51,480 The wind howled in our ears,
biting through our winter gear as we struggled against the
rising storm. Once inside the house, we worked
quickly to secure the entrances, sealing the doors and windows
with whatever materials we had on hand to minimize the gas
exposure. The dogs were restless, pacing
anxiously around the room. Their unease mirrored my own.
Becca grabbed the radio, her hands shaking slightly as she
adjusted the frequency and relayed our situation back to
Outpost Aurora. Doctor Anderson, we're trapped
in the village by the storm. We're going to try to wait it
out. Were as sealed up as we're going
to get against the gas. Over.
There was a pause. Then her voice crackled through,
sounding tense. Understood.
Stay safe. We'll maintain radio contact.
Over and out. June 18th, 2021, Becca and I
rationed out our meager food supply, cans of Stew, chunks of
hard bread, and energy bars that tasted like cardboard but had
the necessary calories. We melted snow for drinking
water. Being careful to heat it just
enough to kill off any bacteria. Yet we weren't sure if this
method was effective in removing gas.
The dogs, our faithful companions, were fed with dry
kibble and chunks of frozen fish we had packed.
As the wind outside roared and battered the structure of the
house, we huddled close together around a portable heater for
warmth. Even with our winter gear on,
the biting cold was almost unbearable.
The dogs lay in a pile, their bodies a source of warmth in the
otherwise freezing room. Unable to sleep, my mind was
restless, filled with the day's chaotic events.
I could still picture Erica, her body convulsing as the toxic gas
took hold. The image filled me with a dread
I could hardly put into words. How long before we, too, would
begin to show symptoms? Ever so often, I found myself
glancing over at Becca, scrutinizing her face for any
signs of illness. I sat up and pulled out the
knife I had taken from Katok's home, examining it under the
faint light in the room. The black, tinted blade was
forged meteorite iron, the same as the one we found at the
drilling site. The handle was made of narwhal
Tusk, intricately carved with ancient Inuit symbols.
As I traced them with my fingers, memories of the legends
about the IJA rock swirled in my mind.
These weren't just children's tales.
The Inuit people respected and feared these spirits.
While I respected the myths and legends, I was still a man of
science, grounded in reality and observable facts.
Yet to dismiss these tales as mere superstition seemed almost
disrespectful. Exhaling slowly, I glanced once
more at Becca. Her breaths were steady and
slow, a stark contrast to the raging storm outside.
A wave of relief washed over me. She was fine, at least for now.
Carefully, I put the blade back into my pocket and tried to
settle back into my sleeping bag.
I don't recall when I fell asleep, but the dream was vivid. 00:31:53,560 I was a child again, back in the
tiny, cramped apartment in Anchorages Mountain View
neighborhood that I shared with my mom and grandma.
The faint smell of my mom's cooking clung to the worn out
furniture. I could hear the muffled sound
of sirens and angry voices from the street below, a soundtrack
to my childhood. I was bundled under the
patchwork quilt my grandma made, trying to stay awake until my
mom got home from her two jobs. My eyelids were heavy.
Sleep was creeping in, but I fought against it.
I wanted to catch a glimpse of my mom, to reassure myself that
she had made it back Safely beside me, my grandmother sat in
her favorite rocking chair, the rhythmic creaking a soothing
counterpoint. Her voice was soft yet firm as
she wove intricate stories of ancient Inuit legends, her
wrinkled hands gesturing dramatically, enhancing the
narrative suddenly. A loud banging noise echoed
through the small apartment. Fear gripped me as she looked at
me, her eyes filled with a mixture of terror and
determination. Noah, you're in danger, you need
to leave now, she said, her voice filled with urgency.
She hurriedly pulled a parka over my small frame, her
movements quick and precise. The banging grew louder, the
whole apartment shaking with the sheer force of it.
I recognized the noise instantly, the sound of my
father's rage. The door burst open, splintering
into pieces as a drunken figure staggered into the room.
My heart pounded in my chest as I watched my father's slurred
movements, his eyes scanning the room.
Ignoring him. My grandmother ushered me
towards the window that opened onto the fire escape.
Go to Mrs. Olson's place and I'll come get you later, she
instructed, her voice Just a whisper now, but her words held
the weight of an ultimatum. But Grandma, I started, but she
cut me off. No butts, Noah.
Go. I was just about to climb out of
the window when I glanced back one last time, my heart aching
at the sight of my grandmother, her frail form standing tall and
defiant against my drunken father.
Where is he, Anuri? Where's my son?
He slurred, his gaze wild. You're drunk, Hank, Grandma
said. Sober up and then maybe we'll
talk. He's my son, my dad shouted.
You can't keep him from me, I heard.
A scuffle ensuing. Get out of my way, my dad
screamed as the cold air hit my face.
My dream began to unravel, the harsh reality of my past merging
into the grim predicament of my present.
I was jolted awake, my heart pounding, the sound growling and
barking. I shot up from my sleeping bag.
Becca was already awake and trying to calm the dogs.
Hey guys, what's wrong? She asked, checking on each one. 00:34:38,909 What's the matter?
I asked groggily. I don't know.
Something must have spooked them, She responded.
Becca reached for the radio, pressing the button and calling
through the static drill team. This is Becca and Noah.
Do you copy? Only the hum of the storm
responded to our call. Doctor Khan, are you there?
Please respond. Her voice wavered slightly, a
hint of fear creeping into her normally confident tone.
Still, there was no answer. The silence seemed to amplify
the harsh howling of the wind outside, the sound seeming to
seep into the very walls of the house.
With a worried expression, she put down the radio.
We need to try again in a bit. The storm might be affecting the
signal. The dogs were growing more
restless by the minute, their whimpers growing into anxious
barks. They were fixated at something
just outside the front door. Sensing their distress, I got up
and peered through the tiny crack in the door.
Among the swirling gusts of snow, I saw unsettling figures
moving. Their forms were hauntingly
unfamiliar, a blend of the grotesque and beautiful.
Some had elongated limbs and disproportionate body parts,
their shapes hardly human. Others were adorned with animal
characteristics, antlers that cut through the Gale feathers
that fluttered in the Blizzard, scales that shimmered in the
harsh Arctic lights, or fur that rippled as if in a breeze.
Becca. I whispered, my throat dry.
You need to see this. I didn't get a response.
Becca, did you hear me? I whispered, a little louder.
A blood curdling scream tore through the night.
Becca My heart lurched in my chest as I turned.
One of the creatures was crawling on the ceiling and
walls of the cabin. It's elongated limbs ending in
claws, scraped against the wood, creating the sound of nails on
chalkboard. Its body was like smoke,
twisting and changing, never settling on a single form.
Without warning, the being slid down from the walls, making no
noise as it landed. Its form was ghostly, constantly
shifting in the light of our Lantern.
One moment it resembled an Inuit woman with straight black hair,
the next a polar bear with gleaming fangs.
It shimmered as if formed from ice and snow, a mirage born of
the Arctic itself, its eyes, the only constant in its ever
changing form. 2 jet black sockets, empty and soulless,
stared at us. Becca just stood there, stunned. 00:37:03,110 I grabbed her hand and pulled
her close. Get behind me, I whispered.
The thing's mouth opened wide, emitting A guttural sound that
sent a shiver down my spine. It started mimicking Dr. Khan's
voice perfectly. I don't understand what's
happening. It's the gas we're changing.
Erica's voice followed, panicked and gasping for breath.
I can feel it inside me. It's it's burning.
The shrieks of pain and terror were lifelike, making it all the
more chilling. Next came the voices of the
others on the team, their pleas for help.
Their cries of agony echoing in the otherwise silent room.
The entity's body contorted and twisted as if in a grotesque
imitation of their final torturous moments.
It was as if the very air around us carried the terror of those
last moments. The last voice we heard was
Doctor Khan's. Please help us.
The creature looked at us, its eyes vacant and unblinking.
Then it tilted its head and began to laugh, a terrible,
echoing sound that filled the room.
It's laughter was like nothing I'd ever heard, a horrifying
imitation of human joy. June 19th, 2021, The entities
laughter faded as it began to pace around the room.
Slowly, deliberately, like a wild animal sizing up its
territory, it moved with a disjointed grace, limbs twisting
and contorting independently. Yet it's gaze, filled with a
primal and animalistic intelligence, never strayed from
us. An eerie sense of foreboding
settled over me as I stared into the depths of its eyes.
Becca looked stunned. It has their voices, she
murmured, her voice echoing horror.
How can it have their voices? I was too shocked to respond,
grappling with the surreal reality of a creature physically
before me. It felt like discovering the
monster under my bed was real, after all.
Before eyes was an iji rock. The Huskies suddenly lunged
forward, their growls escalating into feral snarls in a brave
attempt to protect us. Their bravery snapped me out of
my shock. The creature jerked its head
towards the dogs, its form morphing into a giant wolf
mouth, gaping sharp fangs, glistening.
No, I yelled out. Instinctively.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the knife I'd picked
up at Katok's home. The blade was cool to the touch,
the intricate symbols carved into the handle pressing into my
palm. The room was still for a moment
as the entity stared at me. Behind me, I could hear Becca's
soft footsteps, her breaths drawn in quiet, controlled
patterns. She was inching toward her pack,
painstakingly slow to avoid drawing attention.
The floorboards creaked under her weight.
My heart pounded in my chest, every thump echoing through my
body, a constant reminder of the danger we were in.
Regardless, I remained rooted to the spot, my eyes locked on the
e.g. Rock.
Its form continued to shift, solidifying into something more
threatening. It resembled A fearsome beast
now more bare than human, the antlers of a Caribou replacing
the straight black hair. It seemed to be preparing itself
for a confrontation. Becca reached her pack, her
movements almost soundless. She rummaged inside for a brief
moment before her fingers closed around the stock of her Seiko
85, a rugged bolt action rifle she had packed as protection
against polar bears. The IJA Rock was becoming
increasingly agitated. Its form started convulsing, as
if it was trying to contain an inner Tempest.
Its movements became more violent, the antlers slamming
against the wooden beams, A gruesome display of power and
aggression. Becca was now on her feet, rifle
in hand. She moved swiftly and deftly,
her eyes burning with cold determination, as though the
dying cries of her colleagues had ignited a fury within her.
As the creature turned towards her, she fired at it point
blank, the sound of the shot ringing through the cabin.
The bullet tore through its nebulous form, ripping a solid
chunk of flesh from the transient layer of smoke and
ice. A gut wrenching howl filled the
room. The IJA rock recoiled, its form
flickering wildly between various shapes.
Human, animal, monster, each more horrifying than the last.
Its body was writhing and shifting more wildly than ever
as it staggered back. A viscous, dark fluid began to
ooze from its wound. The smell was overpowering, far
worse than the gas. It was a nauseating mixture of
sulfur and rot, A stench so potent that it made my eyes,
water in my stomach, churn as the creature writhed in pain.
It's haunting howls transformed into the anguished cries.
In its agony it went into a frenzy, thrashing around the
room, its form undulating and changing rapidly.
Becca worked quickly to chamber another round, but the creatures
frenzied movements made it difficult to get a clear shot.
As she lined up her aim the creature lunged towards her, its
claws outstretched and its eyes fixed on her.
Becca, watch out, I shouted. Acting on instinct I pushed her
out of the way. We both tumbled to the ground as
the creatures claws sliced into my parka, narrowly missing my
skin. Its momentum carried it into the
wall of the cabin. The impact shook the entire
cabin, dislodging several wooden planks from the wall.
The Iju Rock howled in frustration and pain, shards of
wood protruding from its body. Go.
I urged. Becca, get the dogs and get out
now. She nodded, scrambling towards
the dogs who were barking and whining in distress.
Becca hurriedly gathered them, leading them toward the door.
I turned back to face the entity.
Its form was slowly solidifying, and it's blackened eyes were
fixed on me. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline,
I grabbed a portable kerosene heater nearby.
It was a hefty device, radiating A comforting warmth that felt
out of place in this nightmarish situation.
I hoisted it, feeling the fuel sloshing inside.
Noah, we got to go now, Becca shouted from the door.
I waited for a split second, watching as the IJA rock began
to approach. As it charged at me, I hurled
the heater with all the force I could muster.
The kerosene heater spiraled through the air, colliding with
the creature. The cabin was instantly bathed
in the terrifying light of a fireball.
The entity let out a horrifying shriek that echoed through the
cabin. I bolted towards the sled
without a second glance as Becca and I made our escape.
The fire quickly spread to the nearby wooden structures,
turning the village into an inferno.
Our sled slid smoothly over the icy terrain, pushed by the Hardy
dogs carrying us farther and farther from the village.
The roaring wind cut through us and the snow stirred into a
whirlwind by the storm. Reduced visibility to near 0.
As we moved further away, the light from the raging fire grew
fainter, Swallowed by the unrelenting white.
We continued on in the general direction of Outpost Aurora.
Our primary concern was putting distance between us and the
creature, rather than reaching our destination.
With the light fading behind us and the storm intensifying, we
knew we needed to find shelter. Soon we were in the heart of the
tundra, a vast, flat, treeless plain.
Seeking refuge in this desolate expanse was no simple task, but
we were fortunate enough to stumble upon a formation of ice
and snow that provided A modicum of shelter from the piercing
winds. We set to work building an
impromptu snow shelter, scooping and packing the snow to form a
protective barrier against the wind.
Once we'd made a space that was small but secure, we settled in,
our breath fogged up in the confined space, but it was
better than being exposed to the elements.
We need a fire. Becca said, her teeth chattering
as she spoke. I nodded, fumbling with the
waterproof matches we had in our pack.
The wood we'd managed to gather was scant and frozen, but soon a
feeble fire was flickering between us, providing some
warmth and, more importantly, A psychological comfort.
From our shelter, we could see the faint orange glow of the
burning village in the distance. It was a haunting sight, the
ghostly illumination a grim reminder of what we'd left
behind. We hardly said a word to each
other, the weight of our recent encounter hanging in the air.
I felt a need to say something, but wasn't ready to discuss the
terrifying implications of what we'd faced instead.
I asked. Where'd you learn to shoot like
that? Becca stared into the fire, her
gaze distant. My dad used to take me and my
brother's hunting when we were kids.
We grew up in Newfoundland. Every season, without fail, we'd
load the pickup and head up to the northern peninsula.
What did you hunt? I asked.
Mostly small game, like snowshoe hairs and grouse, but also the
occasional moose, she said, absent mindedly.
Wow, sounds like a lot of fun, I said.
It was. It was the highlight of my
childhood, Becca said, her voice devoid of joy until my youngest
brother, Chris, got lost. Her somber blue eyes were lit up
by the fire. I was the oldest.
I was supposed to be watching him, Becca confessed, her voice
barely above a whisper. And I was, But I got distracted
for just a moment. That's all it took, Becca, I
began. We found him a day later, but it
was too late. He had died of exposure.
Becca's voice faltered slightly. The weight of her guilt filled
the small space between us. I'm so sorry, I started saying.
She could see how uncomfortable the conversation was, making
both of us feel. Hey.
So anyway, that was a hell of a throwback there.
Becca complimented me, changing the subject, her demeanor
changing as well. I smiled faintly and shrugged.
I used to play baseball in high school.
Oh really? She asked, her brows lifting
above her frosty eyelashes. You must have been the MVPI
mostly just kept the bench warm. I confessed, feeling a pang of
the old familiar embarrassment. Well, it was their loss, Becca
replied, her voice steady, sincere.
The compliment warmed me more than the fire.
I just gave her a nod. We were both too tired to talk.
And it seemed like a positive note to end on.
There was a silence between us, filled only by the soft
crackling of the fire and the low growl of the storm.
Outside, we were both lost in our own thoughts, our own
memories. Tonight had unearthed, ghosts
we'd rather leave buried. But we weren't alone in the
storm. In the middle of nowhere we had
each other. And for now, that was enough.
June 20th, 2021, The storm raged outside.
The howling winds and snow pelting against our makeshift
shelter while my mind churned with questions, doubts, and fear
in the early hours of the morning, an unexpected sight met
our eyes as we huddled around the small fire, our bodies
seeking warmth and comfort from each other's presence, a faint
calling sound echoed through the storm.
Above us, the Gray white sky darkened and a large flock of
Ravens appeared, circling our tiny shelter against the wrath
of the storm. A harsh caw echoed through the
air, cutting through the storm like a knife.
Their flapping wings were barely audible over the storm, yet the
birds maintained a steady formation, completely unaffected
by the Gale, 2 of the Ravens broke away from the group and
landed a few feet away from us. As they turned to face us, I
realized to my horror that they were eyeless.
An empty, dark void existed where their eyes should have
been, mirroring the soulless eyes of the Idji rock we
encountered back at the village. One of the Ravens started to
speak in a voice that was hauntingly familiar.
A little girl's voice. Mama, where are you?
It's so dark. I'm scared.
It called, echoing innocence and fear.
The other Ravens spoke next, the voice of a woman filled with a
mother's worry. I can't find my child, my
Apootti. It cried out.
Apootti. The name reverberated in my
mind. The mother was Nanook and the
little girl was a Pootie. I remembered them from my visit
to the village days before. Aputi was a curious child, and
Nanuk had the warmest of smiles. The thought of their fate made
my stomach churn. Looking up, we saw the other
Ravens had begun to circle lower.
Each one uttered a single statement, each in a different
voice, each a haunting echo of the villagers.
The air was filled with their desperate cries, pleas for help,
and calls for loved ones. Becca drew back in horror the
voices. Those are the villagers, aren't
they? She gasped, putting a gloved
hand to her mouth. I didn't respond.
I just shook my head in disbelief.
I couldn't think straight with the macabre cacophony of
disembodied voices ringing in my ears.
Becca turned to me and squeezed my arm tight.
What's happening? Are these Ravens also Ija Rock?
What did they do to the villagers?
She asked, her eyes boring into mine.
The Ija Rock are just made-up stories, I reiterated.
They're not real. I don't believe in superstitions
either, but I've seen. I'm seeing the impossible with
my own eyes, she said, gesturing to the flock of Ravens circling
us. I swallowed hard, glancing at
the Ravens as they swooped lower.
I didn't want to entertain the possibility, but in the face of
the inexplicable, what else could I do?
All right, I began, my voice shaky.
Let's pretend the IJA rock is real.
I took a deep breath and composed my thoughts.
In Inuit myths, people are turned into IJA rock.
Which are like twisted caricatures of themselves, often
as punishment for disrespecting the spirits of nature.
This could be anything from failing to perform the proper
ritual for a prey they killed, to not properly honoring the
dead. Or in our case.
Becca stared at me, fear dawning in her eyes, drilling a mile
into the side of a cursed mountain.
I hesitated, but nodded. Yeah, I believe so.
I think we might have unwittingly released some kind
of entity or force. That gas.
Maybe it's not just gas, maybe it's something spiritual,
something ancient, and exposure to it is turning everyone into
Ija rock. So those Ravens are the
villagers? Asked Becca.
I think so, I responded. And that creature back at the
village? She asked.
I think the drill crew were all amalgamated to form that thing,
I explained. That's why it couldn't maintain
its shape and had all their voices.
Oh my God, Becca exclaimed, her face becoming ashen with the
realization. Wait, are we going to turn two?
She asked, her voice filled with dread.
I don't know, I replied, unable to mask the fear in my own
voice. I didn't want to imagine that
fate for us. I wouldn't let that happen to
us, but deep down I knew the reality We had been exposed to
the gas too. If my hypothesis was correct, we
were already infected. Suddenly, another Raven
descended from the circling flock and landed on our shelter. 00:52:02,940 It's eyeless gaze locked on us.
It caught in a voice we hadn't yet heard, one that struck
terror in our hearts. Your time will come.
It croaked in a gravelly voice before taking off, disappearing
into the storm. The words hung in the cold air,
an ominous prophecy that made our surroundings feel even
colder. June 21st, 2021.
The realization that we were ticking time bombs weighed
heavily over us as the howling wind subsided.
I felt compelled to break the eerie silence.
I turned on the radio and the static filled airwaves filled
our shelter. After a few adjustments, I
managed to reach Outpost Aurora. Outpost Aurora, this is Noah
Calick, Do you copy? I called into the radio.
After a moment of heart pounding silence, Doctor Anderson's voice
crackled to life. Noah, we've been trying to reach
you. Are you and Becca all right?
She sounded relieved to hear us. Sonia, we're alive, I said.
But we're not exactly all right. We're holed up in a makeshift
shelter after an encounter. The hesitation in my voice must
have conveyed the gravity of our situation, for Doctor Anderson's
tone became serious. What kind of encounter?
She asked. I took a deep breath before
delving into our harrowing ordeal with the Igy Rock.
Doctor Anderson was silent for a long time, taking in the
incredible tale. That's.
I don't know what to say, but we've had our own troubles here. 00:53:28,820 The effects of the gas are
becoming more pronounced. Symptoms are worsening.
We're preparing for an immediate evacuation.
Her words sent my heart racing. What about the Inuit
communities? I asked, concern gripping me.
We're attempting to contact as many as we can, she responded.
Now listen carefully. I've already radioed for an
emergency evacuation of the outpost.
The helicopter is arriving tomorrow at 0600 hours.
We're pulling out as soon as it arrives.
I urged you 2 to get back to base as soon as you can.
I glanced at Becca, who had been listening intently.
She looked pale, but nodded, indicating her agreement.
We'll head back to base as soon as the storm lets up, I assured
her, then added. Be careful.
If our theory about the gas is correct, its effects are much
more than just physical. There was a pause on the other
end before Sonia replied. Her voice filled with grim
resolve. We'll keep that in mind.
Stay safe. You too, and hurry back.
The journey back to Outpost Aurora was a grueling test of
our endurance and sanity. The sled dogs, once full of
vigor and enthusiasm, had started to behave oddly.
They howled at the barren wasteland and growled at unseen
threats, their eyes vacant and terrified.
The potent stench of the gas seemed to be getting to them.
As much as it filled me with dread.
We had to press on. For the alternative was
unthinkable. Upon nearing the outpost, we
were met with an unsettling silence, broken only by a plume
of smoke ascending from the storage area, the site resembled
a ghost town, devoid of its former liveliness.
The once bustling scientific station was now unnaturally
silent and desolate, nearly blending into the frozen,
monochromatic landscape. Dread coiled in my stomach.
As we approached the source of the smoke, our worst fears were
confirmed. The snowmobiles and the snow cat
that were once neatly parked in storage were now reduced to a
destroyed and smoldering heap. Becca kept a firm grip on her
rifle, her eyes darting around the surroundings.
I could see her breath quicken, her gloved fingers turning white
from the pressure she exerted on the weapon.
I felt the cold handle of Katok's knife in my hand.
I don't like this, she whispered.
Yeah, I know what you mean, I muttered.
Cautiously, we made our way into the main building.
Our flashlight beams cutting through the oppressive darkness,
we were met with a sight that will forever be etched into my
mind. We froze in our tracks as the
light fell upon the gruesomely mutated bodies of our
colleagues. Their bodies were grotesquely
melded into half human, half animal monstrosities.
Fur sprouted from their skin in patches, their limbs elongated
and clawed like a polar bear, and some bore the spiral tusks
of a narwhal, protruding grotesquely from their distorted
faces. Their eye sockets were empty, a
dark void where a spark of life should have been, echoing a now
all too familiar cruel fate. Becca stifled a scream, her hand
flying to her mouth to suppress the horrified gasp that
threatened to escape. I felt a wave of nausea wash
over me, bile rising in my throat.
The sight was monstrous, a scene straight out of the darkest of
nightmares. Our hearts pounded as we
sprinted through the dimly lit, eerily quiet corridors.
Our destination was the radio room.
If we could reach it, we could send a distress signal and
hopefully get the help we needed.
When we finally reached the room, our hopes crashed.
The room was a wreck. Wires hung from the ceiling like
entrails, sparking erratically. The radio equipment was
shattered, smashed to pieces. The air was filled with the
acrid smell of burn electronics. Everything had been methodically
and thoroughly destroyed. The room was filled with an
unsettling, almost hypnotic murmur.
It took a moment for our flashlights to find the source.
Doctor Anderson was slumped over the radio console.
Her skin was a modeled bluish Gray, waterlogged and bloated,
giving her the macabre appearance of a corpse fished
from icy waters. Her clothes were sodden,
clinging to her form while strands of hair plastered to her
face and her open eyes stared blankly, a chilling resemblance
to a drowned victims final gaze. Her throat moved rhythmically,
producing an awful semblance of speech.
The last words she ever said to us echoed throughout the room.
Stay safe. You too, and hurry back.
Her vacant eyes stared blankly at the radio console, her hand
still clutching the receiver, as if her final act was an attempt
to call for help. It was a chilling sight.
The site director was dead, yet her body kept broadcasting her
final utterances like a macabre puppet show.
It was clear that there would be no contact with the outside
world. Becca was the first to move.
She approached Doctor Anderson slowly, a look of profound
sadness on her face. She reached out and gently
detached the receiver from Sonia's rigid grip.
The distress call ceased abruptly, leaving us in an eerie
silence that hung heavy in the air.
She lured us here. No help is coming, Becca
whispered, her voice shaking, the enormity of the situation
crashing down on her. We can't stay here, I declared,
although neither of us wished to linger.
We needed to gather supplies. We scavenged through the base,
gathering what we could carry. The Infirmary provided us with
essential medical supplies. The mess hall offered canned
goods, dehydrated meals, and water.
In the equipment room, we found survival gear, thermal blankets,
flares, extra clothing, a compact camping stove, and an
ice axe. As we cautiously navigated the
labyrinthine corridors, I voiced the question, gnawing at me.
Why us? I asked, glancing at her.
Why are we the only ones who haven't transformed?
It doesn't make sense, I muttered, thinking out loud.
We were exposed to the gas before most of them.
Why haven't we turned? After a long silence, Becca
broke the quiet with a theory. Maybe.
Maybe the gas affects those who have been at the base longer.
She suggested, her voice barely a whisper.
I looked at her, taken aback. What do you mean?
Erica was the most senior member of the station.
She's been there the longest, Becca explained.
It would explain why she was the first to be affected.
I nodded slowly understanding. And since I'm the newest member,
that would make me the last to be affected exactly.
She affirmed. But there was a hesitation in
her voice, a reluctance that I couldn't ignore.
So Becca, I said, stopping to face her in the dwindling light. 01:00:05,630 How long have you been at
Aurora? I've been here for a couple
months. She confessed under her breath.
A couple months? I asked, surprised.
Suddenly everything fell into place, the details I had
overlooked before her low rank at the base, her social
isolation. You're a rookie, aren't you?
I finally said. I'm not a rookie, she protested
weakly. I'm just not as experienced as
the others. Her gaze flicked up to meet
mine, an uncertain smile playing on her lips.
I worked in the oil and gas industry straight out of
college. It was good pay, but I hated
what I was doing. I jumped at the chance when I
saw they were looking for someone with drilling experience
to work at a climate research station.
She desperately tried to explain.
I studied her face in the dim, cold light, her words echoing in
the icy, harsh silence. I sighed, reached out, and
placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
What does it matter? We're all each other's got, I
said. And I don't think I could ask
for a better partner in all of this.
Becca gave me a weak but appreciative smile.
Thanks, Noah, she said, her voice barely audible over the
howling wind. I feel the same.
We stood in the harsh chill for a moment, united in our struggle
for survival. After gathering everything we
needed, we left Outpost Aurora behind for good, the imposing
structure once a hub of scientific discovery, and now a
place of horror and death. Loomed in our rear view as we
set off into the wilderness. Our destination was unclear, but
we knew we had to keep moving away from the memories that
haunted us and towards the slimmest chance of safety.
June 22nd, 2021. The following day was the most
challenging yet, testing our resolve and shattering the last
bits of normalcy we held on to. The Huskies are reliable
companions, and our sole means of transport through this icy
hellscape began to succumb to the poison that had invaded
their bodies. They couldn't even stand
anymore, let alone pull a sled. Their fur started to shed
rapidly, revealing unnatural growths and deformities that
seemed to writhe beneath their skin.
Their pained whimpers and growls echoed throughout the snow
filled air, a reminder of the horror we faced.
Their once sparkling eyes were now clouded over.
The sight of them suffering was heart wrenching.
These creatures, who had once bounded through the snow with
joyous abandon, were now crippled with pain and fear.
Becca was visibly distraught. She spent most of the day
tending to them, desperately trying to alleviate their
suffering. But the more time she spent with
them, the more she seemed to realize the grim truth.
There was no coming back for them.
I found her kneeling in the snow beside the dogs.
Her face pale and her eyes red from tears.
Noah, she said, her voice breaking.
I I can't let them suffer. They deserve better than this.
I knew what she was implying, but the thought of it filled me
with dread. Becca.
Are you sure? Maybe.
There's still a way. She shook her head, cutting me
off. You've seen what this thing does
to living being. I won't let that happen to my
dogs. Her determination was clear, but
the pain in her eyes was heartbreaking.
I offered to help, ready to share this unbearable burden
with her, but she refused. She shook her head, a hollow
look in her eyes. They're my dogs, Noah, she said. 01:03:35,490 Her voice was strained but
resolute. I should be the one to do it.
There was a finality in her voice that broke no argument.
With a heavy heart, I nodded. I said my goodbyes, thanking
each dog for their companionship and strength, for carrying us
across the endless expanse of ice and snow.
I gave Becca a supportive squeeze on the shoulder before I
stepped away. I retreated to give her some
privacy. As I walked away, the harsh wind
bit into my skin. Then came the sounds that echoed
across the frozen landscape. The gunshots, 4 in total.
Each one was a piercing reminder of the cruel reality we were
living in. After what felt like an
eternity, Becca walked towards me, her face devoid of any
emotion. Her eyes, however, betrayed the
immense grief she was feeling. As she wiped away the last of
her tears, I saw a hardness in her gaze that hadn't been there
before. Let's keep moving, she said, her
voice hollow. We spent the early morning hours
studying the weatherproof map. A compass indicated our
direction and also acted as a paperweight.
The situation was grim, assuming every village in the area had
been devastated by the gas. The closest human settlement was
the town of Utkayagvik, almost 100 miles away.
Even in the best of conditions, the journey would be arduous.
On foot in our current predicament seemed utterly
impossible. The truth was unavoidable.
We were isolated, alone in the vast frozen wilderness, our only
life lines erased by an unseen force we were only beginning to
comprehend. A profound silence settled over
us as we stared at the map, the enormity of our predicament
sinking in. As we sat in silence, I noticed
Becca tracing a root with her finger.
Her brows furrowed in concentration.
I looked at her, a glimmer of hope igniting within me.
Becca. She turned to me, a determined
look on her face. I used to work on an oil rig not
too far from here, She said. She pointed out a spot on the
map, a little dot off the northern coast of Alaska.
It's about a 30 mile journey northeast of here, she
explained. We'd have to kayak there.
We can hug the coast. It'll take two, maybe 3 days.
If we're lucky, we'll run into one of the rigs crew boats.
Her proposal was a risky 1. Kayaking through Arctic waters
was a dangerous proposition. We would have to navigate the
freezing, unpredictable ocean. I don't know about this.
Who knows how the gas has affected sea life?
Hell, a Rogue Wave could plunge us into the icy waters.
I expressed my doubts. We don't have many choices,
Becca replied, her voice firm. We can either try for Utkiyagvik
and likely die of exposure and exhaustion before we reach it,
or we take a chance on the rig. I know the second option is
risky, but at least there's a chance.
I looked back at the map, my eyes fixated on the tiny dot
representing the rig. The weight of our decision hung
heavily in the air. Finally, I met Becca's eyes.
Finding a look of frightened determination, I nodded.
The rig it is then. June 23rd, 2021.
Our two person inflatable kayak felt like a tiny speck on the
vast, endless sea, dwarfed by the towering icebergs and the
shadowy, mutated leviathans that lurked beneath the water's
surface. A chilling wind whistled through
the desolate landscape, the only sound other than the rhythmic
splash of our paddles against the cold water.
In those hours, the line between night and day blurred, the sun
never dipping far enough to plunge us Into Darkness.
Time became measured in strokes of the paddle and the rhythmic
rise and fall of the ocean. We made slow progress, taking
turns, paddling and resting, stealing moments of sleep.
When we could, we nibbled at our rations, preserving what we
could for the uncertain journey ahead.
On the second day, a light drizzle soaked us to the bone,
the biting cold gnawing at our fingers and faces.
As we huddled around the map to determine our bearings, I
noticed Becca shivering beside me.
Her face was pale, her lips tinted blue, and her speech was
slightly slurred. Becca, are you all right?
I asked, my voice barely audible above the howling wind.
I'm fine, she insisted, but her chattering teeth betrayed her.
It was clear I need to get her out of the cold and fast.
Searching the shoreline, I spotted a dark recess in the
cliffside. We're going ashore, I declared,
veering our kayak towards the land.
Becca didn't argue, her strength sapped by the relentless cold.
We managed to pull our kayaks onto the rocky shore, the land a
welcome reprieve from the icy waters.
The Cave we found provided some shelter from the wind, its mouth
wide enough to prevent the buildup of snow.
Once inside, I turned my attention to Becca.
I removed her soaking wet outer layer and wrapped her in a
thermal blanket. I pulled out our compact camping
stove from the supplies, grateful that we had it.
A fire would have been ideal. But in these conditions, it was
next to impossible. To start one, the small,
portable heater emitted a soft glow as I ignited it, its heat
radiating into the cold cave. Next I removed her gloves and
snow boots. Inspecting her extremities, my
heart sank at the sight of her fingers and toes, white, hard
and numb with a waxy appearance. All signs of frostbite.
Using the first aid kit we scavenged from the outpost, I
carefully cleaned and bandaged her frostbitten digits.
Trying to reassure her, I said. It's not too severe.
You'll recover. We huddled together under the
thermal blanket to conserve heat.
Becca slipped in and out of consciousness, her body fighting
the hypothermia In her delirious state.
Becca turned to me, her blue eyes clouded with confusion and
fear. Noah.
She murmured, her voice barely a whisper.
Can you Can you sing for me? Sing.
I was taken aback. The last thing I'd been
expecting was a request for a song.
But maybe, in her confused state, she was seeking some
comfort. She nodded, her gaze unfocused.
Something in Inuit, she requested.
I thought about what to sing to her, I remembered.
As a child, I'd stubbornly resist sleep until my mother
returned from work, gripped by an irrational fear that she
wouldn't be there when I awoke. To calm me, Grandma Anuri would
sing an ancient Inuit lullaby, a song about the undying love
between the moon and the sea, about their eternal dance and
infinite patience. Clearing my throat, I started
singing. My voice echoed softly in The
Cave. The lullaby, which I hadn't sung
in years, flowed out in a gentle rhythm.
Iladi kangyutzak takkik takkik ukiur Pak.
The moon shines brightly. The moon the moon watches over.
My voice grew stronger with each note, the lullabies story of
strength, love and resilience reflecting our circumstances.
Check. His eyes fluttered closed her
face, relaxing slightly as the song washed over her.
I watched her as I sang, the portable heater casting a soft
glow on her pale face. The lullaby seemed to bring her
some peace, her shaking lessening a bit as she leaned
into me, her head resting on my shoulder.
Her breathing started to sync with the rhythm of the song,
slow and steady. It was a long nerve wracking
night. I tried to stay awake, keeping a
watchful eye on her and praying for the best.
I woke to the dull Gray of early morning, my body stiff from the
cold and the warmth beside me missing.
I shot upright, looking around the small space of The Cave.
Becca. I called out, my voice bouncing
off the stone walls. No response.
The Cave was empty, save for the remnants of our meager supplies. 01:11:22,170 My heart pounded in my chest as
my gaze landed on the thermal blanket discarded on the hard
cave floor. I stumbled to my feet, grabbed
the flashlight, and scanned the cavern.
There was no sign of her. Rushing outside, I found a set
of bare footprints in the snow. Each impression was stained with
a speck of Crimson blood. Becca's clothes were scattered
along the path, torn and soaked with fresh snow.
I followed the footprints, my stomach churning as I collected
her discarded garments. The trail led me away from The
Cave, winding along the icy shoreline.
The morning light cast a pale glow on the icy landscape, but
there was no sign of Becca. My breath misted in the cold air
as I followed her trail, the only indication that life still
existed in this barren, frozen expanse.
A sense of urgency pushed me to move faster.
Though the biting cold protested against every step, I knew
exactly what this meant. This was paradoxical undressing,
a known phenomenon of late stage hypothermia.
The person, in their confused and disoriented state, feels an
intense sensation of heat and starts to undress.
Often leading to their demise. In the freezing temperatures,
the blood stains in the snow grew fainter and then
disappeared entirely, but the footprints continued, their
direction unwavering. My mind was in a whirl, but I
didn't have time to dwell on it. I knew what I had to do.
With a determined stride, I started to follow the
footprints, praying that I wasn't too late.
After what felt like hours, I saw her in the distance, a
fragile silhouette against the white expanse.
Her bare skin was almost the same color as the snow, tinged
blue in the morning chill. Her Auburn hair, once neatly
braided, was now a wild mess of strands whipping in the biting
wind. Becca.
I shouted, my voice a desperate echo against the icy desolation. 01:13:15,690 She didn't turn around.
She staggered, barely upright as she continued her aimless
journey through the snow. As I approached, the wind
carried fragments of a haunting melody to my ears.
Rebecca was muttering, almost singing in fluent Inuit, a
language that just days earlier she barely knew 2 words of
Ijirok, Pali, Guksik, Sonica, Ijirok.
You come in the night Willa, Looney, Pavalli and Guinar tut
filling our homes with terror and fright.
Tukoksik, Sauni, Tuk, Vitak, Tuksamika.
Your cold empty eyes peering deep within.
Ajul Karta alu Nikaliak, paktu it your wickedness lurking in
the darkness. Put it to guide Pivaliani
Rutakut and we can do nothing but watch.
Summoning every ounce of courage, I stepped forward and
gently turned her around to face me.
The sight that met my eyes was worse than any nightmare I could
have ever imagined. Becca, once the epitome of
strength and vitality, stood in front of me, resembling A
frostbitten corpse. Her once vibrant blue eyes were
replaced with empty sockets, from which emerged squirming
tendrils that undulated in the cold morning air.
Her face was a canvas of jagged lines and fractures resembling
the intricate tattoos we had discovered on the ancient
mummies at the drill site. In her hand, she held a scalpel
from the Med kit, its metallic surface gleaming ominously under
the weak sunlight. She raised her hand, the scalpel
glinting menacingly. She stared at her other hand
with an unnerving fascination. I watched in horror as she
positioned the scalpel over one of her fingers.
Becca. No.
I cried out. But my plea was drowned by the
howling wind. Suddenly she brought the scalpel
down to her hand, severing one of her frostbitten fingers with
a chilling efficiency. The sound of flesh being cut
open echoed ominously in the frigid silence, a horrid
squelching noise that was both wet and grating, reminiscent of
a butcher carving a slab of meat.
There was no cry of pain, no reaction to the gruesome act she
was performing on herself as the severed digit fell to the snowy
ground. An overpowering stench hit me,
an unholy blend of decay and brine that reminded me of
rotting fish left out in the sun.
She continued the gruesome task with a grim determination, each
slice of the scalpel followed by the horrible thud of a finger
falling onto the snow, and then the horror compounded.
The amputated fingers started to wriggle on the icy ground,
transforming into tentacled monstrosities that writhed as if
taunting me with their grotesque existence.
I racked my brain to make sense of what I was witnessing.
The old tales of Sedna, the Inuit sea goddess, echoed in my
mind, Cast into the sea by her father.
Her fingers were cut off as she tried to cling to his kayak.
As each finger hit the water, they transformed into sea
creatures. This was like some twisted
parody of the legend. Becca cocked her head towards
me, the tendrils in her eyes pulsating with a strange,
unnatural rhythm. A haunting smirk played on her
lips. A perverse mockery of the
confident smile I had grown accustomed to seeing.
She raised her mutilated hand to me, her thumb and forefinger
forming a sinister, beckoning gesture.
Her voice, when she spoke was a haunting echo of the woman I had
known. Join us June 24th, 2021, she
continued, her grisly transformation, tendrils waving
like wicked antennas, the air around us growing colder and
more oppressive. Becca, it's me, Noah.
I pleaded, trying to Pierce through her madness.
You have to fight, whatever this is, you're stronger than this.
She paused for a moment, her severed fingers ceasing their
squirming dance in the snow, and I saw a flicker of recognition
in the writhing mass of her eyes, but it was shortlived.
Without warning, she lunged at me.
Her free hand, still clutching the scalpel, slashed at me in a
frenzied attack. I stumbled backward, but she was
on me in an instant. Scratching and biting with a
ferocity that was nothing short of animalistic, Her detached
fingers, now unnervingly animated, slithered towards me,
twining around my legs, tugging and pulling, forcing me onto the
icy snow. I gasped as one looped around my
neck. It's cold touch stinging like a
frigid brand. She opened her mouth, revealing
even more tendrils, each one hissing as they stretched
towards me. Suddenly, the sharp pain of her
scalpel penetrated my side. The icy cold blade cutting
through my flesh bleed with me, she whispered sadistically as
she twisted the scalpel, causing excruciating pain to erupt from
my wound. I could feel the warmth of my
blood staining the ice beneath me.
She leaned in close. Her voice was a chilling whisper
that froze my blood. They're coming, Noah, she said.
Can't you hear them? They've been calling to me,
singing to me. It's a beautiful song, a song of
rebirth, of transformation. Her severed fingers tightened
around my throat, cutting off my air supply.
My vision blurred and darkened in sheer desperation.
I groped for anything I could use to defend myself.
My fingers curled around the cold handle of my eyes.
Axe with a swift, desperate swing, I struck her at the base
of her neck. She gasped, her grip around my
neck loosening. I rolled her off me, scrambling
to put distance between us, but she quickly recovered, pulling
the axe out of her neck with an unholy strength.
A dark, pungent liquid oozed from the gaping wound, staining
the snow with its sickly hue. Becca, please don't do this, I
pleaded with her. She brandished the axe, a Primal
Scream erupting from her lips as she charged at me.
My hand went to my side, gripping the handle of cataux
meteorite knife as she ran towards me.
I instinctively braced myself, aiming the blade at her With a
terrifying shriek, she impaled herself on the knife, her
momentum carrying her forward until she slumped against me.
With an agonized whimper, she staggered backwards, the
fierceness in her eyes dimming. Her tentacled fingers stilled,
the squirming tendrils retracting into the emptiness of
her eye sockets. She looked up at me with a
terrifying mixture of fear and confusion.
As Becca fell backward onto the snowy ground, her appearance
shifted, morphing into an achingly familiar form.
My heart pounded in my chest as I looked down into the face of
my grandmother Anuri. The icy landscape around me
faded, replaced by the aged walls of our childhood.
Apt. I glanced at my hands, covered
in blood, but they weren't mine. They were large, scarred, aged
from years of Labor. My father's hands, the
ceremonial knife in my grip, transformed into a crude
switchblade, its edge ominously glinting in the dim light, fresh
blood dripping from it. In the corner of the room, a
small figure huddled on the window sill.
Wide eyes filled with terror. It was me, younger, smaller,
bearing witness to a horror no child should see.
The night my father, driven by a drunken rage, took the life of
the one person who meant everything to me.
No, I cried, rushing to the figure on the floor.
Dropping to my knees, I cradled my grandma in my arms, my tears
freezing to my face. She looked just like the night
she died. In an instant, my surroundings
shifted. No longer was I in the warmth of
my home, but back in the Arctic wilderness it was no longer my
grandmother I held in my arms but Becca.
Her skin, once flush with life, was now as pale and cold as the
ice that hemmed us in. The once monstrous tendrils
retracted from her eye sockets, revealing the blue irises I knew
so well. A strangled gasp escaped her
lips as the harsh wind whipped around us.
I could feel her body shuddering with each ragged breath she
took. A frail echo of her former
vitality, my gaze fell on her chest, where a dark stain was
slowly spreading. Using Katok's knife, I ripped
off a piece of my jacket and pressed it against the wound,
attempting to stem the bleeding, but it felt like trying to dam a
river with twigs. Noah.
She croaked, her voice barely audible over the wind.
Becca, I said, reaching for her hand.
It was icy cold. I'm here, stay with me, I said,
cupping her face in my hands. I could see fear and confusion
in her eyes, but also recognition.
She reached up, her hand weakly clutching mind.
I'm so cold. She croaked out, a faint hint of
her old self returning. I wrapped my arms around her,
pulling her close to me. My heart pounded painfully
against my rib cage as I held her against my chest.
Her breaths came in short, uneven gasps, each one slower
than the last. It's going to be okay.
I lied, trying to infuse my voice with as much confidence
and warmth as I could muster. I knew her condition was dire,
the life seeping from her as surely as the blood staining the
snow beneath us. But I couldn't let her last
moments be filled with fear and despair.
Noah, I. She struggled to say.
For a moment. I saw a spark of the old Becca
in her eyes, the fierce determination that it always
defined her. But then her eyes rolled back in
her head, and her body went limp in my arms.
Becca. I whispered.
Stay with me. Her only response was a soft,
gurgling sound, as if she was trying to speak but couldn't.
Her body grew colder, her skin turning a sickly blue.
No, I muttered, shaking her. Becca, wake up, but it was too
late. With a final, shuddering breath,
she went still. The hand I was holding fell
limply to her side, the icy chill of death already creeping
into her skin. I wasn't sure how long I stayed
there, holding Becca's lifeless body.
Before I finally managed to stand up with the last shreds of
my strength, I made a decision. Becca deserved a proper farewell
not to be left on this cold, desolate landscape is carrying
in a daze. I began to gather rocks from the
surrounding area, hauling them over to the spot where Becca's
body lay in the harsh Arctic wilderness.
You couldn't dig a grave in the permafrost.
There were no flowers to leave on her grave, no trees to make a
coffin. Just cold in different stones.
Once I had enough rocks, I set to work constructing an Inuk
Shook, a Cairn used by the Inuit as a marker to help the recently
deceased to find their way to the afterlife.
Each stone was a silent tribute to the woman who had been my
companion, my confidant, my friend.
Each stone was carefully selected and placed, forming A
silhouette that mirrored the human form.
The tallest stone for the body, a pair of stones for the arms.
And a smaller stone for the head.
The work was hard, and the freezing wind didn't make it any
easier, but I forced myself to continue, focusing on the task
at hand as a way to escape the grim reality of what had
transpired next. I laid Becca's body beneath the
Inuksuk, folding her arms over her chest.
With a heavy heart, I said my final goodbyes, whispering them
into the icy wind, praying that they would reach her wherever
she was. Naglok, pick Inu up, Kalmanak,
Pullyunarmi, and Timutak. Your spirit lives on in my
memories. Never forgotten, never
incomplete. Lastly, I placed Katok's
otherworldly knife in her hands. I didn't know why, but I thought
she would have more use for it than I would.
With the last of my energy drained, I stepped back to take
in the site. The Inuksuk stood tall against
the pale sky, its form contrasted against the snow
covered landscape. It was a ghostly figure standing
vigil over Becca's final resting place.
A silent century, keeping watch over her as she journeyed to the
spirit world, June 25th, 2021. I must have wandered for what
felt like hours, perhaps even days, with no sense of time or
direction. The icy landscape stretched out
indefinitely, a vast expanse of desolation, as if the entire
world had succumbed to the frost.
I was numb, both physically, from the piercing cold that
infiltrated my clothes and skin, and mentally from the shock of
what had occurred. Every gust of wind, every crunch
of snow beneath my feet seemed to echo Becca's presence.
Each shadow cast by the moonlight transformed into
demons coming to claim me. My side throbbed with a
persistent pain where Becca had stabbed me, a cruel reminder of
the nightmare that had become my reality.
The wound was probably infected by now, or maybe I was
succumbing to hypothermia. I didn't really care.
Each gasping breath felt like an accomplishment.
Each blink, a momentous effort. My mind, once sharp and alert,
now wandered aimlessly in a fugue state.
Suddenly, a shadow flickered across the white canvas of the
snow. The shadow caused a shiver of
dread to seize my body. I squinted, shielding my eyes
against the weak sun, and made out the silhouette of a
helicopter. Its rotors were a mere whisper
in the icy air, the dull throb of its engines barely audible
over the wind's moan in my haze of fear and exhaustion.
The helicopter was another menacing figure, another e.g.
Rock sent to torment me. I couldn't risk it.
I couldn't bear the thought of falling prey to those
shapeshifting demons. Again, with trembling fingers, I
fumbled in my pocket, my numb fingers finding the reassuring
grip of the flare gun. With a shaky hand, I fired the
flare. The sudden light, brilliant
against the Gray sky, arched upwards, a fiery serpent against
the dull expanse. The sharp smell of gunpowder
filled my nostrils, momentarily overpowering the stench of decay
that still clung to my clothes. It was a desperate attempt to
ward off my tormentor, a signal flare that carried more of a
plea for mercy than a call for help.
The helicopter veered towards the flare like a moth drawn to a
flame. The last thing I remember was
the sudden brightness and intense spotlight blinding me, a
rush of noise, the helicopter descending shouting voices.
The crunch of boots on snow, and then with a nauseating lurch,
the world turned black August 1st, 2021.
When I regained consciousness, the frosty landscape was
replaced with white sterile walls and a rhythmic beeping.
I was in a hospital, the incessant beeping originating
from the machines monitoring my vitals.
My frozen clothes were gone, replaced with a thin hospital
gown. And the once throbbing wound now
bore a clean dressing. The first few days in the
hospital passed in a haze as I drifted in and out of
consciousness. There was always someone there
when I woke up. A nurse, a doctor, an official
from the Environmental Protection Agency, their faces
drifting in and out of focus as I wrestled with my own tortured
thoughts. As the days passed, my strength
began to return. I began to sit up, to speak, to
ask questions. With each question, I was met
with a flood of information, each revelation more horrifying
than the last. They told me about the drill,
about the toxic hydrogen sulfide released into the air.
They spoke of a devastating wave of poison that had decimated
both the research station and the nearby settlements.
The scientists explained the symptoms, how exposure to
hydrogen sulfide could result in severe neurological damage.
They talked of disorientation and paranoia, of vivid
hallucinations that seemed so real.
They had driven some to madness, to violence, even to murder.
They described how the villagers had wandered off into the
snowstorm, disoriented and confused, driven by
hallucinations to their doom. Only a single newborn infant,
miraculously untouched by the poison, had been found alive
amidst the ashes of Silapinua. The personnel at Outpost Aurora
had fared even worse. They destroyed their only means
of escape, dooming themselves in their madness.
Some had succumbed to the toxic gas, while others had fallen
victim to their own colleagues, driven by their poisoned minds
to horrific acts of violence. The doctors explained that the
things I'd witnessed, the terrifying encounters with the
IJA rock talking Ravens, the monstrous transformation of
Becca were all products of my poisoned mind.
They weren't real. They couldn't have been real.
I wanted to believe them. I really did.
It was easier to accept that I'd simply been hallucinating than
to confront the horror of what I thought I had witnessed.
The people at the research station, the villagers, they
were all victims of a terrible accident, not some supernatural
force. It was tragic, but it was
rational. It was something I could
understand. But there were things I just
couldn't shake, things that didn't fit neatly into their
hydrogen sulfide theory. The village, for instance.
Yes, they'd found the burned out remains of the settlement.
But not a single trace of the villagers themselves.
Search parties had painstakingly combed the surrounding area for
days, enduring the harsh elements all in vain.
Not a single body was recovered. 30 people just don't disappear
without a trace, not even in a harsh, frozen landscape like
this one. Where were the bodies?
Why weren't there any signs of a struggle, or of the panicked
flight they described? And then there was Becca.
The recovery team found the inuksuk I'd constructed for her. 01:30:38,940 But when they'd opened it,
expecting to recover her body, they found it empty.
There were bare human footprints leading from the Cairn to the
sea, footprints that, according to the weather records, were
made days after the gas cloud had dissipated.
How is it possible? How could a dead woman encased
in a tomb of ice and stone simply walk away?
July 7th, 2023, in the aftermath of the horrifying events at
Outpost Aurora? The authorities declared the
entire area a disaster zone. The high levels of residual
toxins, along with the lingering risk of additional leaks from
the deserted drilling site, rendered the area too hazardous
for habitation. The remoteness of the disaster
allowed the subsequent relocation of the surviving
Inuit tribes to be done clandestinely.
During this period, I was consumed by a profound sense of
guilt and duty to assist my people as an Inuit.
And as one of the few survivors of the incident, I felt a deep
connection and responsibility to those who had also lost so much. 01:31:43,830 I worked tirelessly to help
facilitate the relocations, ensuring that my people were
moved safely, with dignity and with as little disruption to
their way of life as possible. I provided guidance on cultural
norms, tradition and practices, ensuring they were preserved and
respected in the relocation process during this period.
I also found the strength to return to my academic pursuits.
I completed my PhD in anthropology, my dissertation
focusing on the resilience of Inuit societies in the face of
severe climatic and sociocultural disruptions.
After the completion of my doctorate, I realized I no
longer had the stomach for field research.
The trauma of what it unfolded had left deep imprints on my
psyche, making the once thrilling prospect of Arctic
exploration. A haunting reminder of the
fragility of life. Instead, I moved back to
Anchorage to accept a university lecturer position and have tried
to live as normal a life as possible.
Yet even as I carve out this new path, my past remains with me,
especially in the winter time when snow falls like a blanket
over the city, obscuring everything in a shroud of white. 01:32:54,320 On these nights, I often find
myself drawn to the coast. I walk along the shoreline,
gazing out over the frost kissed waters, half expecting to see a
figure emerging from the icy depths.
Becca. Or rather the thing she became.
Her memory lingers. A ghost in the snow, a spectre
in the sea foam.