Beyond The Outer Limits

"The most merciful thing in the world is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents."—H.P. Lovecraft

I was in my private study at home, writing an elaborate thesis on the subject of physics, when all of a sudden I heard a loud explosion—caused by the reverberation of a sonic boom that reached my ears. For a moment, I was stunned by the eldritch occurrence, until I listened more attentively for its immediate effects. I was uncertain of what had transpired or what the origin of the indeterminate sound was.

With sudden intrigue, I rose to my feet and looked out the window. A brief, virid flash of light burst across the night sky, emitting from an area only a few miles away. I could only ponder the cause of the light and the mysterious sound that had echoed through the darkness. It was enough to compel me to investigate its origin. Thus began the surreal suspense of my narrative.

The year was 1935, and my name is Walter Langsford. I was a scientist and professor at the University of Dartmouth. I reached the area where the boom had been audible within fifteen minutes. Apparently, I wasn’t the first to arrive. A stranger by the name of Bill Johnson, who lived nearby, had witnessed the event firsthand.

According to his account, he had seen a meteor forming a blazing fireball that dropped suddenly from the tenebrous sky above. To the old man, it glowed like the illumination of a shooting star. A large crater—twelve feet long and ten feet wide—was left in the earth. A vestigial trail of dust lingered afterward, and the molten surface layer had solidified into a pale, thick fusion crust as its velocity slowed.

There was something peculiar about Johnson’s account. He was remarkably detailed and convincing. But during our conversation, I noticed something odd: his speech was more articulate and informed than his rustic appearance would suggest. His knowledge and insight were beyond that of a simple local.

His expressive gestures were particularly conspicuous. I wondered if others had witnessed the meteor’s fall. Perhaps there were more. If not, the crucial thing was to examine the site and uncover what remarkable discoveries were waiting to be revealed. Mr. Johnson offered to help move the meteorite to a safer place. The only location on my mind was my laboratory. I knew it would be difficult to keep the meteorite a secret.

There was no doubt in my mind that what had fallen to Earth was a meteoroid that had managed to pass through the atmosphere and reach the planet’s surface. I was in awe. I had never seen a meteorite in person before. Soon, the police arrived and cordoned off the area, keeping curious onlookers away. Since I was the only qualified scientist in the small New England town of Barmouth, I was placed in charge of examining the meteorite’s fragments back at my laboratory.

It was an ambitious task, but I was determined to solve the mystery of its origin. What I would discover in my analysis would lead me to explore the cosmos and realities beyond the outer limits—transcending the dimensions of our established reality and contemporary evolution.

In my laboratory, I began my meticulous examination of the fragments and solid debris I had extracted from the site, including some that appeared to be made of a cobalt-blue metal resembling resistant steel.

I exhausted all my thoughts and theoretical concepts until I reached a conclusion. The friction, pressure, and chemical interaction with atmospheric gases had caused the meteor to heat up and produce scintillating radiant energy.

Upon impact, it had formed an enormous crater. My calculations were precise and detailed. The opportunity to examine such a unique specimen of cosmic relevance was extraordinary. Meteorites date back to the earliest days of the Solar System. They embody the most ancient material on Earth. Fragments have been found from the cold rigidity of Antarctica to the scorching sands of the Middle East.

The meteorite was composed mostly of silicate minerals, metallic elements, and rocky material. From my prior studies, I knew most meteors disintegrate upon entering the atmosphere, often leaving behind only a small pit. This meteor, however, struck with a powerful fraction of escape velocity, leaving behind a massive crater.

Judging by the size, composition, degree of fragmentation, and angle of impact, the force of the collision had the potential to cause widespread destruction. A question lingered in my mind: would the meteorite produce any hazardous radiation detrimental to the town or its inhabitants? Only time would tell—but what happened next was the revelation of an extraterrestrial horror of vast proportions. This was no mere nocturnal phenomenon.

The fact that it had fallen near Barmouth, not far from Chesapeake Bay, was fascinating. I couldn’t sleep that night. My mind was flooded with thoughts, questions, and theories compelling me to seek answers.

There was so little to examine, yet so much to speculate on. How thoroughly could I assess this fallen object with the instruments of my time and the limits of human understanding? I would have to wait until morning to study the crater and meteorite more closely.

At dawn, I left my house and returned to the site. Police were still present, but they allowed me to proceed with my scientific instruments. I suspected they were instructed to keep the meteorite under wraps until more information was gathered.

From a distance, the crater was impressive. Up close, it was even more intriguing—like something out of a science fiction novel. There was no sign of radioactive material or environmental contamination beyond the crater’s circumference.

The townspeople were curious but fearful of what they didn’t understand. Many were superstitious and believed in the reports of unidentified flying objects from the cosmos.

The meteorite was eventually moved to my house, where I could examine it more effectively in my private laboratory. The town mayor granted me permission and entrusted me with assessing any potential risks. I assured him there was no hazard of emitted radiation based on my analysis of its components. Still, the crater alone had stirred widespread unease.

Then, the mystery deepened.

Bill Johnson—the first witness—died the following day from an unknown cause. He had appeared healthy when I met him. His sudden death confounded me. Could it be connected to the meteorite? Had I failed to detect some hidden threat—radiation or perhaps something even more insidious?

I tried not to rush to judgment. An autopsy would be required. Meanwhile, I continued analyzing the fragments. Some appeared to be part of a structure, perhaps from a spacecraft, though its exact form remained elusive. Only the material’s properties could be measured.

While inspecting the entire meteorite, I noticed something strange: a set of symbols engraved on its lower portion. At first, I couldn’t decipher them. Upon closer study, I determined they were pictographs, similar to ancient hieroglyphs or cuneiform writing.

I owned a volume on the arcana of ancient civilizations—particularly the era of the Pharaohs and Babylonian kings—but these symbols were more archaic and esoteric. My instincts told me they were of primitive origin, from a source unknown to our history. Was there a message encoded in the symbols?

It was astonishing to find them intact, considering the heat of atmospheric entry. I could only conclude that the meteorite came from an advanced civilization—possibly from another galaxy or dimension. Was this object intentionally crafted for interstellar travel?

Perhaps I was allowing my imagination to run wild, searching for meaning where none existed. But I needed proof to confirm or refute my discoveries. Anything less would reflect the limits of our encyclopedic knowledge.

Then came another development. A local policeman, Officer Burroughs, visited my home to inquire about the meteorite. He asked whether I had made any significant progress in my study. I replied that I was still conducting analysis.

He also asked about Mr. Johnson. When I inquired whether the cause of death had been determined, Burroughs told me bluntly: Mr. Johnson was murdered.

I was stunned. I asked whether the murderer had been apprehended. He replied that no suspect had yet been found.

The most revealing aspect of the old man’s death was his black, ominous eyes—reflective of an irrepressible shade. It was as if something unnatural had shocked him at the final moment. This inexplicable murder puzzled me deeply. It marked the beginning of a vague enigma impressed upon my mind, one that would persist with consequential horror.

After his departure from my residence, I began researching the meteor, though there was little I could do beyond attempting to determine its trajectory.

While I was immersed in these calculations, strange orbs began emanating from the meteorite with a refulgent glow that startled and captivated me. There was something active, something animate projecting from it—an image, perhaps—that seemed to gravitate toward my immediate fascination. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the vision vanished into the ambient lights of the laboratory, leaving me bemused and uncertain of what I had witnessed.

I stood silently, observing, wondering whether it was a phenomenon of the meteor or merely the reflection of residual heat that had momentarily flared. My attempt to rationalize what I saw led only to a tenuous supposition—unfounded at best.

That day, I spent countless hours, well into the night, speculating on the secrets the meteor might still conceal. It did not matter why it had fallen exactly where it had; what truly preoccupied me was where it had come from.

That question seemed insurmountable. No matter how much effort I invested, the passage of time only reinforced the sense that I would never acquire enough information to describe or define it in its entirety.

That, I began to understand, was the true challenge. Space is boundless in its composition and arrangement. There are intricate magnitudes to unravel—dimensions and realms that lie beyond the threshold of human perception.

Later that night, an unsettling report reached me: someone had broken into the mortuary and stolen the corpse of Mr. Johnson. The director of the mortuary had been murdered.

A policeman knocked on my door to deliver the news. I was baffled. Why would anyone want to steal a dead body? It made no rational sense to me. Either there was a body snatcher at work—or, impossibly, Mr. Johnson had risen from the dead.

The first option seemed the only viable one.

For a moment, I feared the officer had come to implicate me in the crime. Instead, he sought my advice. Unfortunately, I could offer none. I had no knowledge of the corpse’s whereabouts. Still, I asked to be kept informed if it was ever recovered.

After the officer departed, I found myself preoccupied with disturbing thoughts. Where was the body of Mr. Johnson, and who had taken it? Now there were two deaths—two potential murders—each more inexplicable than the last.

I could sense that this was only the prelude to a more terrifying sequence of events that would soon haunt the quiet town of Barmouth. There were too few facts to formulate any firm conclusions. I was not a man of law, but a man of science. And yet, the events unfolding around me seemed to straddle the line between the tangible and the intangible—between natural causality and something...other.

Two days passed before another strange occurrence shook the town. During the night, a local hardware store was broken into. The owner, Mr. Ford, was found dead.

By chance, I had been driving by the area when I saw the aftermath of the incident. Police had sealed off the scene, trying to keep onlookers at bay. I stepped out of my automobile and overheard the officers speaking.

Immediately, I sensed a connection between this death and the others. Despite the lack of consistent evidence, one disturbing pattern had emerged: all of the deaths had occurred after the meteorite’s arrival.

The idea seemed absurd, yet it refused to leave my mind. Could there be a connection—a cause and effect—that could be proven?

I learned that a witness had seen the killer: a man who bore a striking resemblance to Mr. Johnson. According to her testimony, she saw him enter the store. When Mr. Ford approached him, the man attacked and killed him.

She swore it was Mr. Johnson, but the police could not accept such an impossible claim. Mr. Johnson was dead. Had she mistaken the man for someone else?

There was, however, one chilling detail she insisted upon: the man’s eyes were pitch-black, devoid of any whiteness. She described him as having the look of a dreadful ghoul.

Three deaths in our small town—an anomaly in itself—remained unsolved and mysterious.

Driven by mounting unease, I returned to the crater where the meteorite had first fallen. Days had passed since its descent. At first, I noticed nothing unusual. But as I drew closer, I discerned a set of footprints emerging from the crater and leading into the open field.

They were unmistakably human.

I could not identify whose they were, but they confirmed one thing: someone—or something—had been there recently.

The size of the crater was still impressive, and though its residue lingered, I found no signs of lethal radiation. That possibility could be ruled out. It was illogical, I knew, to attempt to draw a direct connection between the meteorite and the recent murders, yet the compulsion to do so lingered.

Standing there, I was seized by a strange sensation—an ominous uncertainty, as though I were being watched. Something about the crater remained hidden... elusive. And then a new thought occurred: what if the meteorite’s fall had not been random? What if its path and impact were deliberate?

The remnants of what I presumed to be a spacecraft only deepened that question. Without knowing its origin, I could say little definitively.

I returned to my laboratory and resumed my study of the meteorite, determined to uncover details I could relate to known scientific principles. Yet even then, all I could form were theories—fragile assumptions that drifted between reason and the unknown.

The refulgent light I had once seen before had begun to radiate again from the hardened meteorite. As I observed it closely, I reacted with instinctive curiosity, then became transfixed by the image before me. The brightness blinded me momentarily as I approached, reaching out to touch the reflection of its light.

There was a phosphorescent glare, eldritch in essence—an unnatural radiance. I could not fully comprehend the true significance of the reflection emanating from the meteorite. To speculate would be mere conjecture. Matters of science were never meant to be so perspicuous.

Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the light vanished. But something far more horrifying lingered—a terror that had emerged alongside the light, lurking within the shadows. Standing behind me was the ghastly figure of Mr. Johnson, or rather, the thanatoid corpse that once bore his name, with ebony eyes that penetrated into my very soul. Had I truly seen what I was seeing, or was it a terrible illusion conjured by my mind?

At first, there was no utterance. The being before me was of sheer hideosity. My initial reaction was to hesitate before attempting to communicate. But it remained silent. Then, with a bloodcurdling shriek, it shattered the silence. The scream deafened me and forced me to collapse to the ground, clutching my ears. I cried out in agony.

My scream had alerted my neighbor, Mr. Porter, who happened to be outside and came knocking. His interruption likely saved my life, for Mr. Johnson's ghoulish figure fled the laboratory shortly after. Shaken and breathless, I struggled to compose myself as Mr. Porter asked what had happened. I wished to tell him the truth, but how could I make him believe such an outlandish tale?

Even I wasn’t sure what I had witnessed. If I could not trust my own eyes, how could I expect him to accept the relevance of my words? I fabricated a plausible story: I had slipped and fallen. Mr. Porter, not being a meddlesome neighbor, asked no further questions.

After he left, the weight of the experience still bore down upon me. I remained conscious of what I had seen, but uncertainty loomed: would the corpse return? Science seeks to explain the observable world—but what I had encountered was something extraneous, beyond the boundaries of known phenomena, and my comprehension struggled against it.

I needed to collect my thoughts and search for answers independently. I could not expect my account to be accepted. I began to suspect that some sui generis force—one with a determined will from beyond the galaxy—had made its way to Earth, bringing with it a protean horror. Yet one vital question remained unanswered: what did this being want?

If it had the will to kill, what was its ultimate aim?

I could no longer believe I had hallucinated. What I had seen was rooted in a reality undefined by human understanding. Then came confirmation: other townsfolk had reported seeing the walking corpse of Mr. Johnson. Even the police had witnessed the same ghastly figure. But something even more disturbing reached me—an announcement that shook me to the core.

Other dead bodies had been seen walking in the town—corpses that had once lain cold in the morgue. No one could explain how they had risen. The townspeople whispered of the meteorite, believing it to be the source of this burgeoning terror.

Panic spread swiftly. A priscan monstrosity from the cosmos had crept into our midst, veiled in shadow. The police had tried to subdue the ghouls with bullets, but their efforts were futile. The creatures were impervious to harm.

With little choice, the police summoned state reinforcements, but even they could not halt the advance of this cosmic dread. It was a crisis that demanded more than blind resistance—it required strategy and understanding.

While chaos consumed the town, I focused my efforts on deciphering the meteorite. At my laboratory, after days of study, I became convinced that the strange pictographs inscribed upon it were key to the unfolding catastrophe.

I compared them meticulously with ancient symbols from Egyptian temples and Babylonian monoliths. Could these alien markings be somehow connected? And if so, how had their transumption occurred?

As I studied the meteorite, I noticed it had begun to deteriorate, parts of it flaking away. Convinced something lay within, I took a hammer and split it in two. As a scientist, I regretted the action, yet it was necessary.

Inside, I discovered more symbols—distinctly alien in form, utterly unlike any human creation. These markings were not merely decorative; they were a reification of some materialized force.

There had to be something of great significance—something cosmic in nature—that compelled the dead to rise. I returned to the crater site and from a distance spotted Mr. Johnson's residence, located at the edge of town.

I decided to investigate, hoping to find something valuable for my research. Never did I expect to encounter the archaic terror that awaited me in that seemingly mundane place.

Outside stood a barn, which I approached with caution. I looked around, alert for any sign of Mr. Johnson. My anxiety mounted with every step.

To my astonishment, it appeared he was constructing a spaceship. From behind a haystack, I watched him work, stunned by what I was seeing. This was no mindless corpse—he moved with purpose and knowledge.

Was he being guided? Or had he retained some knowledge from before? On the surface, he appeared dull and lifeless, yet he demonstrated a grasp of advanced mechanics. While humanity prided itself on modern inventions, our prescience was still primitive compared to whatever knowledge this being possessed.

The spacecraft was modest in size—built for a single passenger. I dared not reveal my presence and quietly returned to my car by the crater.

As I drove home, I pondered the implications of this discovery. I had to inform the police. But I soon realized I was dealing with a macrobian being—ancient, extraterrestrial, and possessed of technology far beyond our own.

Its knowledge was esoteric, beyond public comprehension. When I returned to my laboratory, I found it ransacked. The meteorite was gone. Mr. Burroughs lay outside—stone dead, his eyes as black as coal.

Murdered—no doubt—by one of those undead ghouls.

Just then, a police vehicle approached. I quickly reported the theft and informed the officers of Mr. Johnson's activities. Together, we headed to his property, unprepared for the horror that awaited.

Before we could reach the house, we encountered an enraged mob wielding torches and rifles. Gunshots rang out, aimed at the ghouls that advanced with horrifying determination.

I tried to reason with the crowd, but panic ruled. They dragged us from the vehicle, screaming in hysteria. It was utter chaos—a glimpse of Armageddon.

With no other option, we continued on foot. After several grueling miles, we arrived at the property, only to find it seemingly abandoned. We checked the barn—it was empty.

But the spacecraft was there, fully constructed.

The officer was dumbfounded. When the reality sank in, he asked what we should do next. He suggested destroying the craft, but I hesitated. I was uncertain it could be destroyed so easily.

I suspected its purpose was interstellar travel. Whoever built it intended to leave Earth. That seemed logical, based on the evidence.

As we debated, Mr. Johnson stepped from the shadows. With inhuman strength, he seized the officer by the neck and lifted him effortlessly, choking him to death and discarding his lifeless body like a ragdoll.

I believed I would be next, but—for reasons unknown—he spared me. He stood before me with a pallid face and eyes darkened by dread.

I grabbed a nearby pitchfork and warned him to stay back. I was not ready to die by his monstrous hands. I stepped backward, cautiously retreating, but he blocked my only exit.

It was then, for the first time, that the innominate alien being spoke to me with words I could clearly comprehend—no longer involute or cryptic.

"I know that you are afraid and confused, but you don't have to be," it said.

I was stunned by the clarity of its utterance.

"Who are you? And what do you want from me?" I asked.

"If I told you, you would not believe me."

"I am a scientist," I replied. "I deal in the study of science."

The being began its narrative.

"I come from a distant galaxy, far beyond your Solar System. My name is irrelevant—as is the identity of my race. Know only that I belong to a species superior to yours, and it is my sole intention to leave this planet and return to my own."

"How did you get here to Earth?"

"My spaceship collided with a meteor, and I was forced to seek refuge on Earth."

"Then the fragments I found—those were from your ship? I never saw it land."

"That is because it landed on the property of Mr. Johnson. I survived the crash and the impact of the meteor, and I found the necessary materials to drag the remnants of my ship into the barn. That is where you see it now."

He led me to the fractured pieces of his former vessel.

"How did you manage to build this new spacecraft by yourself?" I asked.

"It was not easy," he said, "but I located the composite materials I needed—primarily aluminum and titanium."

"But why did you murder the innocent townspeople?"

"That is regrettable. But I had no other choice."

"And the dead corpses from the morgue? Why did you raise them?"

"To create a distraction. I needed time to complete the construction of my ship."

"How can I be certain you are truly leaving Earth?"

"You cannot. You can only choose to believe my words."

"It is a terrible thing you’ve done," I admitted, "but as a man of science, I can relate to your circumstances. It fascinates me to know you're a time traveler. There is so much I could learn from you—if you were to stay."

"Indeed. But I cannot remain. You know full well what would become of me. I would be examined, dissected. Is that not true, Professor Langsford?"

"Most likely, yes. That would be the case."

"Then you know what must be done."

"Will you ever return to Earth again?"

The alien replied simply:

"Perhaps one day, Professor. Perhaps."

Before its departure, the polymorphic being then vacated the corporeal shell of Mr. Johnson. His body collapsed lifelessly to the ground. I was permitted at last to witness its true form, fully revealed—nothing resembling a human at all.

It shimmered in semi-transparent hues. Its body was slimy, with a bulbous head, grotesquely large eyes, protruding antennae, and green skin marred by hideous scabs. The being's gibbous frame was as alien in essence as in appearance. Without further delay, the spacecraft ignited and burst through the open roof of the barn, rocketing into the sky and beyond Earth's atmosphere, too fast and too discreet for radar detection.

When the police finally arrived, it was too late. The ship had already gone. Only a few officers caught fleeting glimpses of its radiant flashes as it vanished into the firmament. They questioned me, and I told them everything. I had no reason to conceal the truth anymore—for they had seen it too. The evidence was irrefragable.

What occurred next was rare and surreal. The wandering dead—whether reanimated from the morgue or slain by the risen ghouls—collapsed, one by one, lifeless and inert, never to rise again. All bodies were incinerated—reduced to ashes, including Mr. Johnson’s—leaving no doubt of their permanent end.

The cosmic terror had concluded abruptly with the departure of the alien.

The townspeople, stunned into silence, remained haunted by what they had witnessed. The horrors that unfolded in Barmouth would remain a secret, untold to outsiders. After all, who would believe such an inscrutable tale of anomalous terror?

The crater was sealed—buried under thick boulders and layers of concrete. Mr. Johnson’s barn was razed to the ground and burned to ash. No trace of the meteorite or the spaceship would remain.

Only I retained a semblance of understanding—an intelligible glimpse—of what might exist in the plenum beyond the outer limits.

In the weeks that followed the alien’s departure, I returned to my post at the university, but I was not the same man. My lectures were muddled with distraction, and my colleagues noticed a stark change in my demeanor. Some whispered that I had suffered a breakdown while investigating the meteorite—others simply believed I had seen death too closely.

But I had seen more than death. I had seen something not of this world.

I began to keep meticulous notes in a locked ledger. There were no typewriters involved—only handwritten diagrams, calculations, and recollections. My mind, though reeling, sought to capture every mechanical detail of the spacecraft I had witnessed: the unusual alloy sheen, the inexplicable propulsion system, the strange runes like etchings on a ciphered tomb.

Then one day, I received a letter.

The envelope was thick, unmarked, and bore no return address. The stationery was heavy, and the ink smelled faintly of iodine. The letter read:

Professor Langsford,

We know what you encountered. You are not alone in this awareness. Should you wish to learn more, take the 10:30 train to Portsmouth this coming Saturday. There will be a man holding a black cane at the last carriage platform. Say only the word: “Aberration.”– A Friend in the Shadows

The writing was precise, formal, with no signature. My rational instincts rebelled. Yet, my curiosity—and perhaps a dormant yearning for answers—compelled me.

Portsmouth was cold and gray when I arrived. The train platform was sparsely populated. True to the note, at the end of the platform stood a man in a wide-brimmed hat, leaning on a black cane topped with a polished brass sphere.

I approached him with caution.

“Aberration,” I said under my breath.

He nodded, turned, and motioned for me to follow him silently. We climbed into a black motorcar, the interior smelling of oilskin and wool. Not a word was spoken during the long ride westward. We drove until dusk, reaching what appeared to be a defunct army weather station tucked away in the hills of Portsmouth.

Inside, however, the site was alive.

Men in lab coats and military uniforms moved briskly, consulting reels of data recorded on ticker tape and handwritten charts. One man, tall with slicked-back hair and round glasses, introduced himself simply as “Dr. Elion.”

“You’ve seen one, haven’t you?” he asked.

I nodded.

He handed me a dossier stamped with the red seal of a U.S. scientific intelligence division I’d never heard of—The Bureau of Anomalous Physics and Terrestrial Encounters (B.A.P.T.E.).

Inside were reports, diagrams, even photographic plates—each one revealing sightings of unidentifiable aerial objects, unexplained magnetic fields, and recovered debris from as early as 1911.

One page contained a transcript dated 1929. The communication had been recorded via experimental Tesla-inspired radio equipment:

“We observe. We wait. You are not ready. Your kind fractures under its own knowing.”

“Others have seen them,” I said quietly.

Dr. Elion's eyes narrowed. “Yes. But few survive the knowledge.”

Compelled by visions and unease, I returned once more to Barmouth. The town wore a mask of normalcy, but beneath that mask, something festered. Children avoided the woods. Dogs barked at empty air. The crater, once yawning and charred, had been filled and flattened. A gazebo now stood over it, erected by the town council “in memory of the meteor incident.”

But there were whispers. People said lights still flickered in the sky some nights—greenish and blue, like gaslit will-o’-the-wisps dancing above the trees.

One evening, I followed a sound—subtle and low, more like a tremor in the marrow than in the air. It led me deep into the thicket where I stumbled upon something buried in mud and moss.

A fragment.

Small, barely the size of a brick. But unmistakable. Smooth to the touch, it vibrated slightly, as if it still remembered movement across the stars.

Back at my study, I began conducting basic tests with what little equipment I had: a compass, a magnifying glass, and mercury gauges.

The fragment disrupted magnetism, warping the needle unnaturally. Under magnification, its surface revealed lines that moved subtly when I wasn’t looking directly—angles that bent inward like folds in dimensional paper. There were no visible inscriptions, and yet, when held for long enough, visions would come.

Not dreams. Visions.

I saw cities built in gaseous strata, beings suspended in fluid-filled cocoons, and vessels that slid across dimensions like fish beneath the ice. The being I had met—who had once worn Mr. Johnson like a cloak—appeared once more.

“You hold what should not remain,” it said in my vision.
“It calls to others. As a scent calls wolves.”
“You have seen too much. Do not seek more.”
“Burn it.”

But I could not,

A week later, a man in a gray suit appeared at my doorstep. His hair was graying at the temples, and he bore the demeanor of a man used to authority but allergic to attention.

“You’ve touched it,” he said simply.

“Who are you?”

He reached into his coat and placed an envelope on my table. Inside was a single calling card:

The Society of the Veil
Founded 1861–In Silence, Protection

They had operated since the days of Lincoln, he told me—an unseen order of scholars, military men, and natural philosophers devoted to containing what should remain unsaid.

“What you found is not dead matter,” he warned. “It is a seed. If left unchecked, it will awaken others—those who drift in the folds between light and thought.”

“Then why not destroy it?”

“Because sometimes, in knowing danger, we are better prepared to face it.”

He left without further explanation. I never saw him again.

By then, I was sleeping little. My dreams were filled with static and greenish fog. The walls of my study whispered softly when the fragment pulsed. It had begun to grow warmer at night, though no fire touched it.

Then one night, the sky opened.

Not torn—but peeled, like a curtain slowly drawn back.

Above Barmouth, strange lights spiraled down—not mechanical, not fire, but something else entirely. It was as though space itself had knotted, exposing something behind the night sky.

From the fields came shrieks. Not of animals. Not of man. Sounds that no mammalian throat could produce—dry, gurgling, ancient. Shapes flickered briefly in the air above the Johnson barn’s ashes—tentacled, translucent, with eyes like cold lanterns.

And then—silence.

The air became still. The sky closed.

The fragment in my possession ceased to pulse. It dimmed.

The next morning, there were no traces. Only rumors among the town elders, who whispered of “ghost lights” and “pestilence air.”

But I knew.

They had come to see if the signal remained.

They had decided—for now—not to answer.

I buried the fragment in a sealed lead container, deep in the basement of an abandoned church outside Barmouth. I placed iron chains over the cellar and poured wax over the seams of the stone. I prayed for the first time in years.

And then I wrote everything—every dream, every vision, every whisper in the dark—into this ledger.

If you have found it, then the veil may already be lifting again.

And if it lifts—look not directly into what emerges.

For your sanity may not return with your gaze.

“The terror that had taken place in Barmouth will not be told—but it shall echo in the plenum of the cosmos. Not as myth, but as warning.”

The once sleepy town now seemed like a hollow shell of its former self. The familiar faces of the townsfolk were now shrouded in an unseen, almost tangible heaviness. The sounds of children’s laughter were absent, replaced by the dull murmur of the wind through the branches of twisted trees. Even the church bell seemed quieter, as though it too had lost its voice.

I stood in front of my small, creaky study, clutching the lead box that contained the fragment—the object of my obsession, my curse. It pulsed faintly in my hands, a low hum vibrating through the fingers of my left hand. At first, I thought it had grown warmer, but now I knew it had become something else entirely—alive, somehow. Alive in a way that defied all natural law.

The visions had not ceased. In fact, they had only become more vivid, more insistent. Each night, I awoke in a cold sweat, the images of alien cities rising like skyscrapers beneath unseen stars, of horrific beings with too many limbs and not enough faces, clawing their way through the darkness, just beyond the edge of reason.

Tonight was no different. I could already feel the oppressive atmosphere of dread creeping through the walls, reaching for me. It was as if the very air itself was imbued with something alien, something that was watching, waiting for the right moment to strike. And I knew, deep down, that the moment was near.

I had buried the fragment once, deep beneath the cellar of my rented house, under boards, beneath stone, under layers of earth. But now, I felt its presence grow stronger with each passing day, as though it were calling to something—or someone—far beyond our understanding. The pulsing was faint, but it was there, a constant, low-frequency hum that seemed to reverberate through my skull.

The pull was unbearable. I could not resist it any longer.

I had come to the barn again—the cursed barn that once housed the alien’s ship and the dark machinery it had left behind. The spot was now an empty plot of land, the barn reduced to charred remnants, as though it had been consumed by an unnatural fire. The wind whipped the ash into the air like swirling ghosts, and the skeletal remains of the barn’s foundation jutted from the earth like the exposed ribs of some long-dead beast.

I stood there for a long time, the night pressing in on me like a suffocating fog. The moon was a thin sliver in the sky, barely visible, as though it too had been dimmed by the horror that had once touched this place.

The ground was soft beneath my boots as I moved toward the center of the wreckage. I could feel it—the pull—stronger than before. I dropped to my knees and began to dig, my fingers tearing through the loose soil, the wet earth clinging to my skin. And there it was, buried beneath layers of rock and dirt—the object I had placed in the cellar weeks ago.

I uncovered the lead box, its surface covered in strange, crisscrossing patterns that seemed to shift in the dim light, as though they were alive. My fingers trembled as I opened it. The moment I did, a wave of cold air rushed out, as if the box had been a prison for something far colder than ice.

The fragment lay inside, its surface now slick and pulsing, radiating a strange light from within. But this time, the light was not white, nor was it blue. It was green. A sickly, alien green that seemed to glow from within the very fabric of the object.

The fragment was no longer just a small piece of metal—it was something far darker, far more alien than I had ever imagined. It was alive, or at least, it was becoming alive in a way I could not comprehend.

Suddenly, a sound—a low, echoing hum—filled the air around me, vibrating through my chest. It was coming from the fragment. I felt my heart race as the hum grew louder, more insistent. And then, just as abruptly, it stopped. The air became still. The world, it seemed, was holding its breath.

I was about to close the box, to bury it once again, when a flash of light erupted from the center of the fragment. The ground beneath me trembled, and a shape began to materialize before my eyes.

It was a figure, but not a figure like any I had ever seen before. Its form was amorphous, shifting in a way that defied all laws of physics. It flickered like a broken image on a film reel, its edges constantly distorting, folding in on itself. The figure was immense, towering over me, casting a shadow that seemed to stretch to the far corners of the earth.

I tried to speak, but my mouth had gone dry. My legs refused to move, frozen in place by the sheer terror that gripped my heart.

The figure’s eyes—if they could be called eyes—were two glowing orbs, deep and endless, like the void itself. They looked at me with a sense of knowing, as if it could see into the very fabric of my soul.

And then, in a voice that was not a voice at all, but something far deeper—an echo that reverberated in my mind—the being spoke.

"You have found it. The Seed of the Void."

My mind reeled. The Seed of the Void—the name echoed in my skull, reverberating through every part of me.

"Who... who are you?" I whispered, my voice barely audible over the thunderous beat of my heart.

"We are the Harbingers. The Watchers. The Sentinels at the edge of the Infinite. You have seen what should not be seen. Now you must face what you have awakened."

The ground shook again, and the air around me grew colder. I could feel my breath coming in ragged gasps as the figure’s form shifted again, growing ever more incomprehensible, like a nightmare just beyond the threshold of reality.

"The others will come. They will know you have the Seed. It is the way of things. The endless cycle."

With a sudden movement, the figure stretched forward, its tendrils—long, twisting appendages that seemed to unravel from the very fabric of the world—reached for me. My body was frozen, unable to move as the tendrils wrapped around me like iron chains, pulling me closer.

And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the figure vanished, leaving only a ringing silence behind.

I stumbled to my feet, disoriented and trembling. The box containing the fragment was now cold to the touch, its light gone. The hum had ceased, and the air around me felt heavy, as though the very atmosphere was pressing down on me.

I looked around the barren field, the ruins of the barn now just shadows in the distance. The night felt longer somehow—more oppressive. The trees around me seemed to bend and stretch toward me, their branches like skeletal hands reaching for my very soul.

It was then that I realized the true horror of what I had encountered. The fragment was not merely a piece of alien technology. It was something far more ancient, something that had been waiting. Waiting for me.

I had uncovered a doorway. And I had opened it.

As I turned to leave, I heard it again—a low, rumbling sound, like the distant growl of thunder, reverberating from deep within the earth.

I knew, in that indelible moment, that this was only the horrible beginning.

The others would come.

Recommend Write a ReviewReport