S14E14 - "Star Scream (Part 1)" - Horror Hill

No, not at all. I'm so sorry, my taste base.

You're all right, right?

“Yes, exactly. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. I just understand.”

I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, but I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. With what? I'm sorry. As you can see, you've already been in the mood, you've been in the mood for the whole time.

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You're so sorry, you're just about 75% cost, and you're always flexible.

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“Stepstown is just the most important talent for all-Jobs.”

Join Tails for Dark Nights. The following program is a production of Chilling Entertainment and the Creative Team at Chilling Tails for Dark Nights, and a proud member of the Simply Scary Podcast Network. Visit SimplyScaryPodcast.com to learn more about this and our other weekly storytelling programs, and become a patron today to show your support and get instant access to our extensive archive of downloadable tales of terror.

Thank you for listening, and enjoy the show. [Music] Disclaimer. Horror Hill is a horror anthology podcast bringing you scary stories from all corners of the internet and beyond. Mass such certain stories include content that some listeners might find defensive.

Listener discretion is advised. [Music] Hello there listeners. This is the horror Hill podcast, and I'm your host, Eric Peabody.

“We're going to keep the intro a bit brief this evening, because man, oh man, do I have a doozy in store for you?”

Ancient aliens, shady government organizations, and the most powerful being in all of the universe.

Tonight's story is so vast that we can't possibly cover it all in one episode. So, this is part one of J.G. Martens, his crooked gospel. [Music] You're listening to the free edition of this program. If you'd like to help support horror Hill and also remove these pesky ads, head to chilling

Tales for Dark Nights.com and click Patrons in the upper menu to sign up today. You'll get instant access to hundreds of ad free stories, so what are you waiting for? Also, if you're watching on YouTube, do us a favor and drop a like and subscribe. Become part of our Dark Circle listeners. [Music]

And now, from author J.G. Marten, I give you his crooked gospel, part one. 12 October 1991. The forest is nothing but a black smear. I can hardly see my handlebars, but that's fine, because I've baked these woods my entire life. All 12 years of it.

I could ride this trail with my eyes closed if I had to, and I pretty much do. My bicycle bucks and jolts, shuttering as we rattle across the wooden bridge, and I shutter along with it. If I'm being honest, I feel a little uncomfortable, maybe even frightened. There's something in the air tonight, a chill. It's the sort that crawls up your spine, the carries with it the deep rooted knowledge that something about your surroundings is deeply wrong.

It's that unsettling sensation of being watched. Pursued. I stand up and ride harder. My lungs burn with every push of the pedals, but I can't shake the feeling that I need to get out of these woods and fast. Visions of serial killers clawed my mind, but I bury them with gritted teeth, as if I need more fuel for my stress.

She's not doing well, are your mother and father home?

No, ma'am.

“Can you get here to be with her? I'm afraid she doesn't have long.”

Yes, ma'am, no matter what. Hope. My big sister hope is dying in a hospital room while I'm out here jumping at shadows. Tears sting my eyes, shame burning hotter than my screaming muscles. She deserves better than a coward for a brother.

Hope deserves someone who... Thunder. It cracks the sky rumbling like the base of infinity. A gale slams into me from behind. It's a battering ram of wind, ravishing the forest like a tempest.

Branches snap like bones, ricocheting through the air as shrapnel.

One slash is my cheek, another nearly blinds me.

I cry out, one hand flying up into fence, the other desperately trying to steer. This is madness. It's like a tornado crept up on me in the dead of night. It's like, my ear drums bleed.

“The Thunder clap grows louder, more deafening.”

It's as though the whole forest is shaking now, like the ground might split in two and swallow me whole. My bike pretests beneath me, metal groaning as I fight to keep us upright. A flash of light, then another. I wonder if it's lightning, if the storms are right on top of me, but then my world blinks away turns into nothing but a ringing void.

I'm hollering, shouting. I can't see a thing. And then I feel my seat jerk out from under me as I lose control of my bike.

My spine twists as my body carines through the air.

I brace myself for a broken arm, a sprained ankle. I brace myself for the crunch of gravel meeting my face. But it never arrives. Nothing does. For a while, it's like I'm just floating there.

Like gravity is unable to finish what it started.

“I wonder if I've died and this is limbo or purgatory.”

Are the worst heaven anybody's ever imagined. But then my world reappears. It happens slow. It starts as a blurry smudge, but soon graduates into a shifting mess of pine trees. Help!

The word tears for my throat. Somebody help! It's useless. Nobody can hear me. I know that because I'm too far away.

I'm watching in horror as the forest fades from view, watching as the trees turn into matchsticks below. My heart is racing like a formula one engine, and I keep telling myself this isn't real, because it can't be. I'm floating.

Up and up, high into the coal black sky. Stolen by a beam of light. Present day. That was a long time ago. Thirty years give or take.

A lot's changed since then, but the nightmares remain the same. I have it almost every night. I dream about that flash bang low, that cosmic roar, and the gut-churning dread of being eaten by the sky. I dream about things that don't exist.

Of course, they have no right to. My name is Isaiah Mitchell, and I'm a buggy man. Only I don't hide in closets or haunt-old houses. I'm the type the boomers ran about while watching the evening news, the type that tinfoil hats point too, and things go wrong.

I'm what you might call a man in black, and that means I'm well connected. I know things. I'm privy to information that the president couldn't even drop on if he tried. And so, when I tell you that something big happened last night, I'm not talking about the stock market dipping a couple percentage points

or the Saudis slashing oil prices. I'm talking about a disaster. A reality warping clusterfuck that's got me questioning my own sanity, one that'll have you questioning yours too. Don't believe me?

Let's put it to the test. I'm going to tell you a story. That's about me, but it's also about you. Really, it's about everything in the universe, right down to the last atom. It takes place across sprawling star scapes over endless eons.

It's about an alien race, a renegade heretic, and a falling god unable to outrun its own miserable humanity.

and how his search for meaning may soon cost us everything.

It goes like this. 12 October 1991. Hello? My voice echoes in the void as I scramble to my feet, rubbing my eyes. The shadows are thick enough to taste.

It's the forest all over again, only worse. I stumble forward, arms outstretched, desperate for any hint of my surroundings. My palms connect with a surface, cold, smooth. It almost feels like metal, but it's too soft, too malleable.

Footsteps. I shrink backwards, instinctively seeking somewhere to hide before remembering, "I don't even know where I am."

My head spinning, pounding.

I'm wondering if I've been drugged,

“and I think that's probably the only explanation.”

I don't float into the sky, I just don't. And that means I am hallucinating, which means whoever kidnapped me knows a thing or two about stealing kids, which means they're a professional, which means they're a... Once the term, serial killer.

Yeah, that's it. A riot of sounds slams into me. I clap my hands over my ears, teeth clenched in agony. It's that same otherworldly base from the forest, except now it's all around me,

throbbing, inescapable. Another bellow joins the cacophony, higher pitched, and coming from the opposite direction. They pulse in a rhythm, almost like some counterfeit Morse code. Whatever they are, I've got me surrounded.

Please, I beg them, voice breaking.

“Just let me go, I swear I won't tell anybody.”

Static crackles. It's followed by a sharp squeal of microphone feedback, then the buzz of modulating frequency. Communication now bled. A robotic voice announces.

Subject identified as homocypian, terrestrial location, near Mexico, language model, English. There's a pause, it's long enough that I can hear my pulse rushing through my veins. This is it, I think. I'm going to die.

Stuff like this doesn't happen to kids who live to tell the tale. The voice speaks. Can you understand us homocypian? Um, yes, my croak. Communication like established, proceed with.

Sorry, I interject weekly. Can you maybe turn on the lights? The lights. Yes, please.

“The way I see it, the only thing worse than being murdered has being murdered in the dark.”

An electronic hum fills the air. It's followed by a flicker of illumination. I blink as a warm glow floods the chamber, and my stomach coils into knots. I'm standing in a labyrinth of vats, massive glass containers filled with murky, bubbling fluid,

tubes snake out from them. They're converging on a console with a holographic display and an array of bizarre dials. Is this level of luminance sufficient? The voice inquires. I whirl around, and my breath catches in my throat.

And friend of me is something that doesn't exist, it can't exist. It's ten feet tall, maybe more. It's got teeth like a shark, claws, longer than my forearm, and a freaking tail. You're a monster, my stammer. Dinosaur.

Incorrect. Another voice interjects. We are the chosen, life forms from a distinct galaxy that are come to save your species.

The new voice belongs to another creature, identical to the first,

more fangs, claws, and scaled skin. They converge in the center of the vast maze, their enormous eyes fixated on me. Each eye contains countless pupils expanding like living ink plots. I've been abducted, I gasped, struggling to breathe. Aliens are real, and I've been abducted.

Correct. The alien with deep gray scales confirms. It's counterpart shimmering in soft teal looms beside it. Graze arm illuminates with a holographic display, which it studies intently. Reachings indicate heightened causal levels that increase to dream of low, soars, fight or flight response, determination, irrational.

Do you prefer?

I gave it them, words failing me.

“What is this, the alien equivalent of my Miranda rights?”

Human? Great prompts, it's multitude of pupils pulsing impatiently. Look, I know what this is about. I stammer, crossing my legs, and inching away. You're going to probe me.

I've seen the movies, but I just want you to know that I'm a lousy specimen. There are way better people to probe, Michael Keaton, for instance. He was awesome in Batman, and I bet you he's... Incorrect. Teal booms.

We are cognizant of a concept due reference, but do not engage in such primitive behavior. We seek merely to harvest your DNA. It's claw taps one of the bubbling vats. The murky fluid clears, and a man floats within. His lower half dissolved in testins drifting freely in the viscous fluid.

She is as Christ, I choke out. I'm likely. Teal rumbles.

“This specimen must procure near days ago.”

3,200 perteen kilometres west to NASA Earth. I mean, you're killing people. Teal lumber is across the chamber. It's massive form, leaving fleeting indentations in the strange, self-healing metal floor. It rests a clawed hand on the computer console.

Your concern is unwanted human. Your absence will be accounted for. A plunge will send their life, preventing familial disruption and disillusion's social order. It's almost too much to wrap my head around. No, scratch that. It's way too much to wrap my head around.

So, let me get the straight. I say, fighting the rising nausea. You're going to kill me to... What, save the world? We'll be constructed to ensure human salvation.

Teal corrects. You, you're... My words crumble into incoherence.

“The room starts to warp, my vision blurring.”

My chest constricts, and a piercing ringing fills my ears. No, I plead weakly. Don't do this. I stumble, crashing against another vet. A woman floats inside, who's seen better days, pieces of her skull have been eaten away,

the wrinkles of her brain now visible beneath.

Swimming heart rate is critical.

Gray announces, but the words barely register. I don't even notice as Gray approaches, seizing my wrist and pressing a device into my palm. A brief sting. And then an icy chill spreads through my hand.

I look up at Gray, my vision tripling, nausea and delirium overwhelm me. What did you do? I'm mumble. But even as I speak, I wonder why I bothered asking. Suddenly, everything feels fine?

No, better than fine. What was I so worked up about anyway? It's just a couple of giant space monsters and some floating corpses. No biggie. You've been administered as sedative.

Gray explains. Oh, my reply. Adobe grin on my face. Cool. Gray keeps tapping at the display on its forearm, keeps talking all official and serious.

How does all of those reduce adrenal response suppressed by an effort leading us indicate sensibility? Verde, proceed. Affirmative. Teal says from the main console.

You guys need to like chill axe. I giggle. Like your super uptide. My eyes drift closed and I'm lost in bliss. It's like floating on a sun-wormed lake.

My heart overflowing with all the love in the world. This must be paradise. If only my sister could experience this before she dies. Post-quitamin. Gray says sharply.

Hope. My sister. My dying sister, alone in that sterile hospital room, wondering why her little brother abandoned her. Sudation of that diminishing.

Gray warns its tone urgent. Reading said 98%, 94%.

Emotional estability approaching critical levels.

Elements in flux. Hoverstvied all these status. Compromised. Hope. I gasped.

You have to send me back.

I need to get to the hospital. Say goodbye to my sister. Please. She's dying and she needs me.

“Gray presses the device to my other hand.”

Another wave of artificial calm washing over me. Invalued concern. It derounds. Your clone body and exact replica was hanging all memories. It will seamlessly continue your existence.

Inclusion. Your expiry and sibling will receive a clever support for deep heart position. Is this as surgery? No. I groan, fighting the double dose of sedative with everything I've got.

I never agreed to this. So just put me back. Find somebody else. Impossible. Teal growls from the console.

Instufficient time.

We must harvest your DNA into your salvation.

He is coming. Who's coming? I demand. Teal's enormous eyes narrow. It's myriad pupils contracting to pin points.

Invalued query. Information to sensitive or dissemination. The bottle. Gray interjects. Blowns memory can be altered.

“Coling by a measure of syndicate and mass emotional stress.”

Compromising harvest success by 34% analyzing. Solution? Permit subjects to comprehend purpose of sacrifice. Outcome. Emotional pleasure and enhanced credibility of precious success. Teal turns back to the console.

The bottle accepted. Receive. Gray crouches before me. It's scaly digits pressing against my temples.

The pair for disorientation.

At warms. You will experience physical discomfort resulting from hypersimulation. After you will comprehend the whole earth that awaits your species in the dark. Present day. I bolt upright gasping.

Another nightmare. The same crap that's haunted me for three decades now. Except. It wasn't. Wasn't.

I rake my fingers through my graying hair. Gulping air like a drowning man. My trembling hands ceases the water glass on the nightstand, nearly spilling it. This dream was different. Vivid.

“I saw things that I've never dreamed before.”

Things that felt closer to memories than hallucinations. And yet. Bzzzzzzzz. My phone vibrates angrily. I fumble for it.

My hand shaking so violently. I almost dropped the damn thing before it reaches my ear. That's it. My grumble. Voice thick with sleep.

What is it? A female voice mocks. Do me a favor and go fuck yourself, Mitchell. I've been tearing my hair out for the last two hours while you've been off in Dreamland, banging Dolly Parton.

I heed the sigh. My boss, Lisa. Charming is ever. Dolly Parton. My mother rubbing my eyes.

Isn't she pushing 80 now, Lisa? How the hell should I know? Lisa snaps. Point is, she's a babe. You'd screw her.

I'd screw her. The whole world. Are you drunk? How? Who am I kidding?

It's 3am on a Saturday. Of course you're drunk. Crystif only. She says. And I can almost hear her scowel.

Listen, are you sitting down right now? I yawn cavernously. Safe to assume. Since you just woke me up. She gives a humorless chuckle.

Yeah, about that. Pretty much nothing is safe to assume. Not anymore. Lisa launches into a rapid fire briefing. Her words rattle through the speaker, like automatic gunfire.

From the background chatter, gathers she's addressing more than just me. Probably briefing a team of stone-faced government types, as she power walks down some sterile hallway. Got all that?

She asks after 10 minutes of nonstop verbal diarrhea. I think so. Something about a shitstorm. Something about an F-35. Apparently, the Air Force shot down a UAP an hour ago,

which is how we say UFO these days to avoid getting laughed out of the room. And of course, it had to happen in New Mexico, my backyard. This calls for a leader of coffee. Probably too. I stumble into the kitchen, set a pot brewing,

and stay on the line while Lisa continues barking orders at her underlings. I don't care what it takes, Mallory. Make it happen. Do I look like I'm fucking laughing, Douglas? A Riley, if you publish this, I swear to God, I'll tear off your dick.

One cream, two sugars. My spoon clinks against the mug, as Lisa's voice blares through the speaker.

She rattles off coordinates.

“I take a swig of scalding Java, barely registering the burn on my tongue.”

My fingers punch the numbers into my laptop, bringing up the crash side of the so-called UAP. I spew coffee across the screen. Did I just hear you throw up, Lisa asks? No.

I did, didn't I? I wiped the screen clean with my bathrobes sleeve. You sure you got those numbers right? And I sure, she says, incredulous. Yes, I'm bloody sure.

I've been knowing my nails for the past hour Mitchell. My manicure is just gonna think I've taken up meth. This isn't some Chinese spy balloon. This is the real deal. A genuine fucking UFO.

So, suit up and get ready to launch.

I've got a bird on the way. The microwave clock blinks 334 AM. My stomach growls and protest.

“Can you give me 10 minutes for breakfast?”

Quick. Click. The line goes dead. Figures. I take a deep breath.

Try to rationalize this. There's got to be some mistake here. Some error. The coordinates Lisa gave can't be accurate because they're not pointing to some barren stretch near Roswell or Eglon.

They're pointing to a forest. A cluster of trees with a rickety old bridge and a winding dirt trail.

They're pointing to a place where I used to pedal my bike as a kid.

Outside there's a drum roll of helicopter blades. Time to go. I bolt up stairs, throw on my suit, and hurtle out the door. Still wrestling with my jacket sleeve. A half-eaten cheese bagel dangles from my teeth.

I board the chopper in a days. We rock it towards the crash site like we're trying to outrun a cruise missile. And I can't even bring myself to finish the bagel. I'm feeling sick. Woozy.

I'm watching the lights of the countryside drift by. And it occurs to me that from all the way up here and the dead of night. Those lights almost look like stars. I'm wondering how long it'd take to snuff them out. I'm wondering how long it'd take to burn a whole galaxy to ashes.

Or crush a universe in the palm of my hand. Things to consider. The closer we get to the crash site the worse my thoughts become. They're spiraling, bordering on obsessive. I'm tangling with darkness.

Radio chatter comes through the calm line in a gargle of static and I catch bits and pieces. They're talking aliens, extraterrestrials. They're talking about things that don't exist. And the whole time I'm just trying to control my bladder. I'm drowning in hypotheticals.

What happens? I wonder. If I lose my mind between here and the crash site, what's the protocol for that? Do they pull me from the mission?

Do I get a night off? The week? Everything okay, sir? That's the copilot. She's turned around in her seat, looking at me like she's worried I'm going to make a mess on her deck.

You look a bit queasy, she says. Not much of a frequent flyer I'm guessing. My muscles work over time to yank my mouth into a smile. I'm fine.

“Not thrilled to be working on a weekend, but what can you do, right?”

She grins. Tell me about it. I'm Kennedy, by the way. Isaiah, I manage. Nice to meet you.

The guy in the chair next to me is Jonno. Jonno offers a casual wave. How much further to the crash site I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady. Kennedy furrows her brow. Ten minutes give or take, maybe twelve.

All depends on whether Jonno here grows a pair and stops piloting this bird like my grandma. She gives him a playful jab on the shoulder. Jonno chuckles. Can you believe I've got a fly with this witch? God help me.

She'd be better off on a broomstick. They share a laugh. I tried to join in, tried to blend in. But the whole time I'm thinking about how dry my mouth feels, how badly my hands are shaking in my lap. The longer I'm spending in this helicopter, the more I'm coming undone.

It's the memories, I think. The memories of my nightmare that are trickling into my thoughts like psychic cyanide. I'm remembering what I saw in my dream. Awful things. Things more terrible than words can describe. And with each passing moment those things seem less impossible and more inevitable.

The radio buzzes. It keeps buzzing. Keeps bombarding us with transmissions about advanced metal allies about nonhuman technology. Nearly there, Jonno announces.

Five. Four. Holy.

“Kennedy breathe at the three minute mark.”

Are you seeing this? It's impossible to miss.

There's a plume of smoke rising from a forest on the edge of town,

and all amongst the branches are the ghosts of dying flames. Beyond the canopy, a constellation of industrial lamps traces a mile long path from a checkpoint at the woods edge to its heart, following a swath of devastation through the trees. What the hell is that? Jonno asks his voice tied.

Kennedy leans forward. Her face pressed against the cockpit glass. The blood drains from her features, leaving her ghostly pale in the dim light. That's not one of ours.

She whispers. Her words barely a breath. Sure isn't. Jonno mutters. His knuckles widen on the controls. "I lurch from my seed, wedging myself between them to peer down.

My jaw clenches.

“Below us stretches an ocean of splintered lumber,”

and at its center lies something colossal.

It's the size of an aircraft carrier, its surface rippling and shimmering, reflecting the glow of the flickering fires as it forged from liquid metal. Son of a bitch, Kennedy breathes. I thought all that radio chatter was bullshit,

but this is the real deal, isn't it? That's a goddamn spaceship. Jonno only manages a shaking nod. I tried to speak to offer some explanation or reassurance, but my voice fails me.

As we circle above the metallic Leviathan, a chill runs down my spine. I realize we've just crossed a threshold. I'm kind of behind there's no coming back from, because that thing that we're looking at

doesn't belong to this world. It belongs to me, to my nightmares. But as hard as I try, I can't seem to wake up from this dream. The recall.

Gray's scaly fingers connect with my temples and static crackles across my skull. I'm pulsing, frothing at the mouth, choking on my own breath. I'm pretty sure I'm going to die, but then, poof, had all vanishes.

After that, I'm just falling. Plumming through the atmosphere of my own mind, I crash into a dimension beyond myself, beyond everything. Images flash. They spin up like a cosmic film reel,

bombarding my consciousness from every angle. Everywhere, inescapable. Weirdly, it's as if I'm inhabiting these moments, every sensation, sight, sound, smell, collapsing into a singular, overwhelming experience.

Gray called this disorienting. I think he might have undersold it.

Then, just when I know I can't take another second of this chaos,

it decelerates. The visual hurricane calms from a category five to a three. Moments float to the surface. Others sink out of sight. Like a sponge, my mind starts absorbing information.

Everything from quantum physics to the lyrical discography of Chennai at twain. Knowledge becomes trivial. As soon as I want to know something, I just reach out and take it.

It's pretty sweet. But something catches my attention. A series of lights shimmer in my lake of thought, gleaming jewels beckoning to me. That's what I'm after.

I don't know how I know this, I just do. I sort of know everything now. So I reach out. Touch one. Big mistake.

Information pummeles me. It carpets bombs my mind, blowing up my consciousness and making the last round of hyperstimulation feel like I was watching pink dry. I think I'm disintegrating.

“It's maybe the worst thing I've ever felt”

and yet in the madness of it all, the entire history of the cosmos unfolds before me. I see it. All of it. Gray and teal?

Not monsters. Their members of an alien race called The Vytar. Their technology makes hours look like sticks and stones and I guess they've existed for billions of years. Holy hell.

They've accomplished mind-boggling feats in that time. Everything from mastering faster than light travel to creating edible rocks and, of course, mapping the entirety of the cosmos.

And that's just scratching the surface. The revelations don't let off. They keep coming and coming. I see their sprawling civilization. Their gargantuan spaceships bristling with awesome guns.

Their high-counselland. And then I see tragedy. I watch as the Vytarian race makes two terrible discoveries.

First, they learn they are alone in the universe.

Second, they discover their entire species is dying. How? Let me explain. Near the edge of space, a Vytarian research vessel discovers life. Only it's not the intelligent kind. Far from it.

This life is microbial, viral, and infects the Vytarian explorers. Their quarantine observed.

“And you know what they discovered about this strange alien virus?”

They discovered it was pretty great. In fact, it's just what they've been looking for. Before long, Vytarians across the cosmos are lining up to be infected. Within a century, their entire species are carriers. It jumps between them like the common cold.

They don't mind them, not one bit. Why? Because this virus comes with a satisfaction guarantee. Biological immortality. Now there's a deal.

The trouble is, these Vytar don't work like humans do. They don't mate, make babies, sleep, wake up and do it again. No, these Vytar lay eggs. And only certain members of their species lay eggs. And what's more, they only lay eggs during a specific molting period

at the end of their life cycles. See what I'm getting at? Immortality or laying eggs. Pick one.

“You can't have both if you're the Vytar.”

But by the time they figure this out, this virus has infected every last colony of their civilization. Unable to reproduce, their population enters freefall. It develops what's known as an existential crisis. And if there's one thing civil society hates,

it's dealing with an existential crisis. Trust me. I know everything now. Anyway, tempers, flare, emotions run hot. Things are said that maybe shouldn't have been,

and that brings us to the crux of the Vytarian dilemma. War, and lots of it. Whole worlds erupt into conflict. Galaxies become battlefields, and entire solar systems are laid to cosmic ash.

If you thought nuclear weapons were bad, consider what happens when a moon is kicked out of orbit into the surface of a planet. It ain't pretty. Hell, has the fighting escalates.

The stars themselves become weapons.

“The Vytar discovered that if you can just push one toward instability.”

Well, boom. There goes the neighborhood. This ponchant for galaxy-brain problem-solving decimates their population to mere billions. Over a millennium, the Vytar plummet from an intergalactic empire

to a handful of clans clinging to a single world in some backwater system. Still with me, I know it's a lot to process,

but trust me, it's crucial.

So, the Vytar essentially self-destruct obliterating each other out of sheer frustration. The survivors traumatized by the horrors rot by their technology swing hard towards spiritualism. Colts sprout like a fungus.

Various sects compete, but one ultimately devours the rest, the way of the chosen. These guys pedal the ultimate snake oil, an end to Vytarian suffering. No more existential dread, no more war,

no more planetary billiards with moons. It's a good sales pitch. All the Vytar need to do is swallow their three-step program. One, embrace your superiority. Your the universe is only intelligent life, so own it.

Two, endure the endless. Immortality is your final test. Buck up and find a hobby. Three, achieve cosmic Nirvana. Survive until the heat death of the universe

and attain rapture. Terms in conditions apply limited availability.

Nirvana will be offered on a first come first serve basis.

Believe it or not, it's a smash hit. The Vytarians flock to the way in droves,

Within a decade, the chosen seas control across all colonies,

unifying the warring factions and establishing an uneasy peace. Sounds great, right? The catch. All non-believers must be exiled. It's for the greater good they claim,

“the only way to prevent future conflict.”

And maybe they're right. After all, this is a species that knows how quickly disagreements can spiral toward interstellar Armageddon. So, dissenters are given their marching orders. Here's a spacecraft, some supplies, now scram.

Live however you want, wherever you want, just not on Vytar. It's not exactly kumbaya, but there are worse ways to run at theocracy. Among the exiles as a scientist known in collective memory as The Heretic. It's an apt name, almost poetic given what his destiny has in store for him,

but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.

The Heretic fancies himself the philosopher. He ponders the big questions, like what happens after the Vytar kicked the bucket and intelligent life vanishes from the universe. He concludes that it's curtains, not just for the Vytar, but for the universe itself. After all, if there's no consciousness left to perceive it,

does the universe even exist? To the Heretic, this lights out scenario is a bit of a bummer.

“And if there's one thing the Heretic won't stand for,”

it's bummers. So, he rolls up his sleeves, gets to work. The Heretic hatches a plan. It's not exactly foolproof, pal. It's barely even sane.

The odds of success are astronomical, and it's definitely scurting some ethical boundaries.

But, it's a plan nonetheless.

It's simple, straightforward. The Heretic reasons that the Vytarians are the universe's sole sentient beings, facing extinction due to incurable sterilization. It's inevitable, and escapable. So, what's left on the table?

Just one wild card play. The Heretic charts a course for a distant star system, one with a promising son and a Goldilocks planet right with potential. He sets his sights on destiny. And that's where our nightmare begins.

Present day. The helicopter touches down and clearing that shouldn't exist. I step out to find a forest that's broken, smoldering. One that's cleaved in two with a cloud of cinders in its wake.

“This isn't how I remember this place, not at all.”

I remember a wooden bridge over a lazy creek, and tall trees that... Mitchell. Lisa. Of course it's Lisa. She's barreling towards me, foam glued to one ear,

her free hand slicing through the air like a metronome gone berserk. Mitchell, over here. She's bulldozing through a sea of personnel, stern faced government types and crisp suits and military fatigues. They're swarming everywhere, a thousand different tasks underway,

all of their voices breaking with anxious unease. At least I'm in good company. Lisa squeezes past a square jawed general, doubling over with her hands on her knees, gasping for air. How the hell took you so long?

She squeezes. It's been hours. I glance at my watch, puzzled. It's been 30 minutes, 38, actually. She smacks her forehead.

Shit. Time dilation. Time what? We've discovered the time operates differently inside the UAP. She explains waving off my confusion.

Look, it doesn't matter. Just follow me. I'll fill you in on the way. We take a surreal stroll through the newest gully in America. The ground is a minefield of UAP fragments.

Pieces of soft metal that has matte teams are scooping into clear bags, like the world's worst Easter egg hunt. My stomach is in my throat. A shadow passes overhead, and I look up to see helicopters unfurling a massive tarp across the forest canopy.

That's to keep the satellites out. Lisa explains gesturing skyward. The last thing we need is China getting wind of this, God forbid Google fucking maps. Feels like we might be a little late on that, my mother.

Lisa wags a finger in my face. Don't you start with me. The Pentagon's already breathing down my neck, as if I didn't get here as fast as humanly possible.

What exactly did we shoot down?

Is it Chinese? Are we going to war? If you think that's bad, I say. Just wait until the media wakes up. Or worse, the kids with smartphones. She groans, running a hand through frizzy chestnut hair.

Don't remind me, I should have kept on as an accountant. I'd still be in bed right now, thinking of all the ways I could jump off a bridge tomorrow. You know, like a normal person. But no, I had to follow my dreams. Fuck me.

As we push deeper, the smoke thins, revealing a shape through the hazy veil. The colossal silhouette of an oval craft, smoldering amidst the devastated trees. It's breathtaking.

Large enough to pass for a football stadium and round enough to sell the illusion. So this is it. I mutter, suddenly light-headed, woozy. I fumble with my tie,

loosening it with a desperate tug, but it does little to free whatever stuck in my throat. This is it. Lisa confirms with a nervous chuckle. A bonafide flying saucer.

“I mean, geez, you think these aliens never heard of a bad cliché?”

Memories crawl up for my psyche, but I wrestle them back down. I keep telling myself that there's got to be more to this. Some other explanation. Maybe this is some other alien spaceship, and my dreams really are just dreams.

What do you need? Lisa asks, studying me. Huh? You look like you're going to throw up, so what do you need? Drama mean, gravel?

She glances around furtively, then reaches into her jacket, pulling out a flask with a mischievous wiggle. A dash of liquid courage, maybe? I don't drink.

Never been a better time to start.

I'll pass. Well, I won't. She lifts the flask to her lips, takes the kind of swag that it make my deadbeat father lift an eyebrow. A trickle of whiskey runs down her chin.

Finally, she comes up for air, wiping her mouth with a back of her hand before tucking the flask away. She exhales sharply,

“the scent of bourbon hanging in the air.”

Right. So before we jump inside that circus, I want you to take a few deep breaths. Get your shit together. We've already had a couple incidents.

Incidents. I ask, where are we? Oh, yeah. Big time. You do yoga at all?

I shake my head. Well, you should. It's great for shit like this. Kill stress like nothing else. I can get you a discount of my studio,

but only on Tuesday and Thursdays. And no hot yoga. Interested? I'll consider it. You mentioned incidents?

Oh, right. She starts ticking them off on her fingers. So far, we've had two Marines piss themselves. One lieutenant hurl all over what I'm like.

“90% sure was some kind of alien artifact.”

And oh, God, Mitchell. Somebody shut their fucking pants. No lie? Lisa laughs weekly. Her face suddenly pale.

Can you believe that? I mean, Christ. Now the whole UAP reeks of chili dogs and somebody's Chipotle ringed asshole. I grimace.

Spare me the details next time, Lisa. That's disgusting. No. A fart is disgusting, Mitchell. This, Lisa shivers.

Her eyes glazing over at the memory of it. This was something else entirely. Anyway, if I didn't warn you, you'd figured out

the second you walked in.

That stench is lingering. Fantastic. I mutter. We hauled it to checkpoint. Lisa flashes her badge and I follow suit.

A sergeant with a crew cut, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Takes them, scans them, and then delivers the standard spiel through a stifled yarn. No photos, no touching, no running, no yelling.

No wandering intersections, the hazmat teams haven't cleared for contagions. And absolutely no pocketing alien technology is souvenirs. It's just no. All the way down.

Finally, he finishes his rundown and takes a deep breath. One more thing, he adds, giving the knife hand gesture to a row of portapodies. If nature calls, I'd answer it now.

We've had some incidents. I give Lisa a side-long glance. So I've heard. Lisa slips me a smirk as we pass the checkpoint. The entrance to the UAP is tough to miss.

It's the gaping hole that F-35 left in its hole when it blew it out of the sky. There's a makeshift ramp leading up to it. We pass the wrongs of people coming and going, each of them more ashen faced than the last.

You sure you're good? Lisa asks,

"Aha, you don't look peachy.

Weird, look harder." She excels, "exasperated."

“"Look, Mitchell, I'm not trying to be a bitch.”

I just want to make sure you're prepared." "Prepared for what?" I say, folding my arms. Lisa's teeth worry at her lower lip, her entire body thrumming with barely contained energy.

Nothing? She chirps unconvincingly. Lace, my ground. Spell it. Bodies.

The word explodes from her face. Eyes aligned with ghoulish glee. They've got fucking bodies in vats, Mitchell. It's insane. Total expiles shit.

Honestly, you're gonna love it. I don't know.

“Either way, there's not enough therapy in the world for you to get over this.”

You're in for a lifetime in nightmares. Guaranteed. She slings an arm over my shoulder, steering me towards the shrouded entrance. That means no more dolly part in for you.

The recall. The heretic paints life in his image. And earth is his canvas. His first brush strokes are behemoths. Colossal reptiles that roam a primordial world.

But these are rough drafts of his grand design. He studies them, learns from them. He leverages them to unravel the enigma of complex intelligence. But fate has other threads to weave. A surveillance drone drifts by the earth.

A vitarian relic. It's charting a repeating course. One set long before the vitarian war. And now it's relaying its data to the last colony in existence. The heretics vessel crackles with an incoming transmission.

A collect call from 12 billion light years away.

Hello. He answers. It's the chosen high council. They aren't pleased.

“To them, the creation of life is a sacred honor reserved for their deity.”

The distant one. And so, the heretic has their attention. And not in a good way. See this, they order. I can explain.

He tells them. Don't bother. They growl. Please listen. He pleads.

But the line goes dead, leaving only the hum of distant stars. The heretics mind races with calculations. Two weeks, he estimates. He has two weeks before the chosen arrive to execute him. And so, he flees to a neighboring star system.

The chosen arrive. They search for him, but find nothing. Before they leave, though, they decide to clean up the heretics blasphemy. They redirect a passing asteroid toward the earth, obliterating it in fire and ash. Time marches on.

Years bleed into centuries and centuries into millennia. The weight of his loss hangs heavy on the heretics conscience, driving him back to earth. He seeks closure, a chance to pay respects to the life he condemned. So, he returns. And his sorrow becomes hope.

Life, in its stubborn persistence, has flourished. It's thrived, evolved, and adapted. Yet, the creatures that now inhabit earth aren't the offspring of his colossal prototype. Instead, they're the descendants of the tiny mammals he created as their sustenance. These new beings, humans, captivate the heretic.

Their powerful brains, dexterous hands, and upright gate mirror his own vitary and form.

He watches, fascinated, as they form rudimentary societies, birth the first stuttering languages, and craft primitive technologies. In these fledgling humans, the heretic sees the future stewards of the universe. If only the chosen weren't looming. The heretic knows they'll return, realizing their genocide was incomplete.

This time, they won't hold back. Earth will be reduced to cosmic rubble, floating amid crystallized blood. So, the heretic gets to work. Strategies were through his mind each more desperate than the last. He has but one ship, no weapons, the odds seem insurmountable. Then, inspiration strikes. Humans have an edge, adaptability, swift evolution.

They could potentially match the Vitarians intellect given time. But time is a luxury the heretic can ill afford. Another surveillance drone could drift past Earth any day now.

Spike humanity's gene pool, rigged the results.

“He'll need to give his children more than a push.”

He'll have to throw them down the evolutionary stairwell if they have any hope of matching the Vitarians. So he devises a solution. It starts by forging a man, one shaped from the genetic clay of thousands. Each strand of his DNA will be carefully selected, isolating the potential for runaway evolution. But he won't just be a human.

No, his flash is to be interwoven with the heretics own Vitarian essence, enough to unlock the collective recall to flood his mind with eons of cosmic memory. The man will become a living catalyst, a walking singularity. His genes will then spread through humanity like a virus of metamorphosis. Each generation leaping forward, their minds racing ever faster toward a terrible apex.

Project runaway.

That's the name the heretic gives it.

And he believes in his hearts that it will result in the liberation of humanity.

“He believes it will bring about this salvation of the universe.”

And in this, he has made the worst miscalculation since the dawn of time. Present day. Watch your step, Lisa warns. We push through a forest of plastic tassels blinded by the glare of industrial worklamps. We're standing in a circular chamber, a hub with corridors spiraling outward like the spokes of an alien wheel.

The spacecraft is a hive of activity. Personnel and biohazard suits and military fatigues swarm around us, buzzing with urgency and barely contained panic. Teams seal off entrances with cheats of plastic wrap, while other teams are scribbling labels, scotch-taping them above the doorways labeled A through G. Take it in.

Lisa says, closing her eyes and breathing deep.

We're inside a UFO, a real one. Makes you feel like Agent Kay or Dana Scully or... Yeah, I get it, my mother. I soak forward the heel of my shoe sinking into the soft metal with every step. Almost like I'm walking over a mattress.

I hate how familiar it feels. Lisa jogs to catch up. Hey Mitchell, she says, huh? Anybody ever tell you you're a total drag? Most people, yeah.

Great, just making sure we head down a corridor labeled D. Lisa explains we're looking for somebody named Major Luca. Apparently, Luca called her a few minutes before my helicopter touched down, said she had something big to show us, something crazy. By crazy, do you mean corpses and vats I ask?

Nope, I mean bodies, Lisa tells me. Bodies, a nod. Apparently of the non-human variety if you can believe it. I feel the color drained for my face. We venture deeper, twisting through corridors D2, D4 and D7,

and each corridor feels worse than the last. My heart is pounding like a wardrobe. I nod mechanically as Lisa rattles off details about the UAP about what the teams were passing her up to, but internally, I'm having a breakdown. The further we get into the spacecraft, the more I'm wondering how much of my dreams were dreams.

The more I wonder if all I am is just some clone with a badge. What did the bodies look like? I hear myself ask, voice, horse. The dead aliens, I mean. Lisa's laugh is sharp, pointed.

No clue. I'd put money on little green men, though.

“Fits the whole flying saucer motif, don't you think?”

Yeah, I manage, swallowing hard. Suppose it would. Lisa gets a call over the radio. It's the Pentagon. Apparently, we've got an iron-clad alibi to deal with the journalists, something banal enough

to keep them far from the crash side. As for the public, we're going to feed them some freshly plucked political controversy, something juicy enough to keep them distracted, fighting. But I'm too deep in my thoughts to catch specifics. I'm caught up in my own mind, recalling a memory that was meant to be a dream.

I'm remembering him the runaway. And the more that I remember, the more I want to forget.

The first time the runaway opens his eyes, he's 20 years old.

“The jungle around impulses with life, a kaleidoscope of green pierced by shafts of gold.”

His naked skin prickles under the gays of the sun, its ultraviolet rays baptizing him in fire and sweat. He has no instructions, no guidance. This world is entirely new to him, and in his stomach flutters the first ghosts of adrenaline. The runaway rises to his feet. His first step is a stagger, a greyseless lurch that sends him sprawling into the lush undergrowth.

Pain, that most ancient of teachers, introduces itself.

It's harder than it looks, walking when you've never done it before, but eventually he gets the picture.

For him, it gets easier by the second. After only an hour, the runaway has learned to run, to sprint. He's dashing through the ferns, leaping from tree to tree with a grace bordering on simian.

“His stomach, owls, a cavernous emptiness demanding to be filled.”

Food, he must find food. But what to eat in this verdant labyrinth? By his third hour alive, the runaway has learned to forage. By his sixth, he has learned to die. He rides upon the ground, every nerve screaming as his body wages war against a toxic feast.

The berries burn his stomach. They make his tongue swell and a skin glisten with a fever sweat.

But, as the second smart chon, his agony fades.

His cellular structure begins to re-align, his enzymes mutating, and within moments, the poison has become his fuel. He gets back to his feet, reborn.

“The runaway takes his first breath, a whole new creature, subtly improved by evolution's kiss.”

Twilight paints the jungle. The runaway collects wild game from his crudely-made traps. The heretic, observing from afar, marvels at his creation so easily tapping into the collective recall. The runaway's hands move with ancestral memory, scanning his catch and kindling fire as if he'd done so for a thousand lifetimes. A weak passes, and the runaway learns what it means to be food.

A pack of wolves, ambush him while he sleeps. Their eyes gleam in the night, saliva drips from their gnashing jaws. Their throats rumble with the promise of violence, their paws padding ever closer as their haunches lift into the air ready to lunge. But the runaway is unconcerned. A weak is a long time for a man like him, and by now he is well-learned how to handle his fear, how to subdue it, commanded.

Now, his fear serves him. His muscles tense, his hands flexing into calist fists. He follows the gray beasts with his eyes, watching as they prowl nearer and nearer. The large one, he thinks.

The large wolf will engage first, and then the rest will follow, but only if he permits it.

The runaway strikes first. He darts forward, his feet leaving a cloud of dirt in his wake. By the time the first scatter of dirt falls, he's already brought his fist down on the alpha of the pack, his blow connecting with its skull in a crack of thunder. The colossal canine stumbles, at winds. The others draw back, pupils wide as the runaway grabs hold of the patriarch's jaws, pulling them apart with everything he has.

Another crack of thunder, a dying yelp. The remaining wolf's scatter, fleeing into the trees as their champion hits the ground. The runaway's message is clear. He is the predator, and they are his prey. As weeks bleed into months, the runaway's evolution accelerates beyond all comprehension.

At six weeks, his body is a masterpiece of efficiency. Nutrition is rendered an afterthought, with only a handful of berries sustaining him for days on end, his cells multiplying every iota of their energy. By ten weeks, oxygen itself becomes optional. His lungs, once slaves to the rhythm of breath, rest for hours at a time.

He plunges into the ocean's depths, racing with sharks in the midnight zone, plucking delicacies from the sea floor as casually as one might pick apples from a tree. On the anniversary of his awakening, the runaway transcends even the specter of mortality.

Age becomes a concept as foreign to him as death.

“Five years pass, and the universe bends to his will.”

At him's dance at his command, reality reshaping itself at his nearest whim. To him, the laws of physics are little more than suggestions. He soars through the sky on wings of thought, peers into the minds of lesser beings as easily as one might read a book.

He has become a god in flesh, the most powerful entity to ever grace existence.

And as the heretic watches this, he feels no fear, not even a phantom of concern. The runaway has proven himself to be kind, compassionate. As the decades roll by, the runaways appetite for violence diminishes, even the savagery of his fellow human beings, their bloodlust and petty cruelty becomes too much for him to bear.

“He retreats from their world seeking solitude in nature.”

Yet humanity, in its endless thirst for meaning, continues to seek him out.

They scale treacherous peaks and hack through dense jungles, desperate for a glimpse, a touch, a word spoken from the mouth of this miracle.

Some fall to their knees and worship, others spit curses and threats. To the runaway, they are one in the same, lost children fumbling in the dark. Their instincts, once his own, now seem as foreign as the language of ants. He has evolved beyond them, becoming something else, no longer can, but a distant observer. Yet for all his power, for all his transcendence, there is turmoil within him, a deep loneliness.

It noss at him, reminding the runaway of his mortality, his human core.

“He seeks answers and meditation, sometimes sinking to the ocean floor, other times soaring among the clouds to escape the chaos of the world.”

And it's during one such meditation suspended between heaven and earth, that the runaway turns his gaze to the stars. He wonders if there could be others out there, mothers like him, and like an answer to a prayer, he sees it. A figure, reptilian and humanoid, encased in a shelter made of polished ore, it drifts amid the rings of a gas giant, Saturn, though the runaway doesn't yet know this name. The creature stares back through a curious device, its gaze piercing light years.

In that moment, the runaway makes a decision. It's a decision that will change the tide of history that will give birth to the suffering of billions, that will risk the destruction of everything that ever was. But the runaway is unaware of these things. He knows only that he is lonely, and that he does not wish to be. And so, he flies.

It is not a simple journey reaching this creature in the stars. The runaway presses up against the earth's atmosphere and his body is incinerated. But like a Phoenix, he is reborn from the ashes, stronger, more resilient.

On his second attempt, the runaway breaks through the atmosphere only to discover a new challenge, the vacuum of space.

Yet, this vacuum has its benefits. It offers him the sort of silence that allows him to center his mind, to focus in new and more profound ways, and so, as he sets his sights on Saturn, he begins to pick up speed. Soon, he's not merely flying, he's blazing across the solar system, a comet of potential racing toward fate. In the span of a month, he traverses distances that would take conventional space craft years. And then, he arrives.

The heretics ship hangs before him, a metallic bubble in the black ocean of asteroids. The runaway reaches out, wrapping his knuckles against the hull, thunk, thunk. The ship's exterior shimmers becoming transparent. The reptilian thing he'd seen from earth bows its head in greeting, then usher's him inside. Hello, the being rumbles in the ancient tongue of man.

The runaway studies this strange creature, his mind working to decipher its unfamiliar sounds. When he responds, it's not in the language of man, but in the deep resonant base of Vitarian.

Your language is curious, but I believe I can master it.

“Tell me, who are you? Why have you been observing me?”

The being, the heretic, sees no point in deception. After all, the runaway could pluck the truth from his mind as easily as picking a flower. So, he lays bare everything. The extinction of the Vitarians, humanity's cosmic inheritance, and the runaway's pivotal role in it all. Do you have any questions?

The heretic asks, his tale concluded.

Many, the runaway replies, his voice amics of wonder and trepidation. Above all, why do you fear me? I do not. You do, the runaway insists. And I see it reflected near thoughts, along with hatred, disgust. The heretics pupils pulse with resignation, his shoulders sagging under an invisible weight. Of course, I should have anticipated this. The runaway tilts his head, curious.

The fear, hatred, and disgust you perceive, none of it belongs to me. The heretic explains. What you sense are echoes from the collective recall, a shared knowledge passed down by my people. The emotions you're perceiving are actually those of a religious sect, thought by those who follow the way of the chosen. The runaway's face contorts into a mask of bewilderment.

These followers, they view me as a monster, an abomination. The heretic hesitates, choosing his words carefully. Not exactly. To be precise, they do not think of you at all. To safeguard my work, I was forced to sever my connection to the collective epochs ago. But echoes of chosen dogmas still remain. To them, my work is blasphemy, and you, my child, are the apex of that blasphemy.

“The runaway ponders this. You say I'm destined to guide humanity's evolution. Is that all I am, do you?”

An instrument? The heretic reaches out, gently clasping the runaway's shoulder. He smiles, an expression he learned from his study of humans, and speaks softly. I am a barren creature, ravaged by a virus that is stolen the future of my people. My biological imperative can ever be fulfilled. Reproduction is beyond me. His pupils blot with fragile emotion, splashing like rain drops in his eyes.

No, you are not an instrument. With slow, awkward yet earnest movements, the heretic initiates the human ritual of embrace. He wraps his arms around the runaway, holding him close. You are my legacy. He whispers, you are my son. 12 October 1991. A gas escapes me, sharp and sudden. My eyes snap open to find grey standing before me, his alien pupils pulsing like living ink.

And that moment, a tidal wave of realization crashes over me. His name isn't grey, it's war, and he's ancient, 70 million years old.

The same goes for his companion, not teal, but cares. Both are devotees of the way of the chosen. Did you see? Wars, voice, resonates, no longer filtered through a digital translator. The thought transfer has unlocked something in my mind. I can understand the Vitarian language, makes sense of the vibrations that previously just seemed like low bass. I lean forward, my heart racing.

“Yes, but there's more, isn't there? What aren't you telling me?”

Cases neck twists unnaturally as he fixes us with a stare. His pupils expand and contract rapidly. A reaction I now understand to mean, I'm pissed. Enough, he growls. Prepare for genetic deconstruction human, we are done here. No! The word erupts from me, a thunder clap that shakes the ship. I'm startled by the power in my own voice, suddenly aware of the raw force behind Vitarian speech.

For all I know, you could be blowing this whole thing out of proportion. The Vitarian exchange glances, a silent conversation playing out in their pupils.

“Wars shrinks to pinprix, he's nervous, conflicted. Further revelations may invite excessive distress, he says carefully, I'd hope to glimpse of cosmic history with suffice.”

Well, it didn't, by retort, crossing my arms. So let's do this again, and this time don't skimp on the details. Invalid request, Kaz interjects, such knowledge is beyond your capacity to bear. My frown, my gaze ping-ponging between them. It's him, isn't it? The runaway. He's the source of all of this, your fear, your mission to save humanity. I might not have all the pieces, but I'm not blind. Your eyes are going haywire like a pair of busted TVs. He's the problem, right? You haven't had any luck dealing with him.

War and Kaz remain silent, their downcast expressions speaking volumes.

Look, I press, inhaling deeply. I'm human too. In a way, I'm like the runaway, just less, well, terrifying. But maybe there's something in those visions that only another human could make sense of. Have you ever think of that? What if I can spot something you've missed? Isn't that a chance worth taking? The vitar fought quiet, locked in a staring contest. Their pupils explode with emotion, a fireworks display of alien feeling. Kaz turns away abruptly, letting loose a gutteral warball as he throws his arms up in exasperation.

What's eating him? I ask. War approaches cautiously, casting a glance at his companion. Kaz hunches over the console, radiating disagreement. Kaz, he worries for your mind. War explained softly.

Your tail of hope, your dying sister, it affected him deeply. He fears that showing you the rest of the runaway story might shatter your consciousness beyond repair. There will be no perfect clone. Your sister will find no solace in her dying moments. I watch Kaz fiddle with the console, frustration evident in every movement, a wave of empathy washes over me. Maybe I've judged him too harshly. After all, he was just looking out for my sister. And again, he still wants to turn me into DNA's soup.

“This feels important, I say, to war, clenching my fists. If the fate of humanity of everything is really at stake, then I think hope would want me to help however I can.”

My force, a smile, trying to hype myself up with false confidence. Besides, I can't imagine it's that bad. You are right. War tells me, his hands resting on my temples. It is much worse than you could ever imagine. You've been listening to his crooked gospel, part one by J.G. Martin. J.G. Martin writes about monsters and the things they get up to when we aren't looking. His work has been featured across a slew of podcasts captivating millions of listeners around the globe.

“Martin currently resides in British Columbia with his cat and editor, Opie. His ultimate dream is to one day own a secret layer behind a bookshelf.”

Well, there's a cliffhanger, but a damn good line to end the episode with. In fact, I am now officially changing the tagline for horror Hill, too. It's much worse than you could ever imagine. But what's much better than you could ever imagine is the conclusion of this epic space opera. Next week, all secrets will be revealed and you'll find out the ultimate fate of Isaiah Mitchell, his neurotic boss, the Vitarians, and even you, dear listeners. I can't bait the hook more than that. I hope to see you then, and until that time, stay spooky.

You've been listening to the horror Hill podcast, a production of chilling entertainment and the creative team at Chilling Tales for Dark Nights.

Got a terrifying tale of your own that you'd like performed, email it to us at [email protected] to have your work considered for future production.

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If you're looking for someone to narrate or handle audio production for your own personal project, I just so happened to know a guy. Email me at [email protected]. That's ERIK, P-E-A-B-O-D-Y-V-O-I-C-E at gmail.com, and we can talk details. If darkness is what you're after listener, your search is over. Yet, let it be known. You haven't found the darkness.

The darkness has found you. [BLANK_AUDIO]