S14E15 - "Star Scream (Part 2)" - Horror Hill

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As such, certain stories include content that some listeners might find offensive. Listener discretion is advised. Good evening listeners, welcome back to Horror Hill. I'm your host, Eric Peabody, and tonight we're concluding J.G. Martin's Space Epic, his crooked gospel, which we began last week.

If you haven't yet listened to that episode, I recommend starting there first, but for

the rest of you, here's a quick recap.

“Our narrator is Isaiah Mitchell, an agent with a secret government agency investigating the”

crash of a giant UFO in the New Mexico wilderness. But this isn't the first time that Isaiah has met these extraterrestrials. For years, he's had nightmares of being abducted as a boy, and now is starting to suspect that these dreams were in fact repressed memories. As a child, racing on his bike through the woods to get to the hospital and see his dying

sister, Isaiah was taken on board an alien craft. There he met two Vitarians, advanced reptilian creatures that informed him that he would be melted down and replaced by a clone, as part of a planned counteract of being of great power and malevolence. With some quick bargaining, Isaiah convinces the aliens to at least tell him why this

needed to be done, and they begin to recount a sprawling tale that spans centuries. The Vitarians civilization had become infected with a virus that struck their race immortal yet infertile. They found solace in a new religion called "The Way of the Chosen" and all non-believers were exiled.

One of those exiles known only as "The Heretic" seeded life on our Earth, and after seeing the potential that the human race demonstrated, created an ultimate being known as "The Renewa," human in form, but possessed of the ability to adapt and evolve to any adversity and with lightning's speed.

At the end of last week's episode, the Renewa had finally found and confronted the Heretic.

Tonight, we learn the fate of Isaiah, the Renewa, and the entirety of the cosmos. 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 darknights.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. And now, from author J.G. Martin, I give you his crooked gospel, part 2. The Recall Images riot past me, a torrential downpour of cosmic memory.

I'm falling again, spiraling out of my body and mind, plummeting into the collective history of the Vitarian species, millennia, flash by and heartbeats, epochs become blurs. My very consciousness strains under the weight of it all, like a white hot sphere of mental

And then, it cools.

“The maelstrom of history coalesces, focusing like a lens zeroing in on a singular moment.”

Once again, I'm observing the spacecraft orbiting Saturn's rings, a fragile bubble of life

amidst the vast indifference star scape. Within it, the heretic and runaway stand frozen in time. Their words poised to rewrite the very nature of existence. They've come from my world before. The runaway murmurs, his eyes flickering as he sifts through the heretics memories.

I see it now. The great lizards, wiped from existence. Their strike was cataclysmic, bringing the planet to its knees, making molten gold scream from its wounds. If they return.

Yes, the heretic confirms, his clawed hand pressed against the observation window.

“In the inky void beyond, a green speck, earth, floats, magnified by digital overlay.”

Should they come again? They will ensure nothing remains for cosmic dust. Your very existence terrifies them for you are beyond their comprehension. The runaways brow furrows. What if I could make them understand?

If I were to journey to the realm of the chosen, to prove I'm not some instrument of destruction. Would they forgive you then? Would they spare my world? If the heretics pupils contract to beads, a display of grim concern. I fear not, a millennium of peace couldn't sway them to trust you.

It goes against their very nature. In their eyes, you will forever remain a false god.

“False, God, the runaway echoes, the words alien on his tongue.”

Yes, a pretender. The runaways eyes narrow, a spark igniting within them. If I am a false god, then what is a true one? The heretic taps a finger against his temple. It would be simpler for you to see for yourself.

The runaways expression hardens, his jaws set with determination. The heretic feels a cool whisper as his son's consciousness slips into his mind. The runaways eyes become slits, his lips pressing into a thin line as he delves deeper and deeper into the vast ocean of the heretics knowledge. Suddenly, he recoils, sucking in a sharp breath.

Him, the runaway gasps, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and terror. The heretic kneels, placing a comforting claw on his son's trembling leg. Yes, the distant one. He is the deity of the chosen, the purported omnipotence that exists just beyond the reaches of the universe.

And the edge, the runaway whispers, his voice quivering with a cocktail of fear and excitement. He turns to the heretic, his eyes alight with a feverish curiosity. Have you ever visited this place? The edge.

Never, the heretic says, shaking his head.

It is a realm beyond reach. Countless Vitarians have embarked on pilgrimages, but none have returned. If the universe can be called hostile to life, then the edge, it harbors an active, implacable malevolence toward it, all who seek it are consumed. The runaway false silent, his gaze drifting back to the star speckled void, even his

unfathomable mind seems to struggle with the weight of these revelations. Moments stretch into minutes, minutes into hours. The heretic attempts to speak, sensing a shift in his son, but the runaway remains unresponsive, motionless, his eyes unblinking. At last, the runaway's lips part, his voice, barely a whisper.

I should have realized long ago that these humans were not like me, and nor for that matter are you. A tear escapes the corner of his eye, followed by another, and another, until they cascade down his cheeks in a quiet river. The heretic, recognizing this display of human sorrow, moves to comfort his son, but the

runaway shrinks from his touch. I was born of humans, the runaway sense, his words fracturing under the weight of his grief.

Their genetic influence torments me, driving me toward this, inescapable need for companionship

“and connection, but these humans, they offer nothing to state this hunger.”

Their experiences are too limited to grant me wisdom. Their perspectives too narrow to afford me knowledge. My mind expands with each passing moment, my capabilities growing beyond measure. I sit before you, evolving still and yet, his voice breaks. I would throw it all away to be like them.

He turns, locking eyes with a heretic. Why? He pleads, why did you make me this way, father? The heretics voices brittle, shattered by the suffering in his child's words. I am, sorry, he says, the words feeling wholly inadequate.

I never meant to burden you with such an existence.

“If it were in my power, I would take away your pain and an instant.”

The runaway turns away, his knuckles cracking as his hands clench into fists. He raises an arm, wiping away the tears with a swift angry motion. Perhaps, he says, his voice low and determined, "You already have, father." My child, the heretic asks confusion in his tone. I don't understand your meaning.

The connection, the runaway explains, rising to his feet. He leans his forehead against the cold surface of the observation window, staring out into the abyss, his dark hair falls across his hollow eyes. I will find it, father.

Someone like me, someone who truly understands what it means to exist without limitations,

to stand above all other forms of life unburdened by ignorance. An uneven smile slips across his lips. I will find God. How is it going? It's going to be a mess.

Now, you can try it out. I'm going to find talent for all jobs. Twelve October 1991. My consciousness crashes back into me like an asteroid impact. Every nerve ignites electricity coursing through my limbs and violent spasms has something

powerful holds me down. My vision swims into focus and I see him looming above me gripping my shoulders. His eyes are wide with a mixture of concern and fascination. Behind him, Kaz hovers anxiously. Both of their pupils are pulsing like strobe lights.

You saw? They ask, and perfect unison, their voices thrumming with urgency. I take a breath. My muscles relaxing and mind slowing is the effects of the collective recall leave my psyche. More than before, my croak.

The runaway, he went in search of God or the distant one. Is that right? War nods solemnly. Yes, the runaway sought out the distant one in the edge. I apologize for the abrupt extraction.

“After biometrics indicated extreme stress, how do you feel human?”

Fuzzy. I'm utter. Blinking away the last vestiges of disorientation. But, I'm okay, I think. I look up at the vytar pair, suddenly aware of the tension crackling between them.

Is everything alright? They exchange loaded glances, Kaz hoffs sound like grinding boulders before stalking back to his console. His clawed feet click ominously against the metal deck.

We extracted significant data during your recall. War explains practically vibrating with enthusiasm. This could prove invaluable to our mission, exponentially increasing humanity's chances of survival.

That's incredible, I exclaim, a spark of hope igniting in me.

“So does this mean you're scrapping the whole "turning me into human soup" thing?”

"Oh, no," war says gleefully. Your genetic material has become even more valuable. By combining it with a neurological data harvested during your recall, we can dramatically accelerate the development of our countermeasure. The spark of hope in me gutters and dyes.

Maybe it's the lingering effects of the sedative, or perhaps I've simply reached my limit for cosmic disappointments, but something inside me snaps, and I round on war, my voice trembling with barely contained fury. So that's it. I get this close to understanding the biggest asshole in the universe, and instead of answers,

you're just going to liquefy me, that's my reward.

Human, war begins, but I cut them off, my emotions boiling over. No, you listen, I've been nothing but cooperative. If what you're saying is true, if my data has actually helped turbocharge humanity's salvation or whatever, then don't I at least deserve to see how the runaway story ends? Don't I deserve to see what I'm throwing away my life for?

Listen, human, cause thunders startling me. I turn to find him fixing me with an intense stare. You will enter the recall once more. I blink, caught off guard. I, I will?

Yes.

Wars, pupils, shrink, and unease.

But Kaz, enough, Kaz interrupts his own pupils flaring. The human has aided our efforts at great personal risk. We offered closure, at his time we delivered. He takes a deep breath, his booming voice softening as he addresses me directly.

“However, you must understand the gravity of your request.”

There exists a possibility you may not emerge from this recall. The experience could destroy your mind entirely. Fear closet's way up my throat. War begins to pace, agitation evident in every movement. Kaz, consider the implications.

Another recall could compromise our ability to harvest the human's DNA. After our recent discovery, Kaz cuts him off, his tone, Kurt, and final. When the heretic created these humans, he did so believing that one day they would choose their own destiny, perhaps that day has come. War turns back to me, desperate.

Your last recall provided us with invaluable data. If you go back, if your mind fractures, we may lose our best chance at saving humanity from the runaway. I shift uneasily, feeling like a rope in some cosmic tug of war, both vital or staring at me intently.

“It's like being offered the series finale of the most important show in the universe, but”

told that watching it might doom all of humanity. The weight of the decision is almost paralyzing. And if I can handle it, I ask, carefully weighing each word. If I survive another dip into the recall, is there a chance you could extract even more useful data?

Could I maybe accelerate this salvation even more? Unlikely, Kaz replies. But not impossible, right? His pupils pulse slowly, and I recognize the Rye amusement. Correct.

There is a slim possibility that additional data could further accelerate our countermeasures development. However, consider your sister, hope. If your genetic material is compromised, we cannot produce a viable clone. She will face her final moments without the comfort you wish to provide.

It's true. The thought of hope, dying alone, thinking I'd abandon her, is almost unbearable. And yet, I know, my sister, hope wouldn't want me to pass up a chance to save the universe, no matter what it cost. I take a deep breath, stealing myself.

Do it, I tell them, show me how this ends. The recall. My mind catches fire.

For the third time, I descend into the collective recall, and this time, I know I can't

take it. My thoughts begin to burn up.

“My memory is ignite, scorching to ashes as they're blown into the void.”

I'm losing time, losing all sense of self. My name. What was it again? Isaac? Ian?

No, something else.

My birthday, how old am I?

14, 48, Christ. I'm watching myself fall to pieces from the inside out, and it's terrifying. I'm forgetting who I am, what I am, human, vitarian, who am I, and then it stops. All of it.

“The cacophony of panic, the missing memories, and the impossible fear, it all fades”

to black. No, not black, space. I'm gazing out across the canvas of space. There's a ship there, a gleaming craft floating beyond a planet with rings, and suddenly piece by piece, the memories come back.

This is Saturn, the ship belongs to the Heretic. And I'm here to investigate, I'm here to learn at last how this ends. I peek within, and the Heretic paces relentlessly, his mind is storm of unease. The runaway is gone, vanished in pursuit of God, the distant one, or the edge. Whatever he's after, he's nowhere to be found.

The Heretic is worried, he does not think of his creation as volatile, as threatening, but

“if it were to make contact with the edge.”

That place where the laws of physics become unknowable and violent, then there's no telling what will happen, the consequences are, unfathomable. No, he must intercept his child before he reaches the outer limits of existence. He must stop the runaway at all costs. But his ship, advanced as it is, lacks the capability to track him, his options are limited.

He knows what must be done yet, it scares him for there will be consequences, but perhaps not worse than the consequences of inaction. With trembling hands, he contacts the chosen. Today have the resources he needs, commanding the vast fleet of surveillance drones scattered throughout the cosmos.

If they grant him access to these, perhaps, just perhaps, he can locate the runaway in time. He might persuade his child to remain within the bounds of our reality. The communication channel crackles to life. The chosen's fury is immediate, palpable even across billions of light years. What have you done, they thunder, their collective voice resonating with rage.

Your arrogance has doomed us all.

It was never my intention, the heretic pleads his voice quavering.

If we act swiftly, we can intercept him before he reaches the edge. There is still time to make this right. Remain where you are, they order. The heretic complies, for he is no fool, he knows his reckoning has arrived. This is a disaster millennia in the making, and now he must face it head on.

The chosen descend upon him like avenging angels, imprisoning the heretic for his sins. They deploy a fleet to intercept the runaway, and they nearly do. But he breaches the edge just as they near. They watch, in horror, as he vanishes beyond the furthest reaches of the universe, trespassing into the realm of eternity itself into the domain of their God.

Months become years, years become decades, the chosen torture the heretic. They demand he tell them everything he knows about the runaway, and he does, holding nothing back, save for the birth of the human race. That is a secret that he cannot reveal. Humanity must endure.

He believes they may yet be our only hope against the runaway. Decades stretch into centuries. The heretic languishes in chains buried in a lightless prison beneath the surface of a dead

The chosen, nervous of the runaway returning, keep the heretic alive, they believe they may

yet need him.

“A hundred years pass, then, nine hundred more.”

On the thousandth anniversary of the runaway's blasphemy, a scout ship reports an anomaly near the edge, space there is behaving strangely. It's a phenomenon they've seen only once before when the runaway stepped beyond the edge to find God. As they converge, a collective gas buripples through the recall, the runaway, and the

wrapped the runaway, as they converge, a collective gas buripples through the recall, the runaway has changed.

Gone is the human form, in its place floats an entity both familiar and alien.

Its body now shallow and elongated twists in impossible geometries, eyes, once windows to a human soul have sunk in into abyssal voids. Images cascade through the collective recall, searing themselves into the consciousness of every vitarian.

“The heretic summoned before the high council, trembles as he beholds what his creation”

has become. This, this is not him, he whispers, his voice, cratering. This is not my son. And what is it, they demand, their pupils pulsing with fear and trepidation. But if the heretic knows, he does not speak of it.

He watches into attached horror, his whole body trembling as a thousand military vessels surround the runaway. Yet, his son does not flee. He floats idly just beyond the edge, unbothered by the building threat around him. Herender booms the flagship, or we will be forced to open fire.

Fire, the runaway answers, his words echoing across the universe, you know nothing of fire.

“With a twist of his wrist, the runaway unleashes a nightmare.”

A thousand warships shatter like glass, erupting in serulean and obsidian flames. Although feeds blink out one by one, leaving only static in their wake. A lone surveillance droid, distant and unnoticed, captures the unfolding carnage. It beams the footage to the high council and the heretic, who weeps silently, drowning into spare and regret.

But the high council has had one thousand years to prepare for this. They are not yet finished. As the last of the warships burned to dust, they reveal a ring of planets surrounding the runaway. These planets have come a long way.

They have been carted from distant solar systems, distant galaxies, and they have come here for one reason. To become dust. With the flick of a switch, ancient engines roar to life, a hundred worlds lurch forward accelerating towards their target, their surfaces quake, their molten cores churning with

building momentum. One by one, they collide with the runaway, burying him beneath the solar system, the result in shock waves shaking the galaxy. Light years away, the high council watches with baited breath. The heretic, however, doesn't dare to look up.

Or he knows this godlike display of force is nothing compared to a god itself. As the last of the planets impact the runaway, as the last of their fire and fury fades to scattered rubble, he is revealed to be a mangled corpse. His torrent carcass floats between the debris, pieces of him are scattered millions of miles apart, and these images are shared across the collective recall.

Harry and his rejoice proclaiming the fall of the false god the unseeding of the pretender from his crooked throne. But their celebration is short lived.

Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, the fragments of the runaway begin to coalesce.

Shattered limbs slammed together, skull fragments fuse, and from this cosmic jigsaw emerges an abomination that defies comprehension.

Its bulb is head draped with whispers of white hair, houses a dozen eyes, each swirling with

a vortex of cosmic abyss. The heretics hearts sink.

“This thing before them is no longer his child, no longer alive in any recognizable sense.”

It is transcended life, death, and everything in between. It is something new, something less. But the high council is not convinced. A thousand years is a long time, and it's longer still for a race as advanced as the vytar. They have suffered wars that have ended solar systems turned whole galaxies into

wastelands, and so they are no strangers to violence. This, runaway, he will learn his place, one way or another.

Those planets were never meant to end the monster.

No, they were merely an opening solvo, a distraction to give the high council time to prepare their real weapon. And now, the fuse is lit.

“In the static-laced feed of a distant drone, the heretic watches as a red, hyper-giant star”

begins to pulsate. Tendrils of plasma lash out from its swollen surface, it, throbs, hums with building energy. This isn't the most powerful weapon in the vytarian arsenal, and they're triggering it on one of the largest stars in all the universe. Supernova

There's a flash of light and the drone feed goes dead. Another drone is tapped from a neighboring system, and it reveals a terrible sphere that's growing. It's an explosion that's engulfing everything within millions, billions of miles. It's stretching outward, consuming everything in its path, planets, stars, and entire solar

systems are vaporized in the cosmic inferno of a dying Titan.

“When the light finally fades, it reveals nothing.”

Multiple star systems reduced to less than ash, all wiped from existence. Even the runaway is no more. It seems too good to be true. The heretic wants to believe, but he can't. He knows just what his creation is capable of, having already seen it recover from being splintered

into pieces and scattered across space. He may be atomized, but, and there, cold, dread grips the heretics hearts. Slowly, pieces of matter begin to grow in the void. They grow, and they grow, reforming until the runaway's screaming mouth emerges from a body now wholly unrecognizable as human.

It's a skeletal figure, long and decrepit, with dozens of limbs and a thousand. Teeth, its eyes have become one, and within it there is emptiness. But the Vitarians aren't finished, at the epicenter of the fading supernova, a new horror takes shape, matter and light are drawn inexorably inward, spiraling towards a singularity of unimaginable power.

The hypergiant's death throws have given birth to a supermassive black hole, its gravitational pulse so immense that even distant galaxies feel its hunger. The runaway writhe is helplessly. He's weakened, still reeling from the largest explosion since the birth of the cosmos. The eventurizing calls to him.

It beckons, dragging him toward the most powerful trash compactor in all the universe, and

for the first time in millennia, he feels what it means to be powerless. Across the collective recall, the high-counsel's triumphant declaration reverberates. Now we will crush him. A thunderous cheer erupts from Vitarian throats. Now we will break his bones.

The cheer swells, a tidal wave of hope and vengeance. Now we will unmake the unmaker. Their voice is rise to a fever pitch, a symphony of victory. We do this for all chosen to bring glory to the distant one. The euphoria spreads like wildfire.

manifesting in song, dance, and fervent prayer.

“Forms raised, skyward, they chant ancient scriptures certain that their judgment day has”

arrived. This, they believe, is their final test. Their gateway to ascension, to joining the distant one in the edge. But the heretic sees what they cannot. As the high-counsel exchanges, congratulations.

The heretic's gaze remains fixed on the unfolding tug of war. He notices a subtle shift, the black holes pull on the runaway begins to wane.

The abominations velocity drops from millions of miles per second to thousands, then mere

hundreds. And as he approaches the event horizon, where the very fabric of space-time warps and tears,

“the runaway does something he hasn't done in a millennium.”

He opens his mouth. He takes a breath, and this black hole, this unfathomable, behemoth capable of devouring entire solar systems, is drawn into him like whispers of smoke. His grotesque jaws snap-shut, swallowing, the unswaluable. I had almost forgotten the runaway raps, his gutter-all voice echoing in the minds of all

of creation, what pain feels like. He blinks out of existence. Terror etches itself across the faces of the high-counsel. The heretic collapses racked by sobs, for he alone knows that what comes next will be a horror that none can imagine.

Since this, he pleads voice cracking with despair, and thus all, and in his mind he hears screaming, in all of their minds they hear screaming, chaos erupts across the collective recall. They watch his vitariance flee and blind panic pursued by a mangled creature with an eye like a melting star.

He is here, the runaway has come. You, the high-counsel, roars rounding on the heretic, we showed you leniency, but it's clear that the distant one demands your blood. A foot presses down on the heretics head, an executioner's blade glints in the harsh light. Please, the heretic gasps.

If you have any sense, you'll grant this entire planet the mercy of death. This began with you, they snarl, and so a challenge with you, and the blade comes down. The heretics head is cleaved from his body, and as his consciousness begins to slip, his final wish is for everything they said to be true. The high-counsel scours the recall, their desperation mounting with each passing moment.

Surely, they think, the distant one will intervene at any second.

He will smite this abomination, this evil-made flesh, and they will ascend to join him.

“They've proven their loyalty, the heretic is dead, isn't he?”

What more is their left for them to do? But the screaming doesn't stop. The recall is flooded with endless suffering, a torrent of pleas for aid and mercy. Helpless, the high-counsel bears witness his vitarians are pulled apart, piece by piece. They watch, as the runaway infiltrates their very consciousness, cutting up their thoughts

and marrying the agony of their bodies with the agony of their minds. Please, the high-counsel bags, prostrating themselves on the floor. Help us, distant one! A deafening crack splits the air. The runaway, materializes before them, levitating above their table.

His torso is a writhing mass of limbs, his large eye blazing with the heat of a billion dead stars.

His form is draped in a grotesque patchwork of blood and skin, none of it is to wear. Deliver us from this evil, the high-counsel cries. Restore that which is holy, they plead, unmake the pretender, they beg. Destroy the false God, they shriek. And the runaway spreads a dozen crooked arms, tilts his grotesque head.

And for the second time, in a thousand years, he takes a breath.

He tells them, "I already have..."

Twelve October, 1991.

“I'm drowning in vomit, strong hands wrench me to the side, what's left of my dinner splatters”

across the deck, and I hack, sputter, my eyes are bulging, my heart is racing, and it feels like a hundred tiny explosions are going off across the surface of my brain. Human, Kaz's voice cuts through the haze, he turns my face towards him, "Human, respond!" A weak noise escapes me, words tangle on my tongue as I struggle on all fours. I'm alive, my rasp, each syllable of battle.

An hour, war says, "Fingers combing through my sweat-matted hair." You were gone, an hour. We readied the vat for your corpse, hoping to salvage what scraps of data we could. He gestures to a sunken tank, drained of the Azure fluid that fills the others. The world's smear of color, slowly sharpening into focus.

“I'm okay, I manage. Just a little woozy. Did you witness it?”

War asks, "Vitars and... yeah, I croak. But that was forever ago. Where's the runaway now?" War and Kaz are quiet, and says, "Though they're not certain how to go about answering the question, like they're worried it'll unearth memories better left buried."

He remains on Vaitar. Kaz finally says, "I's downcast. He is... savering our people's

torment. He dissects them, body and mind, and when death claims them, he puts them back together once more, begins a new. None can escape." War nods, a slight tremor in his voice. We were off-world when he struck, monitoring the edge. When the recall showed us those images, we fled. "He'll find you," I say.

"Oh, yes. War's voice is a whisper. He will find us, the Earth, everything. Once he tires of our kind, he will deliver his pain upon humanity. Your predisposition toward companionship birthed his turmoil drove him to confront our God, and I do not believe he is capable of forgiving you for this." I shake my head, mind-reeling. It's almost too much to imagine. Some omnipotent, sadist, torturing millions for thousands of years, remaking them every

time they die. "How?" I choke out. "How do you stop that?" I mean, they hurled freaking solar systems

“at him, supernova's, black holes? What can a couple of Vaitarians possibly do?”

We will destroy him as we were destroyed. Kaz explains, resting a hand on a nearby van. Inside, floats a man, half-desolved, face melting away, and we will destroy him as he was created. We are designing a virus of hyper-evolution mirroring the runaway's own capabilities, but this virus will outpace even his adaptations, it will consume him from within. My gaze sweeps the room, vats of liquified humans, tubes, snaking out of them into a central console,

a topit sits a capsule, its contents roiling, seething. "That's it?" I ask, nodding towards the capsule. The virus? Yes, wars pupils contract. It is unfinished, but we pray it will be ready before he turns the sights to your world. "How long?" my voice is barely audible. "214 years," Kaz intones. Tears well in my eyes. "Two centuries?" That's an eternity, "What if?" "Correction?" War interrupts, studying the readout on his arm. That was our

previous estimate. Your recall data has accelerated our timetable considerably, and assuming your deconstruction goes smoothly. His long fingers tap the display. It may be ready

in as little as 33 years. 33. It might as well have been a million knowing what we were

up against. And what do you call it? I ask. The virus, I mean. Kaz tilts his head. Query unclear. A name serves no purpose. The virus has a function and it will either succeed

Come on, Kaz. This thing is the universe's last hope. It's humanities. That's a big deal,

“isn't it? Something like that deserves a name. It deserves to be remembered.”

Wars readout flashes. Your cortisol is spiking human. Your clone will have no memory of this, so such an emotional response is illogical. Additionally, we must begin deconstruction immediately if you wish to visit your sister before she expires. The clone will require a day's preparation. I open my mouth to speak, but I don't know what to say. Tears leak from my eyes. I sniffle, wiping at them as I feel my heart crushed beneath the weight of my grief.

My sister. Hope. She's dying in the hospital, and I won't even get to say goodbye. The best show get is some lab-grown copycat. And on top of that, there's a mad god rampaging across

the universe that could show up on our doorstep at any second. My leg is given out. My crumpled

to the floor, and for the first time since I was little, I cry my eyes out. I lean my head against the vat of a dead person, and I start to ball. For hope, for myself, for every vitarian who's dying over and over just to satisfy the twisted whims of a cosmic sadist. A hand grips my shoulder.

“I look up through a veil of tears. It is time. Cas says softly. Are you prepared?”

Sure, I'm utter. Why not? We all die someday, right? Cas helps me to my feet, guides me toward an empty vat. Human, Isaiah Mitchell. It distresses you that we have not named this virus. Why? I draw a shuddering breath,

drowning in my own emotions. I don't know. I fumble for words. It's the most important thing ever

created, and it's just nameless. It feels wrong. Can't you see that? No. He says simply, helping me into the vat. I step into the transparent tank, wishing I could be as emotionally hollow as the Vitarians, had might make this whole self-sacrifice thing easier. Liquid begins to flow, pooling around my feet. It tingles like anesthetic. What would you name this virus? Cas asks from above. What would I? I try to think that I can't bring myself to focus on the

virus, the fallen God, or even the end of the damn universe? All I can think about is her, my sister. I'm thinking about how much I'm going to miss her, how much I wish I could have said goodbye. I'm remembering the way she'd pull out a board game, close my bedroom door, and crank Bon Jovi to drown out mom and dad arguing. I'm remembering the dinner she'd cook us while our parents were passed out on the couch. I'm remembering all this and more.

Isaiah, Cas says, his voice growing distant. The name, the liquid is around my chest now. I squint up at Cas, my mind already beginning to feel slow and hazy. This is it, I realize, the final frontier. I give Cas a smile, and I say the last word I'll ever speak. Present day. Lisa leads me to the far reaches of the space craft, deep enough the crews

haven't gotten around to rigging it with lighting yet, so we're doing this the old fashioned way. Lisa's making shadow puppets with her flashlight. He have to admit this one looks like a giraffe, she says, twisting her fingers in a way that looks nothing like a giraffe. When you almost there, I grumble. She drops her hands with a dramatic sigh.

“Yeah, it's just a head. What's crawled up your ass tonight, Mitchell?”

I bristle. What's that supposed to mean? I mean, it's usually me that's all business. You're the dick everything slips off of like cellophane, but now you're all brooding and serious. Somewhat gives. She swings the flashlight into my eyes. Quit it, you trying to blind me? Just need to see your face, she laughs. Had to make sure the aliens hadn't possessed you or something. I roll my eyes so hard, I'm surprised they don't fall

out of my head. Give me a break. A break? You only just got to work. She quips,

This is our stop capped and workaholic. After you, scowling, I duck through the entrance.

“In the far corner, a cluster of portable lamps illuminates a team bustling around what looks like,”

"Oh God, a field of vats, each one housing a human corpse." It's real. I mutter. My stomach doing summer songs. Christ almighty. It's all real. Lisa Schulter's past me. All business now. Major Luca, she haulers. Major Luca, you in here? A woman in a lab coat and dust mask strides over. A camo green patch on her chest identifying her as our

target. Agents, she greets us, tucking down her mask. Glad you could make it. The bodies are this way.

Luca guides us through the labyrinth of tanks. Labtex hover over the vats, dipping collection rods to harvest DNA samples. Others drain viscous fluid with handheld pumps. My heart's doing the cha cha against my rib cage. This is it. The place that's been haunting my dreams brought to life in all the worst ways. Here we are. Luca announces, stopping in front of a great tarp. I crouch down, stealing myself as I lift the edge of it. Two massive corpses lie beneath,

their skin scaled, teeth like serrated knives, claws that could disembowel a grizzly, and tales that look strong enough to crush concrete. Once, I'd have called the monsters. Now they look like old friends. Their names are kez and war. Lisa lets out a low whistle circling the bodies. Nasty customers, huh? Good thing they weren't up in kicking when we busted in, but they'd have gone all xenomorph on our asses. She mimes a face hugger attack, complete with ridiculous expressions.

Luca chuckles. Meanwhile, I'm lost in my thoughts. I can't tear my eyes away from the dead Vitarians. How? How could they let this happen? They were the most advanced species in the history

“of the cosmos, so how the hell did they get shot down by something as archaic as an F-35?”

Did the pilot file a report? I ask. My voice distant. Lisa's eyebrows should up.

You're looking at the first real flesh and blood aliens that anybody's ever seen, and you're asking

about paperwork? She shakes her head. Mitchell, I'm telling you, you're losing it. The report, I insist, fighting to keep my voice level. What did the pilot see? Why did they fire on the UAP? Luca glances at Lisa, who heaves a suffering sigh. Fine, let's get this over with. Lisa says. The pilot picked up a weird signature on radar when to check it out. Says he saw this massive craft flickering in and out of existence. There, one second gone the next, real twilight's own

shit. Figured it might be some next gen Chinese tech, so we called it in. Before he could finish his report, though, the UAP fired off something. Something. I echo. My brain working over time.

“Like a weapon or... Lisa shrugs. Your guess is as good as mine. That's what the pilot assumed.”

No, it might be a preemptive strike, so he gave it hell, emptied everything he had into it. And what was it, really? What did the UAP actually launch? Like I said, no clue. Whatever it was, NASA tracked it hauling ass out of our atmosphere. Last ping they got was its screaming past Neptune about an hour ago. I shake my head, pieces of the puzzle starting to click. Maybe whatever the Vitarians fired took so much juice that they had to divert power from

everything else, cloaking, shields, the works. It's the only explanation that makes a lick of sense. No way in hell and F-35 should have been able to touch them otherwise. There's more, man. Major Luca chimes in. Her voice hushed and anxious. After I radioed about the bodies, my team found something else. We think it might have been the payload, or at least where it was housed before launch. Show me, I demand, shoulder and past Lisa.

Now, yes sir. The major hustles through the maze of vance and I'm right on our heels, chewing my thumbnail down to the quick. There's a knot of dread in my gut. A creeping certainty that my nightmares weren't just fever dreams. They were more real than I ever was. All around us her tanks of dissolving humans, and I can't help but wonder how many of their clones are walking around topside right now. Did the real Isaiah Mitchell feel anything as he melted away?

console. Another relic of my memories. She points to an empty pedestal on top, a circular hole

punched through its center. We think the payload was right here. She explains, her eyes darting over the row of vats, discussed twisting her features. Best we configure, the aliens were using human DNA to cook up some kind of bioweapon. That's probably you but they launched tonight.

“A bioweapon? Lisa says, breathless as she catches up. Christ, did I hear that right?”

Were they trying to wipe us out and just missed? Luca swallows hard, the color draining from her face. Maybe, or perhaps it operates on principle similar to an ICBM but scaled up. Instead of breaching our atmosphere and circling back, it's punching through our entire solar system. For all we know, whatever they launched is still accelerating out there. It could be coming back. Lisa fires off her response, Luca counters. They volley back and forth, their voices fading

to white noise. At some point I think Lisa might be trying to drag me into the conversation, but my mind is light years away. No, it's decades away. I take a step toward the console,

“drawn to that empty pedestal. This is where it's sad. The virus, war, and CAS had been building”

to destroy the runaway. And there, beneath it, a labor. It might be the only label in this otherwise unmarked ship obscured by dust and made faint by years of wear. Lisa grabs my arm. "Earth to Mitchell, you in there?" I mumbled something in response, but I couldn't tell you what. Words, just words. Just like the word beneath that pedestal. It's a word that brings back memories, but not memories of drifting corpses or imploding stars or outrich horrors in the end of creation.

No, this is a word that brings back memories of a hospital room. White, sterile. Inside of it, a girl is lying in a bed, and her skin is pallid in thin. She's having trouble breathing. Tubes are pouring into her throat, doing their best to keep her alive, but she doesn't have long.

This girl is dying, and she's the most important thing to me in the entire world.

Chen up, she's telling me, and her frail hand rests against my own. She's smiling. She's 17 years old, dying before she's had a chance to live, and she's smiling because she

“knows that's what I need to see. "Everything will be okay," she whispers. "You'll see."”

But I think about our mom and dad. I think about how right now they're passed out on the couch, and how maybe if I'm lucky, I'll drink themselves to death before I get home. I think about the bruises up and down my arms. I think about the moment my guardian angel intervened, pulling my dad off of me, just in time for him to shove her backward down the stairs. I think about the sound her body made as it hit the floor. How still she was.

And now I'm here, and she's smiling at me, and she's telling me that everything is going to be okay, even though I know that it isn't, I know that nothing will ever be okay ever again. "I don't want you to go," I tell her, and I squeeze her hand as gently as I can, tears pouring from my eyes. "Please, don't," and I know that it's selfish. I know that it's pointless. I know that my older sister is dying, whether I like it or not, and that putting this on her at

the very end is cruel. But I'm just a kid. I know if I don't try. I'm always wonder if it might have

worked. If maybe I had just asked, then she might have stayed. The machine that's beeping in tune with her heart starts to slow. She leans forward, presses her forehead to mine. "I, I have to go," she murmurs. "Petom, think for a second, I won't be watching over you." "Dizzy, Izzy." "Beep," I blinked back tears. "Promise?" "Beep." "Sure," she rasps, pulling me into a frail hug.

And we haul each other like that until the beeping stops.

"I'm talking to you," Lisa's voice cuts through my reverie like a knife. "Huh?" "Oh, now he speaks," Lisa's eyes are wild with panic. Her hair had disheveled mess. She fumbles with her flask, taking another long pull. "What's wrong?" I asked. She wipes her mouth with a back of her hand, her voice clipped and urgent. "Look," she says. "If this thing really is a bio-weapon, we need intel." Now, like yesterday,

just because we've lost visual doesn't mean it isn't coming back to bite us in the ass. She ranks out a crudely printed map, jabbing at it with a trembling finger.

Here's the plan. How coordinate a sweep of alpha through delta corridors. You take echo through

hotel. We're looking for anything. Records, data, a posted note with how to build a fucking doomsday-weapon scrolled on it. Got it? "Uh, right, my mumble, still half lost in my memories. I'm, I'm on at least." "Great," she's already moving, practically jogging away. Her fists clenched so tight I can see her knuckles turning white. "I'm fucked," she's muttering over and over. "There's a goddamn bio-weapon out there and I don't know Jack's shit about it.

I am so fucking fucked!" I looked back to the console to the empty pedestal where the virus

“once sat, and I think to myself that what Lisa's saying isn't quite true. We do know something about this.”

My fingers brushed the dust from beneath the pedestal, revealing the worn label. On it is a single word, scratched by a vitarian claw 30 years ago. "It's a name." A virus like this shouldn't need a name, has told me as much. But if it had one? Well, I think I would have named it after my guardian angel. I think I would have called it, help."

You've been listening to his crooked gospel part two 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.”

For a story with such huge breath handling some truly supernova-sized themes, J.G. Martin manages to stick the landing with a well-written and touching character moment. And in the meantime, we got some cosmic warfare on the scale that I don't usually see. I'll admit that the Warhammer 40K fan and me was hoping we were getting an alternate background

for the Emperor of mankind. But I can't be mad. J.G. That was an amazing story.

And I'm honored that I got to share it with you on. After a tale of that size, my voice is parched, so I'll wrap up here. Tune in next week for more horror-hill. And until then, 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. Tonight's episode was hosted

narrated, scored and finalized by yours truly, Eric Peabody,

“additional music by Nicky McSorley. 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. Note that any writing utilizing artificial intelligence is ineligible. If you enjoyed tonight's episode, why not help us spread our dark presence online? You can follow Chilling Tales for Dark Nights on social media, and upvote, subscribe, and hit the bell notification icon if you're listening to this on YouTube.

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personal project, I just so happened to know a guy. Email me at Eric Peabody [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. [Music]