I’ve been stationed at the South pole for nearly eight months now, and the isolation has done strange things to my mind. The cold, the darkness, the utter desolation of this place—it’s hard to describe how it eats away at you. But what’s more unsettling are the rules. The strange, almost ritualistic rules we have to follow to survive out here.
When I first arrived, I was eager, maybe even a little cocky. I’d been chosen for this mission because of my experience, my ability to handle extreme conditions. The older researchers briefed me on the standard protocol—safety drills, emergency procedures, the usual stuff. It all seemed straightforward, nothing I hadn’t handled before. But then, late one night over drinks, one of the veterans, a grizzled man named Frank, pulled me aside. His breath smelled like whiskey and secrets.
“You’re going to hear things,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And you’ll want to break the rules. But don’t. It’s the rules that keep us alive.”
At first, I laughed it off, thinking it was just some initiation hazing. But then, over the next few weeks, I started noticing things. Odd things.
The first rule is about the windows. “Never look out the windows after dark,” they said. I figured it was just a precaution against the cold or some strange form of light pollution. The darkness outside is absolute, the kind that seems to swallow you whole, and maybe that’s why the rule exists.
But one night, curiosity got the better of me. I was alone in the common room, the station silent except for the distant hum of the generators. The window, covered by heavy blinds, seemed to call to me, an urge gnawing at the back of my mind. I hesitated, my hand hovering near the cord, but then I pulled it open, just a sliver.
My blood ran cold. There was something out there, something tall and shadowy, with eyes that gleamed in the darkness. It stood motionless, watching me. I felt an overwhelming urge to go outside, to let it in. But I remembered the rule. I yanked the blinds down and stepped away, my heart pounding in my chest. The others never mentioned it, but I saw the knowing look in Frank’s eyes the next day.
The second rule is even stranger. “If you hear footsteps in the hallway, do not leave your room until morning.” This one unnerved me the most. We all live in a small, cramped station, and the hallways are narrow and echo with every sound. One night, around 2 a.m., I woke to the sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps just outside my door. They stopped right in front of my room, and I held my breath, staring at the crack under the door. The shadow of feet stood there for what felt like hours before slowly moving away.
I didn’t sleep the rest of the night, and the next morning, everyone acted like nothing happened. But I knew better. I’d seen the way some of the researchers stared blankly at the walls, like
they’d witnessed something they couldn’t explain.
There are more rules, of course. “Always take the long way around the main corridor after midnight.” “If you hear someone calling your name from outside, do not answer.” And perhaps the most unsettling one: “If you ever see someone inside the station that you don’t recognize, pretend you didn’t see them.”
It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? But I’ve learned the hard way not to question these rules. Because out here, at the end of the world, something ancient and unknowable lurks in the endless night. Something that thrives on those who break the rules.
The last rule, the one that haunts me the most, is simple: “Never, under any circumstances, go outside after dark.”
But I think, in some twisted way, it’s already too late for me. The thing I saw outside the window—it’s been getting closer each night. I can feel its eyes on me, even when I’m inside. And the worst part? I’m starting to feel the urge to break the rules.
I don’t know how much longer I can hold out.
Weeks passed, and the station settled into a routine. The endless night of the Antarctic winter had fully set in, casting the world outside into perpetual darkness. We worked by the light of fluorescents, the outside world a distant memory. The isolation, the darkness, it all began to blur together, turning time into an indistinguishable haze.
But then, one night, I broke the first rule.
I was in the common room, going over data with Emma, another researcher. We had lost track of time, engrossed in our work, when I realized how late it had gotten. The rest of the station was silent, the only sound the hum of the generators outside.
“I think we should call it a night,” I said, rubbing my eyes.
Emma nodded, stretching. “Yeah, probably. These numbers aren’t going anywhere.”
We packed up our notes and started towards our rooms. As we passed the window at the end of the corridor, I felt it—a nagging urge to look outside. The darkness beyond the glass seemed to beckon, promising something unseen.
I hesitated, my hand hovering near the blind. Emma noticed and stopped.
“Hey, what are you doing?” she asked, a slight edge to her voice.
“Just… I don’t know. I thought I saw something,” I lied, unsure why I felt compelled to look.
Emma’s expression hardened. “Don’t. Frank’s right about the windows.”
I laughed, trying to dispel the tension. “You’re not serious, are you? It’s just a window.”
Emma shook her head, and there was a fear in her eyes that made my heart skip a beat. “Just trust me. You don’t want to look.”
She turned and walked away, leaving me alone in the corridor. I stood there, staring at the closed blind, my hand trembling slightly. It was ridiculous, I told myself. Just a stupid superstition.
But then I heard it—a faint sound, like something tapping against the window. My breath caught in my throat. I knew I shouldn’t, but the curiosity was overwhelming, almost painful.
Slowly, I reached out and pulled the blind up, just a sliver. My eyes peered into the darkness, straining to see.
At first, there was nothing. Just the black void of the Antarctic night, vast and empty. I almost laughed at myself for being so paranoid. But then I saw it—movement, just at the edge of my vision.
Something tall and shadowy, a figure with eyes that gleamed in the darkness. It stood motionless, watching me. I couldn’t make out any details, but there was something horribly wrong about its silhouette, something that made my stomach churn.
And then it moved. Just a slight shift, but it was enough to break whatever spell had held me. I yanked the blind down, stumbling back from the window, my heart hammering in my chest.
I stood there, panting, my back pressed against the cold wall, trying to convince myself that it was just my imagination. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t. I had seen something out there, something that shouldn’t be.
The rest of the night passed in a blur. I lay in my bunk, staring at the ceiling, every sound amplified in the silence. The footsteps I’d heard so many nights before seemed louder now, more deliberate. But I didn’t dare open the door.
The next morning, I found Frank in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee. He looked at me, and I knew he could see the fear in my eyes.
“You looked, didn’t you?” he asked, his voice flat.
I nodded, unable to speak.
Frank sighed, setting his cup down. “They know you now. They’ve marked you.”
“Who?” I managed to ask, my voice barely a whisper.
“The things outside,” he said. “They’re not human. They’re not like us. They’re… something else, something older. They’re drawn to us, to the station, but the rules keep them out. You broke one, and now they know you.”
I stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. “What do I do?”
“Pray they lose interest,” Frank said, his expression grim. “And for God’s sake, don’t break any more rules.”
I wanted to ask more, to demand answers, but the look on Frank’s face told me there was nothing else to say. I had made a mistake, and now all I could do was wait and hope it didn’t cost me more than a few sleepless nights.
The days that followed were a waking nightmare. Every sound, every flicker of movement at the edge of my vision sent a jolt of fear through me. I tried to throw myself into work, to lose myself in the data, but the sense of being watched never left me. The thing I’d seen outside the window haunted my thoughts, its shadowy form etched into my memory.
Frank kept a close eye on me, and I could tell he was worried. He’d catch me staring at the windows or lingering in the hallways, and he’d pull me aside with a stern look.
“Don’t let them get to you,” he’d say. “They feed on fear.”
But how could I not be afraid? The isolation of the South Pole had always been a challenge, but now it felt like a prison, with something dark and malevolent lurking just beyond the walls.
One night, about a week after I’d broken the first rule, I woke to a sound that made my blood run cold. It was the same footsteps I’d heard so many times before, but this time they were different. Slower, heavier, as if whoever—or whatever—was out there was dragging something along the floor.
I lay frozen in my bunk, listening as the footsteps came closer, stopping right outside my door. The silence that followed was suffocating. I held my breath, praying that whatever it was would move on, but instead, it knocked. A single, sharp rap on the door that echoed through the tiny room.
I squeezed my eyes shut, every muscle in my body tensed. It knocked again, louder this time, more insistent. My mind raced, torn between the overwhelming urge to open the door and the fear of what I might find on the other side.
Then it spoke.
“Open the door,” it whispered, the voice a strange mix of familiarity and distortion. It sounded like Frank, but there was something off about it, something hollow and wrong.
“Open the door,” it repeated, a little louder. The voice was more frantic now, as if whatever was outside was growing impatient.
I pressed my hands over my ears, trying to block out the sound, but it was no use. The voice seeped into my thoughts, worming its way into my mind.
“Please, let me in.”
It wasn’t Frank. I knew that much. But the voice, the pleading tone, it tugged at something deep inside me, something primal. I could feel the cold seeping through the cracks in the door, and with it, a sense of dread that was almost tangible.
I knew I couldn’t open the door. I knew it was breaking the rules. But the voice… the way it called to me, it was like it was inside my head, urging me to just turn the handle and see what was waiting.
My hand moved on its own, reaching for the door handle, my mind screaming at me to stop. But the voice was too strong, too persuasive. My fingers brushed against the cold metal, and I felt a jolt of fear so intense it nearly knocked me off my feet.
Just as I was about to turn the handle, the door shook violently, as if something had slammed against it with all its might. I stumbled back, the spell broken, and the voice outside erupted into a furious, guttural growl. The thing outside pounded on the door, rattling it in its frame, but I was too terrified to move.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the pounding stopped. The silence that followed was worse, filled with the lingering echoes of that inhuman growl. I collapsed onto the floor, my heart racing, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. I didn’t dare. When morning finally came, I was a wreck. My hands shook as I made my way to the common room, and the others noticed immediately.
“You look like hell,” Emma said, her brow furrowed with concern. “What happened?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. How could I explain what had happened? How could I make them understand the terror I’d felt, the way the voice had nearly compelled me to break the rules?
Frank was there, watching me closely. He didn’t say anything, but I could see the realization in his eyes. He knew. He knew that I had almost opened the door.
“They won’t stop,” he said quietly when the others had left. “Not now. They know you’re weak.”
“What are they?” I asked, my voice trembling. “What do they want?”
Frank shook his head. “We don’t know. No one does. But they’ve been here longer than we have, longer than anyone. The rules are the only thing that keep them out, keep them from… getting to us.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demanded, a surge of anger bubbling up inside me. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”
“We tried,” Frank said, his voice tinged with regret. “But some things, you have to experience to believe.”
I wanted to argue, to lash out, but I was too exhausted, too scared. Instead, I sank into a chair, burying my face in my hands. Frank sat down across from me, his expression softer now.
“There’s one more thing,” he said, and I looked up, dreading what he might say next. “If they get in… if you let them in… there’s no coming back.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and final. I didn’t need to ask what he meant. The implications were clear. If I broke the rules again, if I let whatever was out there inside, I’d be lost, consumed by whatever darkness lurked beyond the station walls.
I nodded slowly, the weight of it all pressing down on me. I didn’t know if I could keep it together, if I could follow the rules and keep myself safe. But I had to try.
The next few days were a blur of paranoia and sleepless nights. I found myself jumping at every noise, every flicker of movement in the corner of my eye. The others tried to comfort me, to reassure me that as long as I followed the rules, I’d be safe. But their words rang hollow, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched, hunted.
The thing outside the window, the voice at my door—it was all too much. I was unraveling, and I knew it.
One night, after a particularly grueling day, I found myself standing in front of the window again. The urge to look outside was stronger than ever, gnawing at me, whispering in my ear.
“It’s just a window,” I told myself, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t true. I had seen what was out there, and yet I couldn’t stop myself from reaching for the blind.
I hesitated, my hand trembling. I knew the rules. I knew what was at stake. But the darkness outside seemed to call to me, pulling me in.
Before I could make a decision, a sound behind me made me freeze. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but I knew what it was. Footsteps, coming down the hallway, slow and deliberate.
I turned away from the window, my heart pounding in my chest. The footsteps were getting closer, the sound echoing off the walls. I knew I should go to my room, lock the door, and wait it out. But something kept me rooted in place.
The footsteps stopped just outside the common room. The silence was deafening, and I could feel the air grow colder, the temperature dropping rapidly.
Then, a voice called out.
“Help me.”
It was a woman’s voice, soft and pleading. I didn’t recognize it, but there was something familiar about it, something that tugged at my heartstrings.
“Please, help me,” the voice said again, more insistent this time.
I knew I shouldn’t answer. I knew it was a trap, another trick to get me to break the rules. But the desperation in the voice, the way it echoed in my mind, it was too much to ignore.
“Who’s there?” I called out, my voice shaking.
There was a long pause, and for a moment, I thought maybe it had gone away. But then the voice returned, this time closer.
“It’s me, Emma,” it said, and my blood ran cold.
Emma was asleep in her room, I was sure of it. But the voice, it sounded so much like her. So much like the person I had grown close to over these long, dark months.
“Let me in,” the voice pleaded. “I’m scared. Please, let me in.”
My mind was at war with itself, torn between the instinct to protect myself and the overwhelming need to help my friend. I couldn’t just leave her out there, could I?
But Frank’s warnings echoed in my head. This wasn’t Emma. It couldn’t be.
“Go away,” I whispered, barely able to get the words out. “You’re not real.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears, my breath coming in shallow gasps. But then, to my horror, the door to the common room slowly creaked open.
Standing in the doorway was Emma. Or something that looked like Emma. But her eyes—they were wrong. Hollow, empty, devoid of any life.
“Please,” she said again, stepping closer, her voice flat and emotionless. “Let me in.”
I backed away, stumbling over a chair, my heart racing. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. But the thing wearing Emma’s face kept coming, its expressionless eyes locked onto mine.
I knew I had to run, had to get out of there before it was too late. But my legs felt like lead, and the room seemed to close in around me.
Then, just as the thing reached out to touch me, the lights flickered and went out, plunging the room into darkness.
I screamed, scrambling to my feet, and bolted for the door. I didn’t know where I was going, just that I had to get away. The hallway was pitch black, the only light coming from the faint glow of the emergency exit signs.
I ran, my footsteps echoing off the walls, the cold air biting at my skin. I could hear something behind me, something that sounded like laughter, but twisted and distorted.
I rounded a corner, skidding to a stop as I came face to face with Frank. He looked at me, his eyes wide with fear, and I knew he could see the terror in mine.
“It’s after me,” I gasped, barely able to catch my breath. “It’s Emma, but it’s not her…”
Frank grabbed my arm, pulling me along. “Come on, we have to get to the control room.”
We ran together, the thing behind us growing louder, its footsteps echoing through the station. I could feel its presence closing in, a cold, malevolent force that seemed to sap the warmth from the air.
Finally, we reached the control room, slamming the door shut behind us. Frank quickly locked it, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the keys.
“What was that?” I demanded, my voice high and panicked. “What the hell is happening?”
Frank turned to me, his face pale. “They’re getting stronger. Every time someone breaks the rules, they get closer to breaking through.”
“Breaking through?” I echoed, my mind racing. “What do you mean?”
“There’s a barrier,” Frank said, his voice low. “A thin one, between our world and theirs. The rules keep them out, keep us safe. But every time we slip, every time someone gets curious, it weakens. They can cross over, take our forms, mimic us…”
His words sent a shiver down my spine. I had seen it with my own eyes, the thing that looked like Emma, but wasn’t her. It had almost gotten me, almost lured me into breaking the rules again.
“What do we do now?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Frank hesitated, his eyes flicking to the door. “We wait. We wait for them to lose interest, to go back to wherever they came from.”
“And if they don’t?”
He didn’t answer, and the silence that followed was more terrifying than any words he could have said. We were trapped, alone in the dark, with something hunting us. And I wasn’t sure we could survive it.
The hours dragged on, each minute an eternity. We huddled together in the control room, the faint hum of the machines the only sound breaking the oppressive silence. The thing outside—the thing that wasn’t Emma—circled the station, its footsteps a constant reminder of the danger we were in.
I could feel my sanity slipping, the tension eroding my resolve. The rules that had once seemed so strange, so arbitrary, now felt like the only thing holding back the floodgates of some unimaginable horror.
But how long could we keep them? How long before the isolation, the cold, and the fear drove us to make one final, fatal mistake?
I didn’t want to find out. But deep down, I knew the rules were only delaying the inevitable. Out here, at the end of the world, surrounded by darkness and cold, something ancient was stirring. And it was hungry.
We waited, the hours turning into days, the days into weeks. The thing outside never left, its presence a constant weight on our minds. We slept in shifts, always keeping watch, always on edge.
But one night, when it was my turn to watch, I made the final mistake.
I had been staring at the monitors for hours, the static and snow of the camera feeds making my eyes burn. The control room was silent, save for the faint hum of the equipment.
Then, on one of the screens, I saw it. The thing that looked like Emma, standing outside the station, just within the range of the camera. It stared directly into the lens, its hollow eyes boring into mine.
It raised a hand, pressing it against the glass, as if trying to break through. And then, in a voice that was both Emma’s and not, it spoke.
“Come outside. We need you.”
My mind was screaming at me to look away, to ignore it, but my body refused to listen. I found myself rising from my chair, my feet moving toward the door.
“Come outside,” it repeated, and the voice echoed in my skull, drowning out everything else.
I reached for the door handle, my hand trembling. The cold from outside seeped in, and I felt a rush of fear, but I couldn’t stop myself.
Just as my fingers touched the handle, the door burst open. Frank’s face appeared in the doorway, his eyes wide with panic. He grabbed me, pulling me back into the room with a force that knocked the breath out of me.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he growled, slamming the door shut. “You’re staying right here.”
I collapsed to the floor, shaking, as the realization of what I’d almost done hit me like a freight train. I had been so close to breaking the last rule, to letting them in.
Frank knelt beside me, his expression softening. “I told you,” he said quietly. “There’s no coming back if you break the rules.”
I nodded, too shaken to speak. I had seen what was out there, had almost succumbed to its call. But Frank had saved me—this time.
The rest of the night passed in a haze of fear and exhaustion. We didn’t speak much, just sat there, listening to the thing outside as it circled the station, its footsteps growing fainter as the hours dragged on.
When morning finally came, the thing was gone. But the memory of it lingered, a dark shadow that hung over me, reminding me of how close I had come to losing everything.
Frank never left my side after that. He kept a close watch on me, always there to pull me back when the darkness tried to take hold.
But I knew, deep down, that I couldn’t stay forever. The isolation, the fear—it was all too much. The rules might keep us safe, but they couldn’t keep us sane.
So when the rescue team finally arrived, I didn’t hesitate. I left the station, left the rules, and the darkness behind.
But I knew I’d never be free of it. Not really. The things I’d seen, the things I’d almost let in—they would haunt me for the rest of my life.
And somewhere, out there in the endless night of the South Pole, they’re still waiting. Still watching.
Waiting for someone else to break the rules.