Just Creepy: Scary Stories - TERRIFYING CRYPTID ENCOUNTER SCARY STORIES | Cryptid Encounter Horror Stories For A Chilling Night

Episode Date: August 14, 2023

These are 2 TERRIFYING CRYPTID ENCOUNTER SCARY STORIES | Cryptid Encounter Horror Stories For A Chilling Night Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►https://www.reddit.com/user/mrbeefthighs/ ►https://www.reddit.com/user/PageTurner627/ Timestamps: 00:00 Into 00:00:18 Story 1 00:06:55 Story 2 Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #cryptids #horrorstories #forest 💀As always thanks for watching! 💀

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Only on Peacock. People always talk about the number of monsters that reside in our country's vast tracks of uninhabitable land, the dense forests, deep caves, and the remote mountaintops, and the danger these creatures present to us. They're right to warn you, especially about the areas around our national parks. But did you ever stop to think about why the vast majority of people that go missing are last seen in some of our largest cities? For every one person that goes missing in the American wilderness, three vanish in our cities. Granted, some of these disappearances on both sides can be contributed to murders, accidents, kidnappings, or runaways.

But a growing number each year can be contributed to those things that live in the shadows, and it's getting worse, especially in our cities. Ask any homeless person on the street, they'll tell you. 99.99% of the people they tell will write them off as crazy, or under the influence. But I promise you they aren't lying. They saw a huge, sticky tongue latch onto a woman and pull her into a dumpster. So have I. They saw a little girl lure a man into an alleyway before pulling his arm off and lapping up the puddle of crimson. Not crazy. I've seen that too. A living shadow that envelops its victims in a suffocating black slime? I haven't seen that one, but I know a guy who did and I believe him. These things are all around us and you'll do well to listen to my story and take heed. This could save your life. A girl had gone missing, young, blonde, blue eyes, the kind that gets her feet. face all over the news when they go missing. Her name was Amelia Meager. I'm sure the entire city had

her name and face memorized by the time my story started. Seems like it was all they played on the news for a week. About a week after Amelia's disappearance, I was walking home from the bars drunk and cursing myself for not being able to close with the girl I was talking to when a voice called out to me. Normally I wouldn't have paid any attention. Not too many people you want to hang out with or on the streets after 2 a.m. but this was a woman's voice. Being the young guy that I was at the time, I came to a screeching halt and turned in the direction the voice called from.

The voice originated from a dark shadow beneath a highway overpass bridge. Hello? I called into the darkness, my eyes straining to pick up and shapes moving around in the inky black. Can you help me? The voice called back from somewhere in the darkness.

I think I'm lost. Something about the voice was strange. The cadence was something. slightly off. Like whoever was speaking was reading lines and didn't fully understand what they were saying, it reminded me of students reciting lines in Spanish class back in school. I still couldn't pinpoint where exactly the voice was coming from, as it reverberated between the buildings and the overpass above. Where are you? I said to the darkness still standing just outside the shadow of the overpass. I can't see you. I heard movement from within the shadow, not footsteps, but something dragging

along the ground. I'm here, the darkness said, closer now. I fixed my eyes on the source of the voice and as my eyes adjusted, a figure came into focus. Just faintly through the darkness I could make out a dirty white sundress. The ethereal glow of the fabric created a stark contrast against the darkness that enveloped her and made her facial features that much harder to see. I still can't see you, I strained my eyes, squinting into the dark, come out into the light. I watched the outline of the sundress move. It seemed to glide through the air slowly. I heard no footsteps, and I didn't hear the dragging noise either.

It came to a stop about four feet from its original position, still sequestered well within the shadow, but I could now see a little more. In the dim light I could see the blonde hair and blue eyes of Amelia meager. She was bruised and scabs dotted her face, arms and legs. A look of Cray's terror filled her eyes, like she was trying with all of her willpower to scream, but she couldn't.

Amelia? I asked, sobering up quickly. Are you Amelia? I took a step towards her. Please help me, Amelia said, as she abruptly reached a handout in my direction. I took a step back this time. Something wasn't right about her. The extending of her hand was too jerky and choreographed, and her mouth when she spoke was downright unnatural. Her jaw moved up and down in a chomping motion,

but her lips never moved. It was like watching a dubbed over foreign film, Nothing about this situation felt right at all, but I had to do something. This was Amelia Meager, the girl who had been all over the news for the last five days. I recognized her right away. I couldn't just leave her there. I had seen her family on television crying. I took another step towards her and reached my hand into the shadow to grab onto her extended hand,

when suddenly a car drove by. The headlights illuminated her for half a second, just as I was about to grab her. She wasn't standing, her bare feet hung pointed to the ground, her chipped toenails dragging along the cement. She had fine, barely perceptible threads intricately wrapped around her joints, her knees, wrists, elbows, and shoulders. A few other fine silky threads were attached on both sides of her jaw and both sides of her head. Her eyes were screaming at me. I've never in my life seen anyone look so helpless. In that half second of light, my eyes followed the thin strands of silk that attached.

to her joints, to their origin on the ceiling the overpass made above us. Barely visible, a giant hulking spider pressed up against the overpass. Each of its eight legs were manipulated by a strand of silk controlling their marionette below. I took two steps back out of the shadow, staring at the massive creature. I watched it twitch its legs, and my eyes darted back down to Amelia as she was dragged back into the darkness under the bridge to be used as bait for the next guy unlucky enough to walk in this direction. I left her there and I ran straight home. Amelia Meager was never seen again. I've seen a lot of weird shit in this city over the years, and stuff like that seems to be happening more and more often. I said all of this to say, don't think you have to be out in the

countryside to run into a monster. They are everywhere. Sometimes they even look just like you and me. You probably walk by a few of them every week without knowing. So, keep your head on your shoulders and don't do anything stupid unless you want to spend your last few days being used as bait like Amelia, or maybe even worse. June 15, 2021. During my first week at Outpost Aurora, I faced an unsettling cycle of sleepless nights and ceaseless days. This was a result of the unyielding Arctic sun that refused to set during the Alaskan summer.

It was challenging to acclimate to my tiny quarters, forcing myself to rely on the blackout blinds in my wristwatch to keep track of time instead of the ever-present sun. I had willingly traded the relative normalcy of Anchorage's 19-hour summer days for this endless disorientation, all in pursuit of my doctoral field research on the impacts of climate change on remote Inuit communities. Outpost Aurora, a climate research facility, accommodated around 30 inhabitants, a diverse group of scientists, researchers, and a handful of maintenance and support staff. As an anthropologist, I was somewhat of an oddity among the geologists, climatologists, and biologists who dominated the research team.

We got along well enough, but there was a clear professional disconnect. Their world revolved around weather data, rocks, and polar flora and fauna, while mine centered around the stories and experiences of indigenous people. Being the only Inuit-speaking researcher in this remote expanse of northern Alaska, I felt a profound obligation to chronicle and protect the rich oral traditions of the local communities before they were lost to the shifting snow and ice. I felt like I was straddling a fault line. I was the sole link between these isolated villages and the outside world.

On this particular evening, I'm engrossed in transcribing my interview with Katak, an elderly self-proclaimed shaman, boasting about harpooning a seal the size of a walrus, when a soft, slightly raspy voice broke my concentration. Dr. Callick, looking up from my work, I met the gaze of a young woman at the far end of my table. Her face was brightened by a warm smile. Her luminous blue eyes shimmered with an indescribable intensity, and a tangle of chestnut hair escaped from under her woolen beanie. I'm sorry, I replied, removing my headphones.

You're Dr. Noah Callick, right? she repeated. Well, technically, I'm still a Ph.D. candidate, I sheepishly clarified. My apologies, PhD candidate Noah Callick, she said, her tone dancing on the line of playfulness and sarcasm. I'm field technician Rebecca McKenzie, but you can call me Becca. Her joke garnered a genuine chuckle from me. And you can call me Noah, I said, extending my hand. She shook my hand. Tycoon, she exclaimed, clearly pronouncing the Inuit word for welcome. Intrigued, I asked, You speak Inuit? Just that and Ma'i Momaka, she admitted shrugging.

Struggling to contain my laughter, I corrected her. Um, Becca, you just said you're a musk ox. Her cheeks turned a bright shade of red. The village children told me it meant, Nice to meet you, she mumbled. I hope you didn't say that to a lot of people, I chuckled. Just to about a half dozen villagers. And to the site director, she admitted, her face paling in realization.

You said that to Dr. Anderson? I asked aghast. Oh dear. Yeah, but I don't think she knew what it meant either, Becca responded, which brought me to fits of laughter in which she soon joined. Anyway, Noah, she started as she pulled up a chair and sat across from me. I saw your name on the roster for tomorrow's ice core sampling trip. It's your first one, isn't it? Yeah, I said. The word stuck in my throat as I pictured the steep, ice-covered mountain range I had agreed to climb. You don't climb much, I'm guessing, she asked. I've done a fair bit of hiking and mountain climbing, but nothing on this scale, I confessed. I'm Inuit. We mostly stick to the lowland coast. Peering out the window, my gaze fell on the towering peaks dominating the horizon. The mountain we were to ascend was known to the locals as the Den of the Dead, an ominous title for anything, let alone a treacherous peak covered in ancient, shifting glaciers. The name was part of an old Inuit legend.

one of the many tales I had collected from the village elders. The story painted a picture of vengeful spirits purportedly inhabiting these glaciers, ready to wreak havoc on anyone audacious enough to disrupt their icy abode. While I didn't believe in spirits, the hazardous crevasses and unpredictable weather that awaited us felt like wrathful spirits in their own right. Becca could sense my apprehension. It's all right to be nervous, but don't worry. Dr. Anderson wouldn't send you out on your own.

You've been placed in good hands. Whose hands exactly? I asked skeptically. Her grin widened. Mine, actually. Raising an eyebrow, I wasn't sure whether to feel comforted or more concerned. Yours? What?

Don't look at me like that, Becca protested playfully. I've got plenty of experience. No offense, Becca, but you look like you just stepped out of an undergrad class, I told her. She laughed at my comment, but I noticed the pride in her eyes. Looks can be deceiving. I've navigated those people. passes dozens of times, I can handle both of us. So what's it like being up there in the glaciers, I asked. It's an incredible experience. When you hold an ice core in your hands, it's like you're

touching history, feeling the earth's past in your palms, she explained. Well, when you put it that way, I said, finding her description oddly relatable. I'm almost looking forward to it. That's the spirit, she exclaimed, clapping me on the back. Her laughter echoed through the mess hall, cutting through the tension that had settled there. June 16th, 2021. The morning was a whirlwind of activity. By 5 a.m. the common area was already bustling. Our departure from the base was anything but a silent affair. Instead, it was a cacophony of barking huskies and buzzing chatter, filled with last-minute discussions about the plan and route. Our team of six, clad in heavy winter gear was busy loading equipment onto the dog sleds. The sun glared in the cloudless sky,

its blinding light reflecting off the snow and ice, making it seem as if we were about to journey across a white, unending desert. The air was palpable with a strange blend of excitement, anxiety, and a touch of the unknown. As I loaded my pack onto a sled, Becca approached, dressed in snow pants and a parka, her face framed by a fur-trimmed hood. She resembled an Arctic explorer from a bygone era. She methodically inspected the gear I had packed to ensure everything was present and in working order. Leaning in, she imparted some final words of advice. Keep close, stay focused, and remember it's not a race. The goal is to get there and back safely. Drawing confidence from her words, I nodded. As we began the journey, there was an eerie calm, the hustle and bustle of the camp

fading into the vast, icy expanse. The first few hours of our trek were uneventful. The terrain, mostly flat, each sled accommodated two people, with Becca and I paired together. While the sled dogs forged ahead, we passed the time making small talk and trading stories about life back at Outpost Aurora. I told her about my disconnect with my colleagues. Becca said she understood, confessing to me that she was much lower on the pecking order than her confident demeanor the previous night might have suggested, which explained why she was assigned the task of looking after the new guy. Despite the teasing tone. There was a hint of relief in her voice, an appreciation for having someone to talk to during these long, perilous excursions. As the day progressed, the snow-swept landscape morphed into

steep rocky inclines. The dogs pulled valiantly, their breath fogging in the chill air. A torrent of awe and anxiety warred within me as I surveyed the brutally beautiful landscape around us. I was reminded of the tales from my grandmother's childhood, how the indomitable Inuit people had traversed a polar wasteland spanning a greater distance than New York to Los Angeles, and yet managed to carve out a life for themselves. I felt as though I were walking in the footsteps of my ancestors. Arriving at the foot of the mountain, the daunting process of setting up the drills unfolded. These colossal machines, disassembled and transported on sleds, had to be carefully put together again in these unforgiving conditions. The team had the monumental task of drilling a mile into the

mountainside, to reach ice that hadn't been disturbed in hundreds of thousands of years. Each layer of ice was a snapshot of the Earth's climate at that point in time, capturing tiny bubbles of air, volcanic ash, pollen, dust, and even microscopic life forms. Watching Becca maneuver her way around the equipment, coordinating with the others, it was clear she was in her element. Unlike the rest of the team, my expertise wasn't required for drilling. Instead, I was on a different mission. The rapidly melting glaciers had started uncovering secrets that were long hidden beneath their icy surfaces. Fragments of ancient cultures that had been engulfed by the glaciers over centuries were now resurfacing.

It was my job to recover and catalog any artifacts we discovered. As the drilling continued, my eyes were drawn towards a cave not too far from our location. Shielded by an overhanging ledge of ice and snow, it seemed untouched. by time. Becca, I called, catching her attention. I pointed towards the cave. Her eyes followed my pointing finger, and her eyebrows rose slightly.

You want to go in there? Caves are a treasure trove of ancient relics, I explained. As there was a lull in the drilling, she decided to join me in exploring the cave. Upon entering the cave, the first thing I noticed was the cold, which was even more intense than outside. A shiver ran down my spine,

not entirely from the temperature. My eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness, the meager light from our flashlights barely illuminating the frozen cavern. I swept my light across the jagged cave floor, searching for any hint of an ancient bonefish hook or an obsidian spearhead. Suddenly, Becca's voice echoed through the cave. Noah, over here! My heart skipped a beat as Becca's urgent voice pierced the stillness of the cave.

I hurried toward her, my flashlight trembling in my hand. As I approached, I saw her kneeling over what appeared to be a body slumped against the cave wall. My mind spun with questions. Had someone been stranded here recently? Were they in need of help? I attempted to lift the body for a clearer view, but it was frozen in place. Hey, can you give me a hand? I asked. Uh, yeah, sure, she replied, with hesitation in her voice.

We each took an arm and pulled. The icicles anchoring the body to the cave floor broke with a crack, A gasp caught in my throat as we were greeted by the macabre sight of a woman. Her face was an eerie, porcelain mask, lined with intricate blue-black tattoos that curled from her forehead, around her eyes, down to her chin. Her jet-black eye sockets stared back at us, frozen forever, in an expression of terror. Her mouth was half open in a silent scream, her teeth sharp and unnaturally white against her frost-bitten skin. The light from our flashlights danced across her body, revealing the time. tiny form huddled in her arms. A child, perfectly preserved in the ice, its body as

desiccated as the woman's. The little one's face was a haunting mimicry of its mothers, frozen in time like a delicate porcelain doll. Recoiling in shock, Becca let out a small gasp, covering her mouth with her hand, while I sat paralyzed, my mind grappling with the sight before me. I didn't recognize the tattoo patterns on her face, and her clothing didn't match any styles known to the Inuit people. The attire suggested a culture far older than what I was familiar with. My flashlight caught the glint of something metallic. Next to the mother and child was a knife with an ornate handle made of ivory. The blade itself was crudely crafted, like it was beaten into shape with stones, and had a

black tint to it. I knew that pre-contact Inuit tribes only had one source of metal for their tools, iron ore extracted from meteorites. I think there are more, Becca said. her voice trembling, she pointed deeper into the cave. Slowly our lights revealed more bodies, each in varying states of preservation. Some were mere skeletons, the ice having worn their flesh away over the centuries, while others were as impeccably preserved as the woman and child. A shared feature among them was the hollow crevices where their eyes used to be. As I shone my flashlight along the icy cave wall, it revealed a sequence of well-preserved cave drawings. They told a disturbing tale of people, similar to the bodies we'd discovered, chased by terrifying, shadowy

figures. Their fear echoed the eternal screams on the frozen faces we'd found. The final scenes showed the people in a cave, horrifyingly familiar to our surroundings, with the ominous figures looming over them. A chill ran through my veins that had nothing to do with the frigid temperature. What do you think happened to them? Becca asked, sounding like she didn't want to know the answer. It's difficult to say without a thorough analysis, I rationalized. Disease? Starvation? Perhaps they were caught in a snowstorm and succumbed to exposure. Exposure? She asked.

The word alone seemed to have disturbed her more than the bodies themselves. Her naturally light complexion turned to shade paler. Before I could respond, the piercing sound of Becca's radio crackled into life, shattering the quiet stillness of the cave. Becca, do you copy? This is Dr. Khan. We've got an issue here. The voice of the team lead came through. Becca quickly unclipped the radio, her fingers fumbling in her haste.

This is Becca. We're in the cave. What's wrong? One of the drills ruptured a gas deposit, releasing some sort of unknown toxic substance. Get out of there immediately. Dr. Khan's voice held a note of urgency we'd never heard before. Without a moment's hesitation, we scrambled to our feet and bolted towards the entrance of the cave. Even before reaching the mouth of the cave, an intense chemical odor reported.

the familiar scent of the tundra. Our Husky team was a lifeline in the unforgiving wilderness. Aspen, the fearless leader, blazed the trail ahead. Behind her, Willow and her twin brother Cedar mirrored each other in perfect harmony, their connection beyond just their matching silver coats and ice-blue eyes. At the back, pine, with his unyielding strength, acted as the powerful anchor.

As we started our journey, the wind whipped around us, carrying with it the biting chill of the air. The sleds cut through the snow effortlessly, the dogs pulling with an eagerness that defied the unforgiving conditions. Look, Noah, Becca started, her eyes trained on the horizon. I want to apologize for what happened back there. I didn't mean to sound so harsh. I looked at her, surprised by the sincerity in her voice. No, Becca, if anything, I should be thanking you, I admitted, giving her a small, grateful smile. I'm glad to have a polar expert watching my back, I added, knowing she'd appreciate the compliment. Her cheeks flushed from beneath her protective gear, whether it was from the cold or my

compliment I couldn't tell. As we ventured farther from our drill site, the landscape underwent subtle yet unmistakable changes. The sun, perpetually casting a sallow glow, illuminated the pristine snow with an eerie light. The snow no longer glistened. It had a mat, lifeless finish, as if its vitality had been drained. The animals we encountered were behaving unusually too. A snowhair that hopped across our path moved sluggishly, its normally white fur tinged with a sickly bluish hue. An arctic fox, usually shy and elusive, showed no fear, no recognition of us as potential threats. It just stared at us with glassy eyes as we passed by, as if it didn't comprehend what it was seeing. The most disconcerting change, however, was the silence.

The Arctic is usually filled with sounds, the crunch of snow underfoot, the chattering of birds, the howl of the wind. But now, it was as if nature itself had fallen into a stunned, deathly silence. Even the wind seemed muted, whispering rather than wailing. By the time we reached the village past midnight, the ever-present sun hovered overhead, bathing the icy mountains and vast Arctic ocean in an alien glow. The frigid air gnawed at our faces as we approached the village. Even from the outskirts I could tell something was wrong. The chimneys of the colorful houses were smokeless.

The village, known as Silap Inua, or the Spirit of the Universe, was eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the vibrant community life we had witnessed just days before. Navigating the snow-laden paths between homes, our breath formed small frosty clouds in the freezing air. We called out for any inhabitants, but our voices echoed back, swallowed by the desolate silence. Discarded remnants of everyday life littered our path, children's toys scattered in the snow, piles of half-chopped firewood next to silent homes, and fishing nets abandoned by the river's edge. We entered the largest house, that of the chief and his extended family.

The door was ajar, with untouched meals on table. and clothing strewn haphazardly. Inside we detected a faint, sickly sweet odor, eerily reminiscent of the smell from the drilling site. Do you think it's the gas? Becca whispered, her eyes wide with fear. Must be, I replied, grimacing as the smell hit me again. But where did everyone go? Maybe they evacuated, Becca suggested, although she sounded unsure. I hope so, I said, examining a pot of soup that was still warm. It doesn't look like they had time to prepare. Everything's just left, Becca noted, picking up a doll made of walrus ivory. We need to look for signs, I suggested. They might have left a message saying where they went.

Becca and I systematically searched each house. We reached Katok's house late in the afternoon. The elderly shaman lived alone in a quaint dwelling on the village outskirts. I had interviewed him only days earlier. As I pushed open the door, the creaking sound echoed ominously. We entered the dimly lit room, the weak sunlight from the window illuminating the dust particles suspended in the air. Everything was just as I remembered, the walls adorned with tribal masks, the aged wooden floor lined with fur rugs, and the hearth at the center, now cold and lifeless. My gaze was drawn to a corner of the room, where a message was hastily etched onto the wall. The text was in the native Inuit syllabary.

The normally round characters were inconsistent as if scrawled in haste. A black-tinted blade, similar to the one I saw in the cave, lay on the floor next to the message. Becca walked up behind me. What does it say? My heart pounded in my chest as I translated the text. It says, beware the spirit of the ice. The Igerac have returned. And then it just cuts off.

What's an Ijirac? Becca asked, her voice barely above a whisper. I paused, unsure of how much to reveal. They're spirits from Inuit folklore. They're said to be shapeshifters, creatures that exist in the realm between the living and the dead. They're like Inuit boogeymen. My grandma used to tell me that if I didn't behave, an Ajorak would get me in my sleep. Yeah, but that's just a story, right? Becca asked incredulously, like an attempt to explain natural occurrences. A, tense silence filled the room. There was more to the myth, but I didn't see any point in scaring her with ghost stories. Katak was always a little eccentric, I said dismissively. He believed

in a lot of weird stuff, like saying he could communicate with foxes, and that they would give him messages from the spirit world. I would take everything he says with a grain of salt. A sudden harsh gust of wind rattled the window panes, causing us to exchange a glance of concern. We ran to the window. The first thing I noticed was how dark things had gotten. With the ever-present midnight sun, this should have been impossible. Outside, the sky darkened ominously, the yellow-green hue swallowed by a mass of angry gray clouds. I had goosebumps as the first snowflake landed on the window. The weather forecast hadn't predicted a storm, but there was definitely one brewing. Storm's coming, Becca said, her eyes wide as she looked out the window. A big one. I could feel

the air around us getting colder. We need to find shelter, I said, scanning for a good place to hunker down. The gas hadn't affected us yet, and we'd be exposed to more of it if we tried to trudge through the storm, with its own inherent dangers. Spotting a large communal building on a hill towards the center of the village, I gestured towards it. There, that house, it's higher off the ground. We should be safer from the gas there. We gathered the huskies and hurried towards the house, the dogs rushing in ahead of us. The wind howled in our ears, biting through our winter gear as we struggled against the rising storm. Once inside the house, we worked quickly to secure the entrances, sealing the doors and windows with whatever materials we had on hand to minimize

the gas exposure. The dogs were restless, pacing anxiously around the room. Their unease mirrored my own. Becca grabbed the radio, her hands shaking slightly as she adjusted the frequency. and relayed our situation back to outpost Aurora. Dr. Anderson, we're trapped in the village by the storm. We're going to try to wait it out. We're as sealed up as we're going to get against the gas. Over. There was a pause.

Then her voice crackled through, sounding tense. Understood. Stay safe. We'll maintain radio contact. Over and out. June 18, 2021. Becca and I rationed out our meager food supply, cans of stew, chunks of hard bread,

and energy bars that tasted like cardboard, but had the necessary calories. We melted snow for drinking water, being careful to heat it just enough to kill off any bacteria. Yet, we weren't sure if this method was effective in removing gas. The dogs, our faithful companions, were fed with dry kibble and chunks of frozen fish we had packed. As the wind outside roared and battered the structure of the house, we huddled close together around a portable heater for warmth. Even with our winter gear on, the biting cold was almost unbearable. The dogs lay in a pile, their bodies a source of warmth in the otherwise freezing room.

Unable to sleep, my mind was restless, filled with the day's chaotic events. I could still picture Erica, her body convulsing as the toxic gas took hold. The image filled me with a dread I could hardly put into words. How long before we too would begin to show symptoms? ever so often I found myself glancing over at Becca, scrutinizing her face for any signs of illness. I sat up and pulled out the knife I had taken from Katak's home, examining it under the faint light in the room. The black-tinted blade was forged meteorite iron, the same as the one we found at the drilling site. The handle was made of narwhal tusk, intricately carved with ancient Inuit symbols.

As I traced them with my fingers, memories of the legends about the Igerac swirled. in my mind. These weren't just children's tales. The Inuit people respected and feared these spirits. While I respected the myths and legends, I was still a man of science, grounded in reality and observable facts. Yet to dismiss these tales as mere superstition seemed almost disrespectful. Exhaling slowly, I glanced once more at Becca. Her breaths were steady and slow, a stark contrast to the raging storm outside. A wave of relief washed over me. She was fond of at least for now. Carefully, I put the blade back into my pocket and tried to settle back into my sleeping bag.

I don't recall when I fell asleep, but the dream was vivid. I was a child again, back in the tiny cramped apartment in Anchorage's Mountain View neighborhood that I shared with my mom and grandma. The faint smell of my mom's cooking clung to the worn-out furniture. I could hear the muffled sound of sirens and angry voices from the street below, a soundtrack to my childhood. It was bundled under the patchwork quilt my grandma made, trying to stay awake until my mom got home from her two jobs.

My eyelids were heavy, sleep was creeping in, but I fought against it. I wanted to catch a glimpse of my mom, to reassure myself that she had made it back safely. Beside me, my grandmother sat in her favorite rocking chair, the rhythmic creaking a soothing counterpoint. Her voice was soft yet firm, as she wove intricate stories of ancient Inuit legends. her wrinkled hands gesturing dramatically, enhancing the narrative. Suddenly, a loud banging noise echoed through the small apartment. Fear gripped me as she looked at me.

Her eyes filled with a mixture of terror and determination. Noah, you're in danger. You need to leave now, she said. Her voice filled with urgency. She hurriedly pulled a parka over my small frame, her movements quick and precise. The banging grew louder, the whole apartment shaking with the sheer force of it. I recognized the noise instantly, the sound of my father's rage. The door burst open, splintering into pieces as a drunken figure staggered into the room.

My heart pounded in my chest as I watched my father's slurred movements, his eyes scanning the room. Ignoring him, my grandmother ushered me towards the window that opened onto the fire escape. Go to Mrs. Olson's place, and I'll come get you later, she instructed. Her voice just a whisper now, but her words held the weight of an ultimatum. But Grandma, I started, but she cut me off. No buts, Noah, go. I was just about to climb out of the window when I glanced back one last time, my heart aching at the sight of my grandmother,

her frail form standing tall and defiant against my drunken father. Where is he, Anuri? Where's my son? He slurred, his gaze wild. You're drunk, Hank, Grandma said. Sober up and then maybe we'll talk. He's my son, my dad shouted. you can't keep him from me. I heard a scuffle ensuing.

Get out of my way! My dad screamed. As the cold air hit my face, my dream began to unravel, the harsh reality of my past, merging into the grim predicament of my present. I was jolted awake, my heart pounding, the sound growling and barking. I shot up from my sleeping bag. Becca was already awake and trying to calm the dogs. Hey guys, what's wrong? she asked, checking on each one. What's the matter? I asked grogly. I don't know. Something must have spooked them, she responded. Becca reached for the radio, pressing the button and calling through the static.

Drill team, this is Becca and Noah. Do you copy? Only the hum of the storm responded to our call. Dr. Khan, are you there? Please respond. Her voice wavered slightly, a hint of fear creeping into her normally confident tone. Still, there was no answer. The silence seemed to amplify the harsh howling of the wind outside. the sound seeming to seep into the very walls of the house. With a worried expression she put down the radio.

We need to try again in a bit. The storm might be affecting the signal. The dogs were growing more restless by the minute, their wimpers growing into anxious barks. They were fixated at something just outside the front door. Sensing their distress, I got up and peered through the tiny crack in the door. Among the swirling gusts of snow, I saw unsettling figures moving. Their forms were hauntingly unfamiliar, a blend of the grotesque and beautiful.

Some had elongated limbs and disproportionate body parts, their shapes hardly human. Others were adorned with animal characteristics, antlers that cut through the gale, feathers that fluttered in the blizzard, scales that shimmered in the harsh Arctic lights, or fur that rippled as if in a breeze. Becca, I whispered, my throat dry. You need to see this. I didn't get a response. Becca, did you hear me? I whispered a little louder. A blood-curdling scream tore through the night.

Becca, my heart lurched in my chest as I turned. One of the creatures was crawling on the ceiling and walls of the cabin. Its elongated limbs ending in claws scraped against the wood, creating the sound of nails on chalkboard. Its body was like smoke, twisting and changing, never settling on a single form. Without warning, the being slid down from the walls, making no no, noise as it landed. Its form was ghostly, constantly shifting in the light of our lantern. One moment it resembled an Inuit woman with straight black hair, the next a polar bear with gleaming fangs. It shimmered as if formed from ice and snow, a mirage born of the Arctic itself. Its eyes, the only constant in its ever-changing form, two jet-black sockets,

empty and soulless, stared at us. Becca just stood there, stunned. I grabbed her hand and pulled her close. Get behind me, I whispered. The thing's mouth opened wide, emitting a guttural sound that sent a shiver down my spine. It started mimicking Dr. Khan's voice perfectly. I don't understand what's happening. It's the gas. We're changing. Erica's voice followed, panicked and gasping for breath. I can feel it inside me. It's, it's burning. The shrieks of pain and terror were lifelike, making it all the more chilling. Next came the voices of the others on the team. their pleas for help, their cries of agony echoing in the otherwise silent room. The entity's body contorted and twisted, as if in a grotesque imitation of their final,

torturous moments. It was as if the very air around us carried the terror of those last moments. The last voice we heard was Dr. Kahn's. Please help us. The creature looked at us, its eyes vacant and unblinking. Then it tilted its head and began to laugh, a terrible echoing sound that filled the room. its laughter was like nothing I'd ever heard, a horrifying imitation of human joy, June 19th, 2021. The entity's laughter faded as it began to pace around the room, slowly, deliberately like a wild animal sizing up its territory. It moved with a disjointed grace, limbs twisting and contorting independently. Yet its gaze, filled with a primal and animalistic intelligence, never strayed from us.

An eerie sense of foreboding settled over me as I saw. stared into the depths of its eyes. Becca looked stunned. It has their voices, she murmured, her voice echoing horror. How can it have their voices? I was too shocked to respond, grappling with the surreal reality of a creature physically before me. It felt like discovering the monster under my bed was real after all.

Before eyes was an Igerac, the huskies suddenly lunged forward, their growls escalating into feral snarls in a brave attempt to protect us. Their bravery snapped me out of my shock. The creature jerked its head towards the dogs, its form morphing into a giant wolf, mouth gaping, sharp fangs glistening. No, I yelled out. Instinctively, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the knife I'd picked up at Katok's home. The blade was cool to the touch, the intricate symbols carved into the handle pressing into my palm.

The room was still for a moment as the entity stared at me. Behind me, I could hear Becca's soft footsteps, her breaths drawn in quiet, controlled patterns. She was inching toward her pack, painstakingly slow to avoid drawing attention. The floorboards creaked under her weight. My heart pounded in my chest, every thump echoing through my body, a constant reminder of the danger we were in. Regardless, I remained rooted to the spot. My eyes locked on the Igerac.

Its form continued to shift, solidifying into something more threatening. It resembled a fearsome beast now, more bare than human, the antlers of a caribou replacing the straight black hair. It seemed to be preparing itself for a confrontation. Becca reached her pack, her movements almost soundless. She rummaged inside for a brief moment before her fingers closed around the stock of her Seco 85, a rugged bolt-action rifle she had packed as protection against polar bears. The Igerac was becoming increasingly agitated. Its form started convulsing, as if it was trying to contain an inner tempest. Its movements became more violent, the antlers slamming against the wooden beams, a gruesome display of power and aggression. Becca was now on her feet, rifle in hand. She moved swiftly and deftly,

her eyes burning with cold determination, as though the dying cries of her colleagues had ignited a fury within her. As the creature turned towards her, she fired at it point-blank, the sound of the shot ringing through the cabin. The bullet tore through its nebulous form, ripping a solid chunk of flesh from the transient layer of smoke and ice. A gut-wrenching howl filled the room. The Igerac recoiled, its form flickering wildly between various shapes, human, animal, monster, each more horrifying than the last. Its body was writhing and shifting more wildly than ever. As it staggered back, a viscous dark fluid began to ooze from its wound. The smell was overpowering, far worse than the gas. It was a nauseating mixture of sulfur and rot, a stench

so potent that it made my eyes water and my stomach churn. As the creature writhed in pain, its haunting howls transformed into the anguished cries. In its agony, it went into a frenzy, thrashing around the room, its form undulating and changing rapidly. Becca worked quickly to chamber another round, but the creature's frenzied movements made it difficult to get a clear shot. As she lined up her aim, the creature lunged towards her, its claws outstretched and its eyes fixed on her. Becca, watch out, I shouted. Acting on instinct, I pushed her out of the way. We both tumbled to the ground as the creature's claws sliced into my parka, narrowly missing my skin. Its momentum carried it into the wall of the cabin. The impact shook the entire cabin,

dislodging several wooden planks from the wall. The Idirak howled in frustration and pain, shards of wood protruding from its body. Go, I urged Becca. Get the dogs and get out now. She nodded. scrambling towards the dogs who were barking and whining in distress. Becca hurriedly gathered them, leading them toward the door. I turned back to face the entity. Its form was slowly solidifying, and its blackened eyes were fixed on me. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, I grabbed a portable kerosene heater nearby. It was a hefty device, radiating a comforting warmth that felt out of place in this nightmarish situation. I hoisted it, feeling the fuel sloshing inside. Noah, we got to go now! Becca shouted for it.

from the door. I waited for a split second, watching as the Ijahrak began to approach. As it charged at me, I hurled the heater with all the force I could muster. The kerosene heater spiraled through the air, colliding with the creature. The cabin was instantly bathed in the terrifying light of a fireball. The entity led out a horrifying shriek that echoed through the cabin. I bolted towards the sled without a second glance. As Becca and I made our escape, the fire quickly spread to the nearby wooden structures, turning the village into a to an inferno. Our sled slid smoothly over the icy terrain, pushed by the hardy dogs, carrying us farther and farther from the village. The roaring wind cut through us, and the snow,

stirred into a whirlwind by the storm, reduced visibility to near zero. As we moved further away, the light from the raging fire grew fainter, swallowed by the unrelenting white. We continued on, in the general direction of outpost Aurora. Our primary concern was putting distance between us and the creature, rather than reaching our destination. With the light fading behind us and the storm intensifying, we knew we needed to find shelter soon. We were in the heart of the tundra, a vast, flat, treeless plain. Seeking refuge in this desolate expanse was no simple task,

but we were fortunate enough to stumble upon a formation of ice and snow that provided a modicum of shelter from the piercing winds. We set to work building an impromptu snow shelter, scooping and packing the snow to form a protective barrier against the wind. Once we'd made a space that was small but secure, we settled in. Our breath fogged up in the confined space, but it was better than being exposed to the elements. We need a fire, Becca said, her teeth chattering as she spoke. I nodded, fumbling with the waterproof matches we had in our pack.

The wood we'd managed to gather was scant and frozen, but soon a feeble fire was flickering between us, providing some warmth and more importantly, a psychological comfort. From our shelter we could see the faint orange glow of the burning village in the distance. It was a haunting sight, the ghostly illumination, a grim reminder of what we'd left behind. We hardly said a word to each other, the weight of our recent encounter hanging in the air. I felt a need to say something, but wasn't ready to discuss the terrifying implications of what we'd faced. Instead, I asked, where'd you learn to shoot like that? Becca stared into the fire, her gaze distant.

My dad used to take me and my brothers hunting when we were kids. We grew up in Newfoundland. Every season, without fail, we'd load the pickup and head up to the northern peninsula. What did you hunt? I asked. Mostly small game, like snowshoe hairs and grouse, but also the occasional moose, she said absent-mindedly. Wow, sounds like a lot of fun, I said. It was. It was the highlight of my childhood, Becca said, her voice devoid of joy.

until my youngest brother Chris got lost. Her somber blue eyes were lit up by the fire. I was the oldest. I was supposed to be watching him, Becca confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. And I was, but I got distracted for just a moment. That's all it took. Becca, I began.

We found him a day later, but it was too late. He had died of exposure, Becca's voice faltered slightly. The weight of her guilt filled the small space between us. I'm so sorry. I started saying. She could see how uncomfortable the conversation was making both of us feel. Hey, so anyway, that was a hell of a throwback there. Becca complimented me, changing the subject, her demeanor changing as well.

I smiled faintly and shrugged. I used to play baseball in high school. Oh, really? she asked, her brows lifting above her frosty eyelashes. You must have been the MVP. I mostly just kept the bench warm, I confessed, feeling a pang of the old familiar. embarrassment. Well, it was their loss, Becca replied, her voice steady, sincere. The compliment warmed me more than the fire. I just gave her a nod. We were both too tired to talk, and it seemed like a positive note to end on. There was a silence between us, filled only by the

soft crackling of the fire and the low growl of the storm outside. We were both lost in our own thoughts, our own memories. Tonight had unearthed ghosts, we'd rather leave buried. But we weren't alone in the storm, in the middle of nowhere. We had each other, and for now, that was enough. June 20, 2021. The storm raged outside, the howling winds and snow pelting against our makeshift shelter, while my mind churned with questions, doubts, and fear. In the early hours of the morning, an unexpected sight met our eyes. As we huddled around the small fire, our bodies seeking warmth and comfort from each other's presence. A faint cawing sound echoed through the storm. Above us, the gray-white sky darkened, and a large flock of ravens appeared, circling our tiny shelter against the wrath of the storm.

A harsh caw echoed through the air, cutting through the storm like a knife. Their flapping wings were barely audible over the storm, yet the birds maintained a steady formation, completely unaffected by the gale. Two of the ravens broke away from the group and landed a few feet away from us. As they turned to face us, I realized to my horror that they were eyeless. An empty dark void existed where their eyes should have been, mirroring the soulless eyes of the Idirak we encountered back at the village. One of the ravens started to speak in a voice that was hauntingly familiar, a little girl's voice.

Mama, where are you? It's so dark. I'm scared. It cawed, echoing innocence and fear. The other raven spoke next, the voice of a woman filled with a mother's work. I can't find my child, my Aputi, it cried out. Aputi, the name reverberated in my mind. The mother was Nanuk, and the little girl was Aputi. I remembered them from my visit to the village days before. Aputi was a curious child, and Nanuk had the warmest of smiles. The thought of their fate made my stomach churn. Looking up, we saw the other ravens had begun to circle lower. Each one uttered a single statement, each in a different voice, each a haunting echo of the villagers.

The air was filled with their desperate cries, pleas for help, and calls for loved ones. Becca drew back in horror. The voices, those are the villagers, aren't they? She gasped, putting a gloved hand to her mouth. I didn't respond. I just shook my head in disbelief. I couldn't think straight with the macabre cacophony of disembodied voices ringing in my ears. Becca turned to me and squeezed my arm tight.

What's happening? Are these ravens also Igerac? What did they do to the villagers? She asked, her eyes boring into mine. The Iijerak are just made up stories, I reiterated. They're not real. I don't believe in superstitions either, but I've seen. I'm seeing the impossible with my own eyes, she said,

gesturing to the flock of ravens circling us. I swallowed hard, glancing at the ravens as they swooped lower. I didn't want to entertain. the possibility, but in the face of the inexplicable, what else could I do? All right, I began my voice shaky. Let's pretend the Ijirak is real. I took a deep breath and composed my thoughts. In Inuit myths, people are turned into Ijirac, which are like twisted caricatures of themselves, often as punishment for disrespecting the spirits of nature. This could be anything from failing to perform the proper ritual for a prey they killed,

to not properly honoring the dead. Or in our case, Becca stared at me, fear dawning in her eyes, drilling a mile into the side of a cursed mountain. I hesitated, but nodded. Yeah, I believe so. I think we might have unwittingly released some kind of entity or force. That gas, maybe it's not just gas. Maybe it's something spiritual, something ancient, and exposure to it is turning everyone into Igerac. So those ravens are the villagers? asked Becca. I responded. And that creature back at the village?

She asked. I think the drill crew were all amalgamated to form that thing, I explained. That's why it couldn't maintain its shape and had all their voices. Oh my God, Becca exclaimed, her face becoming ashen with the realization. Wait, are we going to turn two? She asked. Her voice filled with dread. I don't know, I replied, unable to mask the fear in my own voice.

I didn't want to imagine that fate for us. I wouldn't let that happen to us, but deep down, I knew the reality. We had been exposed to the gas, too. If my hypothesis was correct, we were already infected. Suddenly, another raven descended from the circling flock and landed on our shelter. Its eyeless gaze locked on us. It caught in a voice we hadn't yet heard, one that struck terror in our hearts. Your time will come, it croaked in a gravely voice before taking off, disappearing into the storm.

The words hung in the cold air, an ominous prophecy that made our surroundings feel even colder. June 21st, 2021. The realization that we were ticking time bombs weighed heavily over us. As the howling winds subsided, I felt compelled to break the eerie silence. I turned on the radio, and the static-filled airwaves filled our shelter. After a few adjustments, I managed to reach Outpost Aurora. Outpost Aurora, this is Noah Callick. Do you copy? I called into the radio.

After a moment of heart-pounding silence, Dr. Anderson's voice crackled to life. Noah, we've been trying to reach you. Are you and Becca all right? She sounded relieved to hear us. Sonia, we're alive, I said. But we're not exactly all right. We're holed up in a makeshift shelter after an encounter. The hesitation in my voice must have conveyed the gravity of our situation, for Dr. Anderson's tone became serious.

What kind of encounter? she asked. I took a deep breath before delving into our harrowing ordeal with the Igerac. Dr. Anderson was silent for a long time, taking in the incredible tale. That's, I don't know what to say, but we've had our own troubles here. The effects of the gas are becoming more pronounced. Symptoms are worsening. We're preparing for an immediate evacuation. Her words sent my heart racing.

What about the Inuit communities? I asked. Concern gripping me. We're attempting to contact as many as we can, she raised. responded. Now listen carefully. I've already radioed for an emergency evacuation of the outpost. The helicopter is arriving tomorrow at 0-6-0-0 hours. We're pulling out as soon as it arrives. I urged you to get back to base as soon as you can. I glanced at Becca, who had been listening intently. She looked pale but nodded, indicating her agreement. We'll head back to base as soon as the storm lets up, I assured her, then added, be careful. If our theory about the gas is correct,

its effects are much more than just physical. There was a pause on the other end before Sonia replied, her voice filled with grim resolve. We'll keep that in mind. Stay safe, you two, and hurry back. The journey back to outpost Aurora was a grueling test of our endurance and sanity. The sled dogs, once full of vigor and enthusiasm, had started to behave oddly.

They howled at the barren wasteland and growled at unseen threats. Their eyes vacant and terrified. The potent stench of the gas, seemed to be getting to them. As much as it filled me with dread, we had to press on, for the alternative was unthinkable. Upon nearing the outpost, we were met with an unsettling silence, broken only by a plume of smoke ascending from the storage area. The site resembled a ghost town, devoid of its former liveliness. The once bustling scientific station was now unnaturally silent and desolate, nearly blending into the frozen monochromatic landscape. Dread coiled in my

stomach as we approached the source of the smoke. Our worst fears were confirmed. The snowmobiles and the snowcat that were once neatly parked in storage were now reduced to a destroyed and smoldering heap. Becca kept a firm grip on her rifle, her eyes darting around the surroundings. I could see her breath quicken, her gloved fingers turning white from the pressure she exerted on the weapon. I felt the cold handle of Katok's knife in my hand. I don't like this, she whispered. Yeah, I know what you mean. I muttered. cautiously we made our way into the main building our flashlight beams cutting through the oppressive darkness we were met with a sight that will forever be etched into my mind we froze in our tracks as the light fell upon the gruesomely mutated bodies of our colleagues their bodies were grotesquely melded into half-human half-animal monstrosities fur sprouted from their skin in patches their limbs elongated and clawed like a polar bear and some bore the spiraled tusks of a narwhal protruding grotesquely from their furrowed from their limbs elongated and clawed like a polar bear and some bore the spiraled tusks of a narwhal protruding from

their distorted faces. Their eye sockets were empty, a dark void where a spark of life should have been, echoing a now all-too-too-familiar, cruel fate. Becca stifled a scream, her hand flying to her mouth to suppress the horrified gasp that threatened to escape. I felt a wave of nausea wash over me, bile rising in my throat. The sight was monstrous, a scene straight out of the darkest of nightmares. Our hearts pounded as we sprinted through the dimly lit, eerily quiet corridors. Our destination was the radio room. If we could reach it, we could send a distress signal and hopefully get the help we needed. When we finally reached the room, our hopes crashed.

The room was a wreck. Wires hung from the ceiling like entrails, sparking erratically. The radio equipment was shattered, smashed to pieces. The air was filled with the acrid smell of burnt electronics. Everything had been methodically and thoroughly destroyed. The room was filled with an unsettling, almost hypnotic murmur. It took a moment for our flashlights to find the source. Dr. Anderson was slumped over the radio console.

Her skin was a mottled, bluish-gray, waterlogged and bloated, giving her the macabre appearance of a corpse fished from icy waters. Her clothes were sodden, clinging to her form, while strands of hair plastered to her face and her open eyes stared blankly, a chilling resemblance to a drowned victim's final gaze. Her throat moved rhythmically, producing an awful semblance of speech. The last words she ever said to us echoed throughout the room. Stay safe. You two. And hurry back.

Her vacant eyes stared blankly at the radio console. Her hands still clutching the receiver as if her final act was an attempt to call for help. It was a chilling sight. The site director was dead, yet her body kept broadcasting her final utterances, like a macabre puppet show. It was clear that there would be no contact with the outside world. Becca was the first to move. She approached Dr. Anderson slowly, a look of profound sadness on her face. She reached out and gently detached the receiver from Sonia's rigid grip.

The distress call ceased abruptly, leaving us in an eerie silence that hung heavy in the air. She lured us here. No help is coming. Becca whispered, her voice shaking, the enormity of the situation crashing down on her. We can't stay here. here, I declared. Although neither of us wished to linger, we needed to gather supplies. We scavenged through the base, gathering what we could carry. The infirmary provided us with essential medical supplies. The mess hall offered canned goods, dehydrated meals, and water.

In the equipment room we found survival gear, thermal blankets, flares, extra clothing, a compact camping stove, and an ice axe. As we cautiously navigated the labyrinthine corridors, I voiced the question gnawing at me. Why us? I asked, glancing at her. Why are we the only ones who haven't transformed? It doesn't make sense, I muttered, thinking out loud. We were exposed to the gas before most of them. Why haven't we turned?

After a long silence, Becca broke the quiet with a theory. Maybe. Maybe the gas affects those who have been at the base longer, she suggested. Her voice barely a whisper. I looked at her, taken at her, taking her. in a back. What do you mean? Erica was the most senior member of the station. She's been there the longest, Becca explained. It would explain why she was the first to be affected. I nodded, slowly understanding,

and since I'm the newest member, that would make me the last to be affected. Exactly, she affirmed, but there was a hesitation in her voice, a reluctance that I couldn't ignore. So, Becca, I said, stopping to face her in the dwindling light. How long How long have you been at Aurora? I've been here for a couple months, she confessed under her breath. A couple months? I asked, surprised. Suddenly, everything fell into place, the details I had overlooked before.

Her low rank at the base, her social isolation. You're a rookie, aren't you? I finally said. I'm not a rookie, she protested weekly. I'm just not as experienced as the others. Her gaze flicked up to meet mine. an uncertain smile playing on her lips. I worked in the oil and gas industry straight out of college.

It was good pay, but I hated what I was doing. I jumped at the chance when I saw they were looking for someone with drilling experience to work at a climate research station. She desperately tried to explain. I studied her face in the dim, cold light, her words echoing in the icy, harsh silence. I sighed, reached out and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. What does it matter?

We're all each other's got, I said. And I don't think I could ask for a better partner in all of this. Becca gave me a weak but appreciative smile. Thanks, Noah, she said. Her voice barely audible over the howling wind. I feel the same. We stood in the harsh chill for a moment, united in our struggle for survival. After gathering everything we needed, we left outpost Aurora behind for good.

The imposing structure, once a hub of scientific discovery, and now a place of horror and death, loomed in our rear view as we set off into the wilderness. Our destination was unclear, but we knew we had to keep moving, away from the memories that haunted us and towards the slimmest chance of safety. June 22, 2021. The following day was the most challenging yet, testing our resolve and shattering the last bits of normalcy we held on to. The huskies, our reliable companions and our sole means of transport through this icy,

Hellscape began to succumb to the poison that had invaded their bodies. They couldn't even stand anymore, let alone pull a sled. Their fur started to shed rapidly, revealing unnatural growths and deformities that seemed to writhe beneath their skin. Their pained whimpers and growls echoed throughout the snow-filled air, a reminder of the horror we faced. Their once sparkling eyes were now clouded over. The sight of them suffering was heart-wrenching.

These creatures, who had once bounded through the world. through the snow with joyous abandon, were now crippled with pain and fear. Becca was visibly distraught. She spent most of the day tending to them, desperately trying to alleviate their suffering. But the more time she spent with them, the more she seemed to realize the grim truth. There was no coming back for them. I found her kneeling in the snow beside the dogs, her face pale and her eyes red from tears. Noah, she said, her voice breaking.

I can't let them suffer. they deserve better than this. I knew what she was implying, but the thought of it filled me with dread. Becca, are you sure? Maybe there's still a way. She shook her head cutting me off. You've seen what this thing does to living being. I won't let that happen to my dogs.

Her determination was clear, but the pain in her eyes was heartbreaking. I offered to help, ready to share this unbearable burden with her, but she refused. She shook her head, a hollow look in her eyes. They're my dogs, Noah, she said. Her voice was strained but resolute. I should be the one to do it. There was a finality in her voice that broke no argument. With a heavy heart, I nodded. I said my goodbyes, thanking each dog for their companionship and strength, for carrying us across the endless expanse of ice and snow. I gave Becca a supportive squeeze on the shoulder before I stepped away. I retreated to give her some privacy. As I walked away, the harsh wind bit into my skin. Then came the sounds that echoed across the frozen landscape. The gunshots, four in total. Each one was a piercing reminder of the cruel reality we were living in. After what felt like an eternity, Becca walked towards me,

her face devoid of any emotion. Her eyes, however, betrayed the immense grief she was feeling. As she wiped away the last of her tears, I saw a hardness in her gaze that hadn't been there before. Let's keep moving, she said, her voice hollow. We spent the early morning hours studying the weatherproof map, a compass indicated our direction, and also acted as a paperweight. The situation was grim. Assuming every village in the area had been devastated by the gas, the closest human settlement was the town of Utkiagvik, almost 100 miles away. Even in the best of conditions, the journey would be arduous. On foot in our current predicament seemed utterly impossible. The truth was unavoidable.

We were isolated, alone in the vast frozen wilderness. Our only lifelines erased by an unseen force we were only beginning to comprehend. A profound silence settled over us as we stared at the map, the enormity of our predicaments sinking in. As we sat in silence, I noticed Becca tracing a root with her finger. Her brows furrowed in concentration. I looked at her, a glimmer of hope igniting within me. Becca?

She turned to me, a determined look on her. her face. I used to work on an oil rig not too far from here, she said. She pointed out a spot on the map, a little dot off the northern coast of Alaska. It's about a 30-mile journey northeast of here, she explained. We'd have to kayak there. We can hug the coast. It'll take two, maybe three days. If we're lucky, we'll run into one of the rig's crewboats. Her proposal was a risky one. kayaking through Arctic waters was a dangerous proposition. We would have to navigate the freezing, unpredictable ocean. I don't know about this.

Who knows how the gas has affected sea life? Hell, a rogue wave could plunge us into the icy waters, I expressed my doubts. We don't have many choices, Becca replied, her voice firm. We can either try for Utkiagvik and likely die of exposure and exhaustion before we reach it, or we take a chance on the rig. I know the second option is risky, but at least there's a chance. I looked back at the map, my eyes fixated on the tiny dot representing the rig. The weight of our decision hung heavily in the air.

Finally I met Becca's eyes finding a look of frightened determination. I nodded. The rig it is then. June 23rd, 2021. Our two-person inflatable kayak felt like a tiny speck on the vast, endless sea, dwarfed by the towering icebergs and the shadowy mutated Leviathens that lurked beneath the water's surface. A chilling wind whistled through the desolate landscape, the only sound other than the rhythmic splash of our paddles against the cold water. In those hours, the line between night and day blurred, the sun never dipping far enough to plunge us into darkness.

Time became measured in strokes of the paddle and the rhythmic rise and fall of the ocean. We made slow progress, taking turns paddling and resting, stealing moments of sleep when we could. We nibbled at our rations, preserving what we could for the uncertain journey ahead. On the second day, a light drizzle soaked us to the bone, the biting cold gnawing at our fingers and faces. As we huddled around the map to determine our bearings, I noticed Becca shivering beside me. Her face was pale, her lips tinted blue, and her speech was slightly slurred. becca are you all right i asked my voice barely audible above the howling wind i'm fine she insisted but her chattering teeth betrayed her it was clear i need to get her out of the cold and fast searching the shore line i spotted a dark recess in the cliff side we're going ashore i declared veering our kayak towards the land becca didn't argue her strength sapped by the relentless cold we managed to pull our kayaks on to the rocky shore the land a welcome reprieve from the ireka didn't argue her strength sapped by the relentless cold we managed to pull our kayaks on to the rocky shore the land a welcome reprieve from the ice

waters. The cave we found provided some shelter from the wind, its mouth wide enough to prevent the buildup of snow. Once inside, I turned my attention to Becca. I removed her soaking wet outer layer and wrapped her in a thermal blanket. I pulled out our compact camping stove from the supplies, grateful that we had it. A fire would have been ideal, but in these conditions, it was next to impossible to start one. The small portable heater emitted a soft glow as I ignited it, its heat, into the cold cave. Next, I removed her gloves and snow boots, inspecting her extremities. My heart sank at the sight of her fingers and toes, white, hard and numb, with a waxy appearance, all signs of frostbite. Using the first aid kit we scavenged from the outpost, I carefully

cleaned and bandaged her frost-bitten digits. Trying to reassure her, I said, It's not too severe. You'll recover. We huddled together under the thermal blanket to conserve heat. Becca slipped in and out of consciousness, her body fighting the hypothermia. In her delirious state, Becca turned to me. Her blue eyes clouded with confusion and fear. Noah, she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. Can you, can you sing for me? Sing?

I was taken aback. The last thing I'd been expecting was a request for a song, but maybe in her confused state she was seeking some comfort. She nodded, her gaze unfocused. Something in Inuit, she requested. I thought about what to sing to her. I remembered as a child, I'd stubbornly resist sleep until my mother returned from work, gripped by an irrational fear that she wouldn't be there when I awoke.

To calm me, Grandma Anuri would sing an ancient Inuit lullaby, a song about the undying love between the moon and the sea, about their eternal dance and infinite patience. Clearing my throat I started singing. My voice echoed softly in the cave. The lullaby, which I hadn't sung in years, flowed out in a gentle rhythm. Eladi Kangyutsak, Takik, Takik, Ukiurpak The moon shines brightly, the moon, the moon watches over.

My voice grew stronger with each note, the lullaby's story of strength, love, and resilience reflecting our circumstances. Becca's eyes fluttered closed, her face relaxing slightly as the song washed over her. I watched her as I sang, the portable heater casting a soft glow on her pale face. The lullaby seemed to bring her some peace, her shaking lessening a bit as she leaned into me, her head resting on my shoulder. Her breathing started to sink with the rhythm of the song, slow and steady. It was a long, nerve-wracking night. I tried to stay awake, keeping a watchful eye on her and praying for the best. I woke to the dull gray of early morning, my body stiff from the

cold, and the warmth beside me missing. I shot upright, looking around the small space of the cave. Becca, I called out, my voice bouncing off the stone walls. No response. The cave was empty, save for the remnants of our meager supplies. My heart pounded in my chest as my gaze landed on the thermal blanket discarded on the hard cave floor. I stumbled to my feet, grabbed the flashlight, and scanned the cavern. There was no sign of her. Rushing outside, I found a set of bare footprints in the snow. Each impression was stained with a speck of crimson blood. Becca's clothes were scattered along the path, torn and soaked with fresh snow. I followed the footprints, my stomach churning as I collected her discarded garments.

The trail led me away from the cave, winding along the icy shoreline. The morning light cast a pale glow on the icy landscape, but there was no sign of Becca. My breath misted in the cold air as I followed her trail, the only indication that life still existed in this barren, frozen expanse. A sense of urgency pushed me to move faster, though the biting cold protested against every step. I knew exactly what this meant. This was paradoxical undressing, a known phenomenon of late stage hypothermia. The person, in their confused and disoriented state, feels an intense sensation of heat and starts to undress, often leading to their demise in the freezing temperatures. The bloodstains in the snow grew fainter, and the

and then disappeared entirely, but the footprints continued, their direction unwavering. My mind was in a whirl, but I didn't have time to dwell on it. I knew what I had to do. With a determined stride I started to follow the footprints, praying that I wasn't too late. After what felt like hours, I saw her in the distance, a fragile silhouette against the white expanse. Her bare skin was almost the same color as the snow, tinged blue in the morning chill. her auburn hair, once neatly braided, was now a wild mess of strands whipping in the biting wind. Becca, I shouted, my voice a desperate echo against the icy desolation. She didn't turn around. She staggered, barely upright, as she continued her aimless journey through the snow.

As I approached, the wind carried fragments of a haunting melody to my ears. Becca was muttering, almost singing, in fluent Inuit, a language that just days earlier she barely knew two words. of. Ijirak paliguksixsonika. Ijirak, you come in the night. Ullaluni Pivalian Ginnartut, filling our homes with terror and fright. To kaksyk Sauni Tukvitukvitaqqqa, Tukh, Tukvita, Tukvita, Tukvita-Wittakhth, your wickedness lurking in the darkness, Putitugait, Pivaliani Arutukut, and we can do nothing but watch. Summoning every ounce of courage, I stepped forward and gently turned her around to face me. The sight that met my eyes was worse than any nightmare I could have ever imagined. Becca, once the epitome of strength and vitality,

stood in front of me resembling a frost-bitten corpse. Her once vibrant blue eyes were replaced with empty sockets, from which emerged squirming tendrils that undulated in the cold morning air. Her face was a canvas of jagged lines and fractures, resembling the intricate tattoos we had discovered on the ancient mummies at the drill site. In her hand, she held a scalpel from the med kit, its metallic surface gleaming ominously under the weak sunlight. She raised her hand, the scalpel glinting menacingly. She stared at her other hand with an unnerving fascination. I watched in horror as she positioned the scalpel over one of her fingers. Becca, no, I cried out, but my plea was drowned by the howling wind. Suddenly she brought the scalpel down to her hand, severing one of her frostbitten

fingers with a chilling efficiency. The sound of flesh being cut open echoed ominously in the frigid silence, a horrid squelching noise that was both wet and grating, reminiscent of a butcher carving a slab of meat. There was no cry of pain, no reaction to the gruesome act she was performing on herself. As the severed digit fell to the snowy ground, an overpowering stench hit me, an unholy blend of decay and brine that reminded me of rotting fish left out in the sun. the gruesome task with a grim determination, each slice of the scalpel followed by the horrible thud of a finger falling onto the snow, and then, the horror compounded. The amputated fingers started to wriggle on the icy ground, transforming into tentacled monstrosities that writhed as if

taunting me with their grotesque existence. I racked my brain to make sense of what I was witnessing. The old tales of Sedna, the Inuit Sea goddess, echoed in my mind, cast into the sea by her father, her fingers were cut off as she tried to cling to his kayak. As each finger hit the water, they transformed into sea creatures. This was like some twisted parody of the legend. Becca cocked her head towards me, the tendrils in her eyes pulsating with a strange, unnatural rhythm. A haunting smirk played on her lips, a perverse mockery of the confident smile I had grown accustomed to seeing. She raised her mutilated hand to me, her thumb and forefinger forming a sinister beckoning gesture. Her voice when she spoke was a haunting echo of the woman I had

known. Join us. June 24th, 2021. She continued her grisly transformation, tendrils waving like wicked antennas, the air around us growing colder and more oppressive. Becca, it's me, Noah, I pleaded, trying to pierce through her madness. You have to fight whatever this is. You're stronger than this. She paused for a moment. Her severed fingers, ceasing there squirming dance in the snow, and I saw a flicker of recognition in the writhing mass of her eyes, but it was short-lived. Without warning, she lunged at me, her free hand still clutching the scalpel, slashed at me in a frenzied attack. I stumbled backward, but she was on me in an instant, scratching and biting with a ferocity that was nothing short of animalistic.

Her detached fingers, now unnervingly animated, slithered towards me, twining around my legs, tugging and pulling, forcing me onto the icy snow. I gasped, as one looped around my neck, its cold touch stinging like a frigid brand. She opened her mouth, revealing even more tendrils, each one hissing as they stretched towards me. Suddenly the sharp pain of her scalpel penetrated my side, the icy cold blade cutting through my flesh. Bleed with me, she whispered sadistically, as she twisted the scalpel, causing excruciating pain to erupt from my wound. I could feel the warmth of my blood staining the ice beneath me. She leaned in close. Her voice was a chilling whisper that froze my blood. They're coming, Noah, she said. Can't you hear them? They've been

calling to me, singing to me. It's a beautiful song, a song of rebirth, of transformation. Her severed fingers tightened around my throat, cutting off my air supply. My vision blurred and darkened. In sheer desperation, I groped for anything I could use to defend myself. My fingers curled around the cold handle of my ice axe. With a swift, desperate swing, I struck her at the base of her neck. She gasped, her grip around my neck loosening. I rolled her off me, scrambling to put distance between us, but she quickly recovered, pulling the axe out of her neck with an unholy strength. A dark, pungent liquid oozed from the gaping wound, staining the snow with its sickly hue. Becca, please don't do this, I pleaded with her.

She brandished the axe, a primal scream erupting from her lips as she charged at me. My hand went to my side, gripping the handle of Katok's meteorite knife. As she ran towards me, I instinctively braced myself, aiming the blade at her. With a terrifying shriek, she impaled herself on the knife, her momentum carrying her forward until she slumped against me. With an agonized whimper, she staggered backwards, the fierceness in her eyes dimming. Her tentacled fingers stilled, the squirming tendrils. into the emptiness of her eye sockets. She looked up at me with a terrifying mixture of fear and

confusion. As Becca fell backward onto the snowy ground, her appearance shifted, morphing into an achingly familiar form. My heart pounded in my chest as I looked down into the face of my grandmother Anuri. The icy landscape around me faded, replaced by the aged walls of our childhood apartment. I glanced at my hands covered in blood, but they weren't mine. They were large, scarred, aged from years of labor, my father's hands. The ceremonial knife in my grip transformed into a crude switchblade, its edge ominously glinting in the dim light, fresh blood dripping from it. In the corner of the room, a small figure huddled on the window sill, wide eyes filled with terror. It was me, younger, smaller, bearing witness to a horror no child should see. The night my father,

driven by a drunken rage, took the life of the one person who meant everything to me. No, I cried, rushing to the figure on the floor. Dropping to my knees, I cradled my grandma in my arms, my tears freezing to my face. She looked just like the night she died. In an instant my surroundings shifted. No longer was I in the warmth of my home but back in the Arctic wilderness. It was no longer my grandmother I held in my arms, but Becca. Her skin, once flush with life, was now as pale and cold as the ice.

ice that hemmed us in. The once monstrous tendrils retracted from her eye sockets, revealing the blue irises I knew so well. A strangled gasp escaped her lips as the harsh wind whipped around us. I could feel her body shuddering with each ragged breath she took, a frail echo of her former vitality. My gaze fell on her chest, where a dark stain was slowly spreading. Using Katak's knife, I ripped off a piece of my jacket and pressed it against the wound, attempting to stem the bleeding, it felt like trying to dam a river with twigs. Noah? She croaked, her voice barely audible over the wind.

Becca, I said, reaching for her hand. It was icy cold. I'm here. Stay with me, I said, cupping her face in my hands. I could see fear and confusion in her eyes, but also recognition. She reached up, her hand weakly clutching mine. I'm so cold, she croaked out, a faint hint of her old self returning. I wrapped my arms around her.

her, pulling her close to me. My heart pounded painfully against my ribcage as I held her against my chest. Her breaths came in short, uneven gasps, each one slower than the last. It's going to be okay, I lied, trying to infuse my voice with as much confidence and warmth as I could muster. I knew her condition was dire, the life seeping from her as surely as the blood staining the snow beneath us, but I couldn't let her last moments be filled with fear and despair. Noah, I, she struggled to say. For a moment I saw a spark of the old Becca in her eyes, the fierce determination that had always defined her. But then, her eyes rolled back in her head, and her body went limp in my arms. Becca, I whispered, stay with me. Her only response was a soft gurgling sound, as if she was

trying to speak but couldn't. Her body grew colder, her skin turning a sickly blue. No, I muttered shaking her. Becca, wake up, but it was too late, with a final shuddering breath, she went still. The hand I was holding fell limply to her side, the icy chill of death already creeping into her skin. I wasn't sure how long I stayed there, holding Becca's lifeless body, before I finally managed to stand up. With the last shreds of my strength, I made a decision. Becca deserved a proper farewell, not to be left on this cold, desolate landscape as Carion. In a daze, I began to gather rocks from the surrounding area, hauling them over to the spot where Becca's body lay. In the harsh Arctic wilderness, you couldn't dig a grave in the

permafrost. There were no flowers to leave on her grave, no trees to make a coffin, just cold in different stones. Once I had enough rocks, I set to work constructing an Inukshook, a cairn used by the Inuit, as a marker to help the recently deceased, to find their way to the afterlife. Each stone was a silent tribute to the woman who had been my companion, my confidant, my friend. Each stone was carefully selected and placed, forming a silhouette that mirrored the human form. The tallest stone for the body, a pair of stones for the arms, and a smaller stone for the head. The work was hard, and the freezing wind didn't make it any easier, but I forced myself to continue, focusing on the task at hand as a way to escape the grim reality of what had transpired.

Next, I laid Becca's body beneath the Anuk-Sook, folding her arms over her chest. With a heavy heart, I said my final goodbyes, whispering them into the icy wind, praying that they would reach her wherever she was. Naglakip Inup Kaumanak, Pulyunarmian Timutak. Your spirit lives on in my memories, never forgotten, never incomplete. Lastly, I placed Katok's otherworldly knife in her hands. I didn't know why, but I thought she would have more use for it than I would. With the last of my energy drained, I stepped back to take in the sight. The Anuk-sook stood tall against the pale sky, its form contrasted against the snow-covered landscape. It was a ghostly figure standing vigil over Becca's final resting place, a silent sentry keeping watch over her as she journeyed to the spirit world.

June 25, 2021. I must have wandered for what felt like hours, perhaps even days, with no sense of time or direction. The icy landscape stretched out indefinitely, a vast expanse of desolation as if the entire world had succumbed to the frost. I was numb, both physically from the piercing cold that infiltrated my clothes and skin, and mentally from the shock of what had occurred. Every gust of wind, every crunch of snow beneath my feet, seemed to echo Becca's presence. Each shadow cast by the moonlight transformed into demons, coming to claim me. My side throbbed with a persistent pain where Becca had stabbed me, a cruel reminder of the nightmare that had become my reality.

The wound was probably infected by now, or maybe I was succumbing to hypothermia. I didn't really care. Each gasping breath felt like an accomplishment, each blink a momentous effort. My mind, once sharp and alert, now wandered aimlessly in a fugue state. Suddenly, a shadow flickered across the white canvas of the snow.

The shadow caused a shiver of dread. to seize my body. I squinted, shielding my eyes against the weak sun, and made out the silhouette of a helicopter. Its rotors were a mere whisper in the icy air, the dull throb of its engines barely audible over the wind's moan. In my haze of fear and exhaustion, the helicopter was another menacing figure, another Ejirak sent to torment me. I couldn't risk it. I couldn't bear the thought of falling prey to those shape-shifting demons again. With trembling fingers I fumbled in my pocket. my numb fingers finding the reassuring grip of the flare gun. With a shaky hand, I fired the flare.

The sudden light, brilliant against the gray sky, arched upwards, a fiery serpent against the dull expanse. The sharp smell of gunpowder filled my nostrils, momentarily overpowering the stench of decay that still clung to my clothes. It was a desperate attempt to ward off my tormentor, a signal flare that carried more of a plea for mercy than a call for help. The helicopter veered towards the flare, like a moth drawn to a flame. The last thing I remember was the sudden brightness, an intense spotlight blinding me.

A rush of noise, the helicopter descending, shouting voices, the crunch of boots on snow. And then, with a nauseating lurch, the world turned black. August 1, 2021. When I regained consciousness, the frosty landscape was replaced with white sterile walls and a rhythmic beeping. I was in a hospital, the incessant beeping originating from the machines monitoring my vitals. My frozen clothes were gone, replaced with a thin hospital gown, and the once throbbing wound now bore a clean dressing. The first few days in the hospital passed in a haze as I drifted in and out of consciousness.

There was always someone there when I woke up, a nurse, a doctor, an official from the Environmental Protection Agency, their faces drifting in and out of focus as I wrestled with my own tortured thoughts. As the days passed, my strength began to return. I began to sit up, to speak, to ask questions. With each question I was met with a flood of information, each revelation more horrifying than the last. They told me about the drill,

about the toxic hydrogen sulfide released into the air. They spoke of a devastating wave of poison that had decimated both the research station and the nearby settlements. The scientists explained the symptoms how exposure to hydrogen sulfide could result in severe, neurological damage. They talked of disorientation and paranoia, of vivid hallucinations that seemed so real, they had driven some to madness, to violence, even to murder. They described how the villagers

had wandered off into the snowstorm, disoriented and confused, driven by hallucinations to their doom. Only a single newborn infant, miraculously untouched by the poison, had been found alive amidst the ashes of Silap Inua. The personnel at outpost aroval. Aurora had fared even worse. They'd destroyed their only means of escape, dooming themselves in their madness. Some had succumbed to the toxic gas, while others had fallen victim to their own colleagues, driven by their poisoned minds to horrific acts of violence. The doctors explained that the things I'd witnessed, the terrifying encounters with the Ijurak, talking ravens, the monstrous transformation of

Becca, were all products of my poisoned mind. They weren't real, they couldn't have been real. I wanted to believe them. I really did. It was easier to accept that I'd simply been hallucinating than to confront the horror of what I thought I had witnessed. The people at the research station, the villagers, they were all victims of a terrible accident, not some supernatural force. It was tragic, but it was rational. It was something I could understand. But there were things I just couldn't shake, things that didn't fit neatly into their hydrogen sulfide theory. The village, for instance. Yes, they'd found the burned-out remains of the settlement, but not a single trace of the villagers themselves. Search parties had painstakingly combed the surrounding area for days, enduring the harsh elements, all in vain.

Not a single body was recovered. Thirty people just don't disappear without a trace, not even in a harsh, frozen landscape like this one. Where were the bodies? Why weren't there any signs of a struggle, or of the panicked flight they described? And then there was Becca. The recovery team found the Inuksook I'd constructed for her, but when they'd opened it, expecting to recover her body, they found it empty. There were bare human footprints, leading from the cairn to the sea.

Footprints that, according to the weather records, were made days after the gas cloud had dissipated. How was it possible? How could a dead woman, encased in a tomb of ice and stone, simply walk away? July 7, 2023. In the aftermath of the horrifying events at Outpost Aurora, the authorities declared the entire area a disaster zone. The high levels of residual toxins, along with the lingering risk of additional leaks from the deserted drilling site,

rendered the area too hazardous for habitation. The remoteness of the disaster allowed the subsequent relocation of the surviving Inuit tribes to be done clandestinely. During this period, I was consumed by a profound sense of guilt and duty. to assist my people. As an Inuit, and as one of the few survivors of the incident, I felt a deep connection and responsibility to those who had also lost so much. I worked tirelessly to help facilitate the relocations, ensuring that my people were moved safely, with dignity, and with as little disruption to their way of life as possible. I provided guidance on cultural norms, tradition and practices, ensuring they were preserved and respected in the relocation process.

During this period, I also found the strength to return to my academic pursuits. I completed my PhD in anthropology, my dissertation focusing on the resilience of Inuit societies in the face of severe climatic and socio-cultural disruptions. After the completion of my doctorate, I realized I no longer had the stomach for field research. The trauma of what it unfolded had left deep imprints on my psyche, making the once thrilling prospect of Arctic exploration,

a haunting reminder of the fragility of life. Instead, I move back to Anchorage to accept a university lecturer position and have tried to live as normal a life as possible. Yet even as I carve out this new path, my past remains with me, especially in the wintertime, when snow falls like a blanket over the city, obscuring everything in a shroud of white. On these nights I often find myself drawn to the coast. I walk along the shoreline, gazing out over the frost-kissed waters,

half expecting to see a figure emerging from the icy depths. Becca, or rather, the thing she became. Her memory lingers, a ghost in the snow, a specter in the sea foam. Not loving your AT&T or T Mobile Bill? Yeah, we've been hearing that a lot. Good news. Bring your AT&T or T Mobile Bill to Verizon and we'll give you a better deal. So get away from that unfortunate phone bill and get to Verizon.

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