Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - I work on an oil rig in the North Sea that doesn't officially exist

Episode Date: April 11, 2022

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Welcome to aboard Via Rai. Embarked and profite. Embarque and celebrate. Rigolet. Publiere. Savoy. Admirate. And profite.

Viaray, the voice that we love that we love. Talk to nice sleep. The night sky is blacker than I've ever seen before. It swirls with slow malevolence, growling and warning. My scarf is pulled up to my eyes, but my cheeks and nose are still burning pink with the bitter cold.

I'm in line with the others, waiting to board the ship that'll take us from the rig. The winds tonight are too powerful for helicopter travel, so ship it is. It's a military vessel, a Royal Navy ship to be exact. The gray and white waves crash against its hull. I'm not sure if the ship's military nature makes me feel more or less afraid. But I don't have a choice. Seven workers are always selected to board. And tonight, I am one of those seven.

My name is Reg. I spend alternating months working on an oil rig in the North Sea. The work is not as bad as you might expect, and the pay grade is actually rather good. The boredom is the worst part. We get Wi-Fi on the good days, but it's spotty at best. If you like your YouTube at 144p with 20 minutes of buffering time, then the rig is the place for you.

There's about 200 of us here at any given time, and honestly, sometimes it's kind of nice. During the day, in rare hours of warmth, the sun sparkles off the pipes and the railings in white and bright yellow. When this happens, the mood is cheerful among the workers. Then other times you'll find yourself on the bridge in the grim hours before dawn, frozen in place,

as you desperately try to fix the shoddy job the engineer before you did on the generator that powers the crane. Pair the situation with work gloves that barely budge with the strain of your fingers and with goggles that always fog over to the point of uselessness. Try to take your goggles off and the icy rain will immediately lash into your eyes. What can I say? There's good days and bad days. I can't complain. My shifts on the rig are typical.

One month on, one month off. We get flown out by helicopter as a squad of about 20 of us. Then we go our separate ways, once back on the mainland. Then I'll see some of them the following month when we return to work. Occasionally, some of us get moved to other rigs. Pretty straightforward. But there's an anomaly, one that I've always wondered about. I've asked around, but no one is able,

or perhaps willing to give me a straight answer. Five days before the end of my shift on the rig, seven of my colleagues are selected randomly. They are chosen late in the afternoon, told to gather their belongings, and then by night they are gone. Moved to another rig is all I am ever told on the matter. This happens without fail,

five days before the end of every shift. This has been the norm since I first began the work earlier in the matter. year. The people that are selected, I never see again. Most times the people who are selected are only acquaintances, but sometimes I've known them personally. I had the details of a man who was chosen four months ago. A good friend of mine, a guy named Figgs. He was called up a few assignments ago. Since then, I've tried to call him to dig for more information, but he would never answer his phone. Most of us use craft. Happy phones offered by the company during our shifts on the rig, so it's possible his device was ditched in favor of a better model.

But still, I can't shake the unease, and I'm not sure why I seem to be the only one concerned. Not that it matters now anyway. Today marks five days before the end of my shift, and for the first time, I found myself as one of the workers selected. Normally they leave by helicopter, but tonight the sky is too fierce, so the aforementioned military ship has pulled itself up alongside the rig. Why exactly our departure has to be on this particular night? Why our journey is important enough to warrant a Royal Navy battleship to personally escort us to the new location?

I do not know. I ask some of the other six, my fellow chosen colleagues, but they know just as little. One by one we are ushered down the line, out of the biting rain from the edge of the platform, and into the body of the ship, as the storm hammers down overhead. We are led through cold and narrow metal corridors and into a meeting room of sorts, where we awkwardly take our seats. The ship groans and churns.

The engine rumbles steadily from down below. Two men make their way between us to the front of the room. One walks slouched. His beard and hair are scruffy. He's in his 50s, perhaps. I recognize him. He makes appearances on the rig from time to time, but he is not irregular.

He places forms on the desks before us as he meanders from person to person. The other man's pace is measured and deliberate, straight-backed. He turns at the head of the room and gazes at us in a cool silence. He wears an immaculate white shirt beneath a blue-gray jersey and a naval cap, also in white. His shoulders are decked out with gold epaulettes.

Once the scruffier man has handed out the last form, he stands in the opposite corner, chewing his tongue as he looks us over. The man in white steps forward. Gentlemen, my name is Captain John Irons, and I am in command of this destroyer. Destroyer? What the hell? Why would a tiny team of oil rigors need to be transported, on a bloody destroyer.

I'll get right to it. The forms before you now, if signed, will bind you to the Official Secrets Act. Your involvement in this operation will be entirely secret. You will be forbidden to discuss the operational logistics, machinery, or any self-assumed purpose of the assigned rig, even to members of your own immediate family. For all intents and purposes,

any military involvement in your assignment will be purely extraneous, operating on an ad hoc basis in the event of threat-to-life weather events. The captain clenches his jaw and scans the room from left to right. You have all been selected for this temporary position based on a combination of factors,

including your specialist knowledge, your time served, and the results of your personality and psychological assessments. You are welcome to refuse this assignment. If you choose to do so, you will be escorted off the ship and back onto the rig where you will see out your allocated time. You must come to a decision in the next few minutes. If, upon docking at the assigned rig, you decide that you no longer wish to sign the document, then you will be given a room and confined to your quarters for the duration of your service.

And you may remain confined for a period of up to an additional two weeks, depending on the schedule of the ship in question. Is that understood? His question is followed by a strained silence, one which eventually breaks into a series of low mumblings and bewildered nods from people around me. Should you choose to accept, your pay rate for the following five days

will be increased tenfold, and will in practice be worth the equivalent of two and a half months of solid service? My colleagues exchanged a series of glitaph, and raised eyebrows. The energy in the room changes somewhat. You will be expected to perform your role to the best of your abilities, of course. The captain continues. And, as discretion is of the utmost importance, ask as few questions as will allow you to see out your duties.

His sharp gray eyes stop on mine, just for a moment, before flicking over to meet those of the fellow in the corner. The scruffy man who occasionally visits the ridge, My rig. A chill passes through me, but I say nothing. I will now ask if anyone would like to refuse the ordered assignment and return to the rig. Now is your one and only chance to do so. Nobody moves. Nobody speaks.

I thought about it. I really did. I swear. The whole thing has me set very much on edge. And this assignment? offered assignment? This man, this military guy, who the hell is he to issue us job terms and warnings and ultimatums? A part of me wants to scrunch the document into a ball and throw it into his face and march proudly back onto my rig where I belong. But this, this opportunity to venture

out into the unknown, this is some real exciting shit. I don't even care about the money that much, to be honest. I have been given a chance to see behind the curtain, to find out what happens to seven who leave the rig, to find out what's so important about our destination. Mysteries have been presented to us. Mysteries that demand solving. I have to know. I just have to know. So I stay seated and listen to the dulled roar of the wind through the walls. Perhaps that's how they convince the seven to stay every time. Maybe the money is just so we can rationalize our decisions. A tense moment passes.

Then the captain looks over our shoulders and nods to someone at the back of the room. I turn in my seat to see an officer raise a radio to his mouth as he steps through the door, speaking into it as he walks away down the corridor. A minute later, the rumble of the engine below grows like rolling. thunder, and this ship groans into slow life. The captain nods to us, and then to the man in the corner, and takes his leave, strolling away at once. And so we begin our voyage to the assigned rig, plowing onwards through the storm.

I read through the secrets act before me as we make our journey over the waves. There's some seriously cool concepts in here. makes me feel a bit like a spy. However, there's some terrifying stuff too. Time drags on and I wonder exactly where we're going. Left with nothing but the sounds of the engine, the flicker of turning paper and the occasional grunt or cough for my colleagues, my mind begins to wander. It swirls with curious, dark-clouded thoughts. Dread creeps up on me. It ebbs and flows, coming and receding like the tide. And I start to see a very, start to wonder if I've made a huge mistake.

We were forced to decide so quickly. I tug at my collar, my stomach turns. I look up and meet the eyes of the man still in the corner. I clear my throat and sit up in my seat. Excuse me, Maid. Don't I recognize you? I see you on the rig sometimes. The man is silent for a moment, then scratches his beard.

Aye. Work takes me from rig to rig. You lot have a good location. Less stormy than most. And what about the one we're going to? Will it be stormy there? I ask. The man sighs, not with frustration. Perhaps just with tiredness. Yeah. Yeah, it'll be stormy all right. The others seem a little emboldened now. The seal is broken, and the questions start coming. Which rig is it? Where any of you? devastation there before? No, the man replies. None of you have been. This one ain't charted. Officially, it doesn't even exist. Is it military-owned then? Like a secret Navy supply of oil?

Is that why we've been taken by a battleship? This gruffy man's eyes dart to the door at the back of the room, and he rubs his nose. It ain't an oil rig as such. The machinery and the systems will be similar to what you're used to. As the captain said, for all intents and purposes, any military involvement in this assignment is officially ad hoc. In the event of an emergency, the less said, the better. But if it isn't oil, I ask, my blood, for reasons unknown pumping fierce, then what is it? What's its purpose? And why is it secret? Silence falls. And the man, and a low voice, replies, honestly, lads, you don't need to concern yourself with the Riggs' true purpose.

Nor do I recommend you try to understand. Please, I don't even know myself, I swear it. And it's better this way. I know that this is a frustrating answer, but I must emphasize that it is in all your best interests for you just to do your work. Take your money and get the fuck home. Do you understand me? A nod quietly, and the crew alongside mumble their acknowledgments.

The gears in my mind begin to turn and grind bitterly, as the curious ship sails on into the night. It is well into the earliest hours of the dark morning by the time we arrive. The sky is still black and angry as we depart the destroyer. I slip and stumble against the rail, as the ship rocks over the surface of the swirling sea. We all signed the Secrets Act, of course. How could we not?

We huddle awkwardly on the rain-soaked platform of the rig, as the captain goes to exchange some words unheard with a man in a blue coat. I squint my eyes through the downpour and take in my surroundings. The rig is colossal, bigger than the one we departed, and hectic. Even at this time of the night, the place is alive with people, some in heavy overalls, and others in military uniforms. Soldiers can be seen patrolling at every level of the giant metal rig. A group passes right by us.

Most have the British flag emblazoned on their arms, but a couple towards the back have Norwegian insignias instead. Military-grade searchlights illuminate the rain in thick, heavy streaks as they scan the bridges and platforms. distorted shadows thrown across their surfaces by the rails and pipework. But inside the derrick, protected by the great iron skeleton, there is no pipeline for any oil. There is no hose that I can see, no drill line at all. I raise a hand to my eyes to shield them from the rain and take a step away from the group. I stare at where the pipeline should be on any normal rig,

even as a powerful beam of light washes over the rain. my face. Inside the crisscrossed metal tower is an enormous, monstrous chain. The largest that I've ever seen. Each link must be the size of a car. It is colossal and terrifying in a way I do not quite understand. And standing here on the platform only a few meters away, I find myself feeling very small, very small indeed. The chain disappears behind the beams of the tower that supports it, and it drops below the surface of the platform. It extends, presumably, deep down under the sea. For what purpose? I do not know.

I am suddenly slammed from behind. I stumble in shock and turn to see who pushed me. And a roaming light shows me a man with a hard hat in his outstretched hand. His eyes bloodshot red and shadowed with dark circles. He is a mess. And when he looks at me, it feels like he is staring right through me. Are you lot the takeover crew then? He croaks out in a voice, hoarse beyond exhaustion.

I exchanged looks with the men around me. Yeah, I reply uneasily. Yeah, I think we might be. A siren suddenly sounds at the far side of the rig, a loud and obnoxious wail, and we jump in alarm. Well, us new arrivals do. The embattled man before me does not even flinch.

He just closes his eyes, start shaking his head. No, he mutters. Then louder. No, no, no, fuck, no more. He slams the hard hat into my stomach in March's past. The soldiers have begun bellowing orders, but I cannot hear them above the wind

and the blare of the siren. The platforms and the pipes light up alternatingly in orange and blue. Fear ripples through me as the platform beneath starts to shake. The captain from the ship is suddenly in front of us, Barking orders, he's hastily reading off a list of names, telling my colleagues where to go, and in a chaotic scramble they do as they're told. This does not seem the time or place for questioning our roles. The ground shakes.

I hear the waves crash against the legs of the rig, and for that to even be possible, for me to hear them above the bellows and the roaring gale and the shriek of the siren, they must be colossal indeed. I can see some of the sea out of the corner of my eye, And it's a picture of wild, dark, and churning fury. But my gaze is focused on something else. Blood pounds in my ears to join the cacophony. I am vaguely aware of the captain shouting my name,

but I fail to copy his orders. He steps forward now, shaking my shoulder vigorously, but I cannot move. I am frozen in place in blind terror, and I do not even know why. There's something about this whole rig that isn't right. It isn't right at all. And I cannot tear my eyes from the great chain.

The terrible chain, obscene in its size. It grinds and shakes with the storm. And I watch in disbelief as it starts to unravel. As if something, some unknown force, is dragging it desperately deep below the surface. Lazzang sur-gillet, power for example. We'd say that's their dojo.

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The chain is moving. There's no doubt about it. Something is pulling it slowly down below the surface. I can see a section unraveling. I watch as it feeds reluctantly through a series of monster. monstrous gears from an adjacent, slightly smaller tower. The captain is still shouting into my face. The rain and the beams of passing searchlights wash off the shine of his naval cap.

His words eventually start to break through the wail of the siren and the rush of the waves and into my petrified days. Reg. Reg. It is Reg, isn't it? I, yes, yeah, but that's right. The captain's eyes flash and he nods, drawing back a little. Look to the right of the tower, Reg. Just behind. You see that gray cylinder?

I do. Waves at the sirens, orange and blue light, roll across it again and again. Yes, I see it. The reservoir, right? For the hydraulics? The captain laughs out loud. A disturbing and ludicrous sound

amidst the tumultuous, relentless chaos. Smashing! He says, clasping a rough and heavy hand on my shoulder. And you feel your feet on the ground? You have your bearings? I, yes, yes, a captain. Brilliant. That's your station, old chap.

Off you go. On the double. He tips his cap and strides off across the platform back to his ship. I watch him go for a second. Then I feel the blood returned to my legs. Let's go, Reg. They're counting on you. I hear from behind. Yes, right. This is my assignment. Here we go. Here we go.

My feet splash across the surface of the platform as I head for the nearest metal mesh stairs, fastening the hard hat I'd been rudely gifted onto my head. The entire ground is like a rippling mirror, illuminated in flashes of white, blue, and orange. As soldiers sprint past me in formation, their shimmering reflections below run with them, distorted by the sheets of rain. My hand slips right off the watery rail as I ascend. I stumble past my fellow workers. I've already lost sight of the six I arrived with. They could be anywhere by now. I crossed the bridge over to the reservoir. I can see the pipes and tubes to the hydraulic cylinders. They are not quite the same as the ones back on my own rig, but similar enough.

A sudden crunch from behind me has me swear in fear and swivel at once, and through the iron cage of the tower, the massive chain suddenly jolts down, an entire van-sized link disappearing out of sight into the shadows below. Good God! What the hell is this place? I mutter breathlessly, cold rain streaking down my face. I fight my way through the storm to the cylinders. There's a team of about ten, all swarming around the pumps and control valves. A guy in goggles looks over to me. Hydraulics?

He calls through the rain. A great boom of thunder shivers through the sky to accompany the scream of the siren. Ah, fuck. Yes? I think that's me. I call back. The goggled man nods and points to a section of the cylinder. Open that fucker up.

See if it's working. Quick as you can, mate. Jesus. I pushed through the bustle of my new comrades, adrenaline pumping, and I turned to hastily look through a box of tools for the equipment I'll need to remove the covering. A searchlight beam from afar

scans across my immediate surroundings, and I catch a flash of blue coat crossing from an opposite bridge. It's the guy the captain was talking to earlier down on the loading platform. I turned to look up at it, Drill in hand. It's embarrassing as what it is.

The man in the blue coat says to the officer at his right as he strides past. He stands tall and walks with grim purpose. Fourth siren tonight? Is this a pistake? This is the kind of shoddy control I'd expect over on the Danish rig, not on bloody UK-A. Commander! The goggled man shouts.

Rain flying from his lips as he stands up straight, and the commander tips his hat to him in return. Status? The commander bellows, back rigid and hands quickly clasped behind his back as the wind drags his coat about his shoulders. I don't have a good look at his face, but I can see a thick white beard whip round his jaw. No major issue here, commander. Goggles replies. Hydraulics understood to be clear.

Fuck's sake. The commander mutters, casting an eye shrouded in shadow from his visor over my new colleagues. Then what the hell is the problem here? Too much slack on the chain? He turns to the officer to his right. Find out what UK-B and the Norwegians are up to. The amount of times I've had to tell the no-dash rig to sharpen their shit this month? Bullocks do it.

Let's bring this fucker under control. I do not want to deal with a fifth siren tonight. The commander and his entourage clattered their way across the bridge. I wash him raise an arm and gesture angrily to the groaning chain, looking like little toy soldiers beside it as they pass it by. We work on through the night. The rain eventually begins to fall back into a more bearable drizzle. The sea calms and starts to settle.

The waves against the rig's legs become less violent, and the siren, mercifully, cuts out. The chain too is steadily hauled back up through the tower and mechanically stable. Like a fool, I had expected my shift to end there. I thought I would be allowed some desperately needed rest, but I was mistaken. My shift continued on through the night.

It turned out that there had been a minor fault with one of the hydraulic systems after all. But we couldn't work out if this particular malfunction had been responsible for the mishap, so we agreed collectively not to mention it. It was not until the silvery light through the clouds above suggested that the sun had risen that I was dismissed. Like a zombie, I marched to my assigned dorm and collapsed onto a narrow bed against the wall, It fell at once into a welcome and total sleep. I was the first one to awaken. My bunkmates were all still snoring away.

I rub my eyes and bring my legs over the side of the bed, gently cracking the joints in my arms and back. A clock on the wall tells me that it's 12.20 p.m. 5 hours of sleep. Great. I run a hand down my face, but I actually don't feel too bad. A piece of paper taped to the wall below the clock. tells me that Hydraulics Team B are expected to return to work at 1.30 p.m. I'm assuming that one's mind, based on the time that we were dismissed.

Someone has scrawled across the paper and pencil. It's today's date, along with Commander's Orientation, 1315. I quietly opened the door, and after a quick splash of water to the face, a change of clothes, and Anne, admittedly rather gross brush with a borrowed toothbrush, I decide to use my spare hour to look around the rig. The weather has calmed, and whilst the sun is not exactly shining, it's pleasant enough for now. The rig is just as busy as it was last night, but the air of panic has dissipated, thankfully. During my walk, I encounter one of the six for my previous rig, and we shoot the shit for a few minutes. I learned the location of the lockers where our belongings have been deposited,

and immediately regret my decision to you. used the toothbrush of the unknown soldier. It's remarkably easy to tell which workers on the rig are new arrivals and which have been here for longer. You can see it in the lines of their faces, in their eyes, expressions, and the way they carry themselves. The soldiers, however, are unreadable. I ponder their purpose as I make my way through the inner corridors of the rig's hub. If you walk like you have a clear direction in mind, you typically won't be bothered. I found. I'm intrigued by what appears to be a small library nestled within the walls. A cluster of shabby bookshelves hold a range of battered books. There's some maps here too, of the North Sea,

and of the rig itself, taped to the wall. As I'm studying one of these maps, something catches my eye, a word, scratched deliberately into the metal of the wall alongside. It's not obvious, but now that I've seen it, I can read it as clear as day. Figs, it says. Figs! A brief but sharp surge of adrenaline passes through me. Could this have been carved by Figs himself? By my friend?

The very friend who was selected as one of the seven for this rig? It must have been, surely. Knowing that he was here, sets me grinning, and I shake my head in disbelief. Why would he carve his name into the wall? I look around the room. I undo the tape on the adjacent poster and peel it back, but there is nothing but a blank wall behind. After a moment of consideration, I grab a hold of the little bookshelf directly below the scrolling

and grunt with effort as I push it to the side. And sure enough, hidden behind the wall are a series of further carvings. I'm not sure why, but I feel compelled to shut the door to the library room. I do so before squatting down to study what has been written. There's a number carved here. 41-1-34. A date, perhaps? Not like any date I've ever seen.

Maybe it's a military system I'm not familiar with. There's also a drawing, a crude one. It looks like a little square, about to be devoured from beneath by a larger, bizarrely Pac-Man-esque shape, or half of him, at least. A semicircle, with a split for an open jaw. It's literally just a bunch of lines carved into the metal, but it unsettles me in a way I can't explain.

Next to this drawing is the phrase, don't trust Potter, in capital letters. Potter, who the hell is Potter? The sounds of footsteps in the corridor beyond bid me some time, and I grab the bookshelf and quickly drag it back into place. Workers pushed through the door, and I nod to them upon my exit before they have a chance to ask me what I was doing. 41-134. Don't trust Potter. A drawing of a semicircle and a square. They all mean something, I'm sure of it. Figgs left them behind.

I know he did. With only 10 or so minutes left until the scheduled briefing by the commander, I decide to dwell on my findings on the rig's largest bridge. It's an excellent vantage point for views of the surrounding sea. I can see a few battleships dotted around in the distance from here. One of them could well be the destroyer belonging to the previous captain. I can also see another two rigs like this one spread out in the distance. And if I squint, I can just make out the rough form of a third, far against the grim horizon.

There's a guy standing nearby eating a sandwich. He's the first person I've seen since arrival, not actively engaged in a task of some kind. He seems in decent spirits, but his eyes are glazed and tired. He nods at me, and I nod back. Then he gestures to the faraway rig with his sandwich. That's the Norwegian rig, he mumbles. No dash rig, they call it. Ah, I reply.

I'm not sure what else to say. My name's Reg. Nice to meet you, mate. Hi. He replies. You too, pal. Dan. Anything you can tell me about the chain, Dan? What chain?

He asked. and I furrow my brow in confusion. I'm about to gesture to the colossal metal links held in the tower. Then he chuckles at me. I'm just screwing with you, mate. I know what you mean. But I don't have any answers for you. I'm afraid.

No bloody clue. They're keeping something locked down. That's all I know. It moves with the storms. He looks out to sea. And it's always stormy here. You've been here long? Ten days.

I'll be done in another four. Second time they've assigned me to the rig. To my surprise, I felt a flood of relief. Ah, so people do come back from the rig then. And of course they do. The idea that they wouldn't. I silently brand myself a fool. Of course people move on from here.

Why wouldn't they? Second time, I asked. How long was your first shift? Five days. They keep doubling your pay with every subsequent return, apparent. He takes another bite. Choose thoughtfully. And a man needs it. So what's up with the military presence?

He shrugs. Who knows? Keep the Russians away, perhaps. Whatever they're up to here, it's important shit, clearly. I mean, look at all this. A trio of helicopters flies overhead as he spreads out his arms. I watch them pass. Hmm. Yeah. Maybe. I shift on the spot.

and think about what I saw scrawled on the wall. Would it be unwise to bring it up to this guy, to Dan? Screw it. You know if anyone called Potter, Dan? He gives me a strange look, and he pauses. No, he replies. Can't say that I do, though I only work on the uppermost deck, so my pool of acquaintances is relatively small.

The military police hero nicknamed the Plotters, if that's of any meaning. No, no, but thanks anyway. He eyes me again, his expression changing, and he stands up straight. You know, you ask a lot of questions, Reg. To be honest, I'm wondering what you're even doing here. They don't normally send blokes like you, not in my experience. I laugh awkwardly, but Dan does not return the laughter.

He just holds my gaze for a tense moment, then shrugs and looks back out to see. I breathe. I guess your skills are just in demand right now, he muses. Realizing the time, I thank the guy for his conversation and head down for the briefing by the commander. I'm cutting it close, but thankfully I'm not the last to arrive. He doesn't say much, really. Just gruffly goes over some basic logistics.

Highlights important. duties for the day and officially welcomes us to the rig. It's not a particularly cheery welcome, nor is it particularly interesting. He mentions that we will be subject to a lengthy debrief in Norway upon the end of our service. And then there's something else he says, something that stands out, something I dwell on well into the day. Whatever you may hear, he says, scanning the room, One eye bright and shining like polished brass, the other blinded, a scarred whitish gray. Whatever you may see, it is suggested that you push that shit aside and save it for the debrief. I would remind you that the British government takes dissension from the Official Secrets Act very seriously.

Very fucking seriously indeed. His eyes meet mine. As do I. And I'm worse than those. Those fuckers in London, I can assure you. The tension holds the air still, thick and heavy. Then it breaks away like ice with a sudden motion from the commander. He nods and gestures us to the door, and it's clear that the meeting is over.

My day is uneventful. I learn little and make no mental progress on the mysterious scrawlings, presumably left by Figgs himself. My shifts are broken up into six hours on, six hours off. It's nighttime when the conditions get rougher. The rains return with the swirl and seethe of the storm. I shiver as I check the lights on the enormous control valve before me. The tension now is palpable. Far beyond anything I experienced in the commander's briefing.

This is something else. All teeth are set. Every pair of eyes itching to glance up at the, the silent siren. Soldiers and workers alike are all on edge, waiting and praying that the siren doesn't go off. The impending potential shattering of the piece is, perhaps, worse than the shattering itself. And eventually, of course, it does. The siren cuts through me like a knife, and the world of metal around us is cast in glows of orange and blue all along the bridges, rails, metalwork, gears, and the giant towering Derek skeleton with the chain.

groaning inside, the chaos returns. It's stressful beyond words, but the problem, wherever it came from, is, after 15 minutes or so, fixed, and then the siren stops. We breathe a collective sigh of relief as the brutal orchestra of our tempestuous domain cuts us some slack, because after another tense hour, it sounds again. And then after that, it sounds again. I feel so much sick. This is relentless. Is this why they were so desperate to get us here? Because the previous crew were literally fit to collapse. But this time, the siren does not stop. It just keeps on wailing, screaming its distress out into the night. Fuck! It's so fucking loud! The frustration we feel grows into anger, anger which quickly breaks down into shivering nerves and then melts further into cold fear.

Stop! Where's the commander? The guy in charge of our section. Goggles, as I've nicknamed him, removes his helmet and runs a hand through his hair. Again! He shouts. Check through it all again. Have we missed anything?

The chain jolts. To my horror, it swings slowly to the side and crashes into the side of the metal tower that contains it. The vibrations of the shock thundering through the entire rig. Oh, hell! Goggles bellows in dismay. Where's the fucking commander? And then there is another noise, a boom that ripples through the air from a distance. I rise on shaking legs and lean over the rails, looking through the rain out to sea.

A warship of some kind, closer than before but still a ways away, is firing upon the churning waves. Its turrets light up in brilliant white, and then a half second later they are followed by the booms and the rattle of fire. There's something in the sea. More ships are coming round through the haze. I can see them. I can see them. I can see their lights, and the water between them shifts and swells in ways that don't make sense. The dark waves are colossal. I wiped the rain from my eyes. I can't quite make it out. And I realize everyone is distracted, distracted by the light show out at sea.

The workers have shifted away from their stations. I can see all around. If I'm going to look for answers, the time is now. I seized the moment, and with a quick look behind, I sprint away through the shadows of the rails. Keeping my head low, I make brisk pace down the shuttering stairs. I cross the platform, trying to look like someone who has a clear goal in mind. I'm about to push through in the central hub of the rig when four helicopters fly out overhead. My mouth drops. To fly in this storm? They must be insane.

But they're carrying something. Between the four of them. They're carrying a length of the colossal chain. The same type as held in the tower, and weighed down at either end by what I'm presuming might be massive, gargantuan anchors. I know I shouldn't be wasting my moment, but I can't help but watch as they fly out to sea, illuminated in the glare of the warship fire. They hover in place, as much as they can given the weather, and the chain is released.

It drops down through the dark, towards the swirling sea, and smacks into the surface with a crash. The spray is massive as the iron sinks. Blood pumping, I turn and push on into the hub. I recreate the map I saw in the library as best I can in my mind, and I orient myself. I march with purpose past groups of hurried soldiers, careful not to make eye contact, and at the end of the corridor, I find what I am looking for.

The map in the library had it marked only as a door, with no room beyond, but what was impossible. And sure enough, there's a room here. shrouded in darkness. Filing cabinets line the walls. There's a desk attached, too. It is empty except for a bottle of vitamin D tablets. But this is good.

Filing cabinets means that there are likely personnel files in here. Maybe I can find information on Potter or about the chain. I know I'm an idiot. Most would just take the money, keep to themselves, and go home. That's presumably why they get selected. But I'm not one of them. I'm just not. I run a hand over the cabinets, all locked of course.

Curious steel padlocks are attached to each and every door, all in the pattern of 0-0-0-00. A light bulb goes on in my head. I recognize that pattern. It's the same as the number figs wrote on the wall, 41-1-34. All right, fuck it, I muttered to myself, cracking my knuckles before setting to work, Starting with padlock number one, and I'm working my way down, then across.

Don't fail me now, figs. I work fast, but the time feels like it drags on. I'm expecting it any second for some officer to barge in and arrest me, but they do not. And on cabinet number seven, the padlock snaps open. I grunt with desperate glee, dragging the door open and rifling through the folders and files within. I grab a handful of them and drop them onto the dead. flipping them open and trying to absorb as much as I can. I don't really want to stick around.

Frustratingly, the files aren't arranged alphabetically. There doesn't even seem to be any coherent order at all. There are pages and pages of reports, some with notes scrawled across in pen, or black redacted bars stamped over them. All drilling operations at site Arskine 3 to cease immediately. Report to Commander Cleese, December 1986. I flipped through another.

I'm careful not to let the rainwater drip from my face onto the paper. Urgent. Redirection of UK nuclear program, Trident. Budget to Arskine 3 Discovery, 17 to 18% recommended, pending January, 1987. I don't have time to take in all the text. I just absorb what I can. Personnel to be assigned to new rigs UK-A and UK-B for no longer than periods of two weeks maximum. Standardization with Norwegian and Danish rigs recommended.

Greater personnel numbers suggested during winter months. Entity's true nature to remain at the highest level of classification. I expel a breath of air from my lungs and a cold and unwelcome burst. Entity? I lift the file up towards the room's sole source of light. It flickers as the wind howls outside and the siren blares. A scrap of torn brown paper falls from amidst the file and lands on the desk. My heart pounds as I pick it up and read it through.

It's a segment of a poem, handwritten in fine ink. Alfred Lord Tennyson, 1830. It says at the top, Below the thunders of the upper deep, far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, his ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep. The paper is torn. And the poem ends there.

It is almost like I am watching myself from above as I stuffed the papers back into the file with pink-tipped and trembling fingers. I slammed them back into the cabinet and remix the combination on the lock and stride pale-faced and stomach lurching back through the corridors. I realize that I have made a terrible mistake. I should never have agreed to make the voyage here. I should have never signed the Secrets Act. And I should never have allowed myself to get caught up in this,

madness. The entity's true nature? The entity? Don't panic is all I can tell myself as I return into the storm. The rain batters renewed against my head and my back as lightning flashes. All of a sudden, a terrible and alien roar sounds out over the sea. It stops me in my tracks. It is by far the worst sound I've heard since my arrival, and I've been privy to a great many disturbing sounds. It echoes out over the raging waters and up into the swirls of the sky. And a great, jarring force from below suddenly throws me to the ground. I slip across the surface of the platform, scrambling up onto my elbows, barely able to believe my eyes as the edge of a huge iron wheel is forced up against the far side of the rig from beneath. I watch it as it smashes into

a crane, which promptly disconnects from the rig with the sound of tearing metal and crashes down, down into the churning sea. The chain grinds against the tower. All around me now is pure panic. And with a cataclysmic crash, I am powerless to do anything but watch, as the great chain wins the struggle and smashes through the side of the skeleton tower in a shower of broken metal. It tears through the edge of the rig, it swings round towards me, and it brings with it the enormous wheel from below, dragged around the edge of the cracked far platform. And my screams become one of those of this siren. A pair of rough hands grabbed me by the back of my jacket.

I am hastily hauled across the platform through the rain. The chain smashes the loading bays and tears the remaining cranes to shreds as if they were made of paper. The roof of the rig central hub is destroyed in a hail of shattering beams and concrete as the chain crashes relentlessly right through it. The hands release from the scruff of my neck, and I slumped to the wet ground with a splash. None of this feels real. It's like I am in a dream, a terrible, swirling nightmare.

I turned to look up at my savior, and a flash of lightning out at sea illuminates the profile of the commander, his good eyes shining in the light, the other shrouded in shadow. His coat is torn and his beard whipped wild. To your station, lad! He bellows in a voice like the rippling thunder. glancing between me and the chain. This night's not over yet. I tell you now.

I scramble back through the buttles and grab a hold of the nearby rail, trying to bring myself to a stand. What the hell is this? I shouted him. What are we going to do? Our duties. He barks back.

More helicopters fly out overhead, struggling through the wind. An officer approaches and stops to a shaking salute. The rig trembles. Confirmed. Commander. The officer shouts. Catastrophic failure in the accused section.

But it's too late, they say. There's nothing they can do now. They'll be dealt with come the morning. The commander replies. Tell me about the pneumatics. The emergency reels. We have what we got. Pneumatic reel 1 is gone, Commander.

The officer replies. Completely destroyed. Reels 2 and 3 are fit for operation. The reel 3 has been badly damaged. Get them affixed to the tower. Or hell what's left of it. Soldiers sprint past in manic squads across the platform. The battleships fire into the waves and great rolling booms.

Both of them? The officer asks uneasily. But, commander, the chain's current duress would suggest... He stutters. If we lose both the reels, get them affixed. The commander roars. Now! Fucking now!

The officer swiftly brings up his arm into a salute and sprints off through the broken, shifting shadows of the rails, and the metal work. Don't make me ask you again, the commander grunts at me, then turns to take his leave. But I call out after him, foolishly and desperately over the groan of the storm.

Never in my life have I felt such dread. I'm drowning in it. It feels like the end of the world. What is this place, Commander? You have to tell me. What's down there? I know, all right? I know about the entity.

What is it? What are you hiding? The commander stops in his, tracks. His coat ripples and thrashes in the wind. His distorted mirror image reflects in the flooded platform below. He lights up from all angles in glaring orange, then blue, orange, then blue. In addition, random bursts of white light emanate from the searchlights, the lightning, and from the artillery fire out at sea. The shadows around me are ever-changing. The commander swivels on the spot and marches right up to me. I stumble back in alarm, but he grabs my collar.

Questions, questions, questions, he mutters, loudly above the clamor. I hate when the questioneers are brought on board the rig. You know that? I fucking hate it. His eyes are wide and mad as he begins to drag me across the platform. His worn and hardened features, his white beard. They are deceptive, I now realize. The commander is strong and must be years younger than his looks would suggest. You know where they love questions. Reg? That is your name, isn't it? The submarines. His words register sharp. A tide of panic crashes against my broken constitution. I try to fight the commander away, but he trips me and throws me to the ground.

They're struggling for crew, he says. They weren't prepared for active deployment tonight. I was about to order them down anyway. But you know what? I think they'd benefit from your expertise. You're no use to me on the real big tonight. Visions of being trapped in a submarine flash through my head, claustrophobic, cold, unforgiving metal, surrounded by only the icy, churning black waters and the horror beneath the waves. The pressure growing as we sink deeper and deeper. No, no, I won't. I shout. His features are shadowed once again, but his silhouette shines bright against the thunderous night sky. So you know about the entity? Well, you're not the only one.

who knows things, Rich. I know that you abandoned your station tonight. I know that you evaded your one duty to the rig. And I know that the hydraulic section during your departure has catastrophically failed. With every no, he takes another step closer, his voice rising. My heart lurches in distress. Get your ass in that fucking submarine, and maybe I'll forget a few things. You understand me? Now on your feet, are you a man or a fucking dog? He hauls me up and drags me through a corridor of crisscrossed pipework and down onto a lower platform on the opposite side of the rig,

a section with an edge that remains crack-free, unharmed by the drag of the colossal and broken iron wheel. He squats and hauls open a door in the ground with a clank. It reveals a rusted ladder that extends down towards the sea. He looks at me. Oh God. My options whirl around in my head to the beat of the sirens whales. What the hell do I do?

What can I do? Run? Could I run somewhere? And what then? If by some miracle the rig survives the night, then they'll find you eventually, won't they? There's no way to run to. And you'll be court-martialed. Can civilians even be court-martialed?

Would I just be shot on the spot? Or worse? Fuck! Forget about being court-martialed. This is about your life! I swear with frustration. And what if the chain pulls the entire rig into the sea? What then?

A submarine might literally be the safest possible place for you, but why the commander's change of heart? What the hell is his game here? All these thoughts bubbled and froth like the foam of the gray waves below. At the end of the day, there's no point pretending that my decision wasn't already made. In times of intense stress, chaos and disarray, when your options are as complex as mine, It is just easier to simply follow the orders of the person in charge.

Maybe with hindsight I would have acted differently. I would have come up with some genius plan. But I don't have that luxury in the fire of the moment. So I call the commander a prick and ease myself down onto the ladder, bracing myself against its icy rungs. See you on the other side! The commander shouts at me. And I see him raise a radio from his belt to his mouth.

He kicks the trap door closed as I begin my shaking. descent. Down I climb. Run by slippery run. The sounds of the sea below grow louder. There's a monster down there. I'm sure of it. What else could it be other than the entity? Run after run, I trudge downwards. I shouts a megaphone distorted voice from below, breaking my train of thought. I nearly let go of the ladder and fright. I twist my neck to see down below. There's not much of the ladder left. It goes down a couple more meters. The end of the ladder is lost to the swirling, swelling waters. The waves recess slightly, and I noticed the uppermost hub of a great gray submarine. It rocks subtly in the churn. I didn't even hear it rise. A man in overalls has opened the

hatch on the top of the hole. His upper half visible. He waves at me. His voice blares through the megaphone. I nod as obviously as I can. I force the fear from the lungs and shout out a reply. Yes. Fucking yes, that's me. He replies, jump? Jump? I can't bloody well jump. Shouldn't there be a boat or a bridge or I? The man replies through the megaphone. I bang my head against the ladder in anguish. But before I can psych myself out any further, I use the adrenaline to the best of my ability, powering down the remaining rungs of the ladder, turning, calculating, and I push myself off. My arms flare. and I land with a thud on the hull of the submarine.

The man reaches over and grabs my jacket. He hauls me through the hatch and down into the vessel's body. I used the rungs of the submarine's ladder to slow my descent, but essentially crashed to the floor in a rain so deep. I roll onto my side, coughing. I'm in hell. I choke out. Not yet, you're not.

The man replies grimly, helping me to my feet. He then climbs the rungs, reaches up, and draws the hatch close. with a slam. The sounds of the storm and sea are muffled instantly, largely replaced by a low and all-surrounding rumble. Terry, he says, sticking out his hand. I take it, shivering. Reg. Thanks for coming down, Reg. We appreciate it. I, yeah, well, I didn't really have much of a... I feel my surrounding shift. I flinch as my ears pop, one after the other. We're going down. This is all so sudden. All of this.

It's just go, go, go. It's insane. Only moments ago I was watching the chain get ripped out of the tower itself. What could do that? What kind of thing would have such power? And what if the whole length of the chain unravels? What then? The recent memories flashed through my mind,

and I have to grab a hold of a nearby line of pipe to keep myself from staggering. Terry looks at me with sympathy. Hang in there, mate. You better off in here than up there. Trust me. They tell us they're losing the chain. I nod, breathing deeply, in and out.

In and out. Come on, I'll show you the exhaust valves. They aren't operating quite as they should be. Wouldn't normally be cause for major concern, but, you know, these are relatively uncharted waters, if you'll pardon the pun. I don't respond. but straighten and follow him to the engine room further below. The rumble of the water around us is paradoxically rather calming,

if I don't think about it too much. Terry continues, We're glad to have you. Our normal hydraulics guys were stolen yesterday for maintenance on the hoarder. The what? He gives me a look. Don't you know? The drill.

It's an acronym. Hydraulics operated deep drill. We call it. The harder. Military folks sure love their acronyms. I remember what I had read in the report, in the secret file. All drilling operations to cease immediately, 1986. Report to Commander R. Kleece.

I thought they stopped all the drilling. Yeah, for oil, obviously. But the harder's tiny. They send that thing down on rare occasions for samples from the seabed. I struggle to process all of this. As we come to a stop in the engine room, Terry clasps me on the shoulder and directs me to the tools, then takes his leave, telling me where to find him if I need him. And like a programmed machine, I go to work. I do what I do best.

It's why I'm supposedly here, after all. I look around me as I work. There are no windows. I haven't seen any since entering the submarine. I quite like it. I can sort of pretend, that none of this is happening. I can pretend I'm back on my own rig, working happily. I can temporarily convince myself that I haven't been blackmailed into a military submarine, and that I'm not trapped hundreds and hundreds of meters beneath the sea, and that I am not at risk of losing my life in a world of unimaginable nightmares, and that I am not at the immediate mercy of an unspeakable terror that sleeps beneath the surface. Except it's not sleeping anymore. Is it reg?

I push these thoughts aside and work as best as I can on the hydraulics before me. I don't know how much time passes. Once I believe I have completed my task to a satisfactory degree, I clamber back through the submarine corridors. They are narrow and cold. The clanks of my footsteps echo and reverberate softly around the walls. They are also curiously empty. I always imagined military submarines to be busier.

I do, however, find some people when I push through a metal door at the end of a corridor. The level of light is low and green. The room is illuminated by a series of dim bulbs overhead. To my surprise, the front of this room is curved and not made of metal. It has instead been built with glass, or at least, some other, thick, transparent material. Beyond is the deep and dark sea. The submarine's weak beam lights catch on nothing but water. There are five others in here with me.

One is clearly the captain, a man in gray. He turns in his chair and nods at me. Another is Terry who smiles at me. I'm still shocked by the glass. What the hell is this? I ask. Military subs don't have walls of glass, do they? I thought they were solid metal. Terry shoots me another questioning look.

Well, of course they don't, but this isn't a typical sub, is it? Some of the other members of the crew have turned to look at me with similar curiosity. One of them, I realized to my bewilderment, is shrouded in what appeared to be religious robes of some kind. I glance at the monk-like man. I feel like I'm losing my mind, I choke out. What are you doing on board? Well, I'm the submarine chaplain, he replies cautiously, raising an eyebrow. The what? You mean like a priest or whatever? Why would they need one of those on a submarine?

Everyone is staring at me now. The confusion on their faces is even greater than the confusion on mine. It becomes clear that I am not the type of person they were expecting to get sent to them. Their silence is sharp. The engines grind and the engines grind in the same. see rumbles. Several of them lean forward and start asking me questions at once. Wait, you were briefed, right? You've done the exposure training? You do know about the entity, right? Did you even get the psychological assessment? No, I stammer in return. I really don't. I just wanted to... Fuck! The man in Gray shouts suddenly, running his hands through his hair. Who the hell sent you down here exactly?

The commander did. I reply with frustration. For fuck's sake. What the hell is his problem? This is fucking insane you shouldn't be here. I know. I sputter out and retort. The chaplain steps towards me.

He takes my hands in his and speaks earnestly. Are you religious, son? Are there any spiritual convictions you feel comfortable drawing from? Not really, no. I reply. Look, if someone could tell me what's going on, I would really, really appreciate it. Fan of soccer, you could assist a moment historic.

You could gain these tickets for the final of the Cup of the World of the FIFA 2006 with Visa. It's just to have a card of credit visa BMO for participate. Inscribe you at BMO.com bar-oblique concourse. The reglements of the concourse is applicable. for you? Something to help ease your soul, the chaplain asks. I pull my hands away and grimace. I'm sure he's only trying to be helpful, but to be honest, his presence here is freaking me the fuck out. What kind of submarine needs a chaplain? I don't even know any Bible passages.

Actually, I know a couple, maybe. In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. From dust we came into dust we shall return. The chaplain nods at me. Yes, the book of Job, chapter one. A work of true literary prowess. Alfred Lord Tennyson himself called it the greatest poem of ancient and modern times. Alfred Lord Tennyson. Where have I heard that name before?

The gears turn in my head. I can see before me so many pieces of the puzzle in my mind's eyes. I just cannot fit them together. The eyes of the crew drill into me as we stand together, cast in the grim green glow of the submarine's luminescent bulbs. I'd like a reading from the book of Job then, please. I say quietly. As the submarine pushes through the deep,

the radar blanks silently. The chaplain nods and draws a small Bible from his pocket. Certainly, lad. Any particular passage? The numbers scratched on the wall in the Riggs library returned to the forefront of my mind. 41.1.34. Yes, actually, I mutter. Chapter 41, verses 1 to 34.

The chaplain furrows his brow, but nods. I'm not familiar with that particular passage, I must admit. He thumbs through the pages and, as he scans over the lines, He pauses and shoots me a look. I hold his gaze. And, perhaps reluctantly, the chaplain begins his reading. His voice is deep and somber. Every word sounds like a wave upon the rocks.

In a leviathan with a fish hook, or tie down its tongue with a rope? The atmosphere in the room tightens at once, but the chaplain licks his teeth and continues uninterrupted. the cadence of his speech like dark drums drawing us down into the deep. Can you put a cord through its nose or pierce its jaw with a hook? Can you fill its hide with harpoons or its head with fishing spears? If you lay a hand on it, you will remember the struggle and never do so again. Any hope of subduing it is false, the mere sight of it, overpowering.

None are fierce enough to rouse it. Who then is able to stand against me? Who has a claim against me that I must pay? Everything under heaven belongs to me. The chaplain's chest rises and falls in time to the beat of his words. When it rises up, the mighty or terrified, they retreat before its thrashing. The sword that reaches it has no effect. nor does the spear or the dart or the javelin.

Iron it treats like straw and bronze like rotten wood. His reading brings me nothing but distress, and I can see this distress reflected in the faces of the crew around me. Their features caught in the shadows of the rippling green. None of us ask the chaplain to stop. It is hypnotic. The chaplain goes on, and he does so. with a voice that shudders and ripples down through my core.

Nothing on earth is its equal, a creature with no fear inside. It looks down on all that are haughty. It is king who hold pride. Shapes emerge through the darkness ahead. The external beams of the submarine reveal a section of the great chain through the murky water. I watch as we drift past it. There is energy in this place, in this submarine, in this secret world beneath the stormy sees. I drop my gaze to meet the eyes of the captain, the man in gray, I whisper, tell me about the entity.

A beat passes. The man in gray turns his back to me and looks out into the water, adjusting the submarine's course. The entity was discovered by the oil drills in 1986. He says somberly. We don't know what it is to be frank. Nobody does. I admit, however, that it is entirely possible that the folks at the top know more and are just keeping the information a secret. The sonars give us an idea, a rough picture of the entity's form.

But we have never been able to see it all at once. We believe it to be asleep, but it's always churning, ever-changing, writhing in the deep. A shiver passes through me. The man in gray continues. The entity seems to be more and less alert with the varying cycles of the moon and different seasons of the year. We use firepower when necessary to try and push the entity in directions we deem desirable

and keep it down with the chains. There are further chains connected to the other three primary rigs. UK-B, the Norwegian rig, and the Danish rig. The chains were easier to attach at the beginning. He swallows. It's odder now, they tell me. They're afraid. Afraid that the entity is going to wake up.

Given tonight's reports from the rig, it's quite possible that the entity's sleep has come to an end. My head throbs, and my mouth has gone dry, but I lick my lips and give voice to my clouded thoughts. So why don't you just destroy it, nuke it or whatever? Surely it must be more, more cost-effective, and less dangerous than whatever the fuck is being done right now, right? It's not about the entity itself, Reg, says Terry to my left. What do you mean? How can it not be about the fucking monster, the massive, sprawling,

Intel suggests, Reg, that the entity is sitting on something, slumbering above it, something important, important beyond our understanding. The current working assumption is that the entity is situated above what we believe to be a gate. Of what manner exactly we don't know. But the fear is... Besides, the fear is that if the entity goes, if we actually succeeded and destroying it, Then whatever lies beneath. The gate. It would be wide open.

I finish. Ungarded, perhaps. Terry nods. And we don't know what might come through from the other side, he says quietly. Shadows dance in the corners of my vision. A deep and terrible cosmic fear rushes through me. I have never before felt such a sudden and powerful surge of vicious realization. Of understanding.

of seeing for the first time how utterly and truly tiny I am. Bile rises up in my throat, and I choke it down. My stomach contracts and my breaths become sharp and shallow, almost in rhythm to the sudden beeps of the sonar. I'm vaguely aware of everyone rushing back to their stations. I can feel the submarine further adjust its course. The chaplain is muttering under his breath, a low and steady chanting, and the shifting gray and black shapes beyond the submarine's windows light up a little brighter

with a boost with the beams. The submarine's lights reflect off massive lines of chain, all interwoven and connected, dragged across the submarine's field of vision into the deep. They're huge, so impossibly huge. And in the water, in places beneath and around the chains there is a weird hue. It shimmers in ways that don't make sense. It observes. It observes. It absorbs the light like the black of space, and yet somehow seems to return in strange new patterns across its form, shifting gray to green or over. I am aware of shouting voices.

The vessel shudders and vibrates. Torpedoes are launched through the water ahead, and when they connect with their target, everything flashes, providing only the briefest of glimpses into the dark landscape. They show me colossal, long, and interwoven limbs, joints, and furious.

Another flash, further sections of chain that ensnare the entity are pulled tight and grind together. Another flash, great black and shifting ruin lines and markings across the appendages can be seen. Then I can hear a song. It flows from the roaring beyond in the deep. The melody, jarring at first, changes rapidly. It quickly becomes soothing, and the sound of it makes me feel. It makes me feel calm. It comes with none of the dread I felt with the word of the chaplain.

Instead, it makes me feel whole, like I matter. I take a step closer to the glass. The submarine weaves its way through the chains. Another flash. I see the material of the great twisting limbs pulled over something skeletal, the size of a mountain. Another flash. I see what a little.

one of the limbs thunder through the water right in front of the glass. The submarine takes a hit and I stumble to the floor. A siren blairs, but still I do not look away. Another flash. I see an eye. Out there in the dark, I look into it, and it looks back into me. The membrane peels back and a brighter eye pushes through. The pupil long and rectangular. The pupil breaks apart into small circles as I watch, mesmerized.

and it splits open further. The surface of the eye rolls back to reveal only darkness, a dark void of nothingness. The world goes black. I dream only of the song. Its melody does not dissipate when I awaken. I am in a medical bay of sorts. I'm not sure where.

The presence of the commander at the far side of the room would suggest I am back on the rig. A window is visible in the corridor beyond. the open door. The pale light that streams through would imply that the rig survived the night. We exchange no words. Then I break the tension. You saved the rig then? Aye. The commander replies. My head spins. My joints ache like hell. And the song is still playing. You found a way to calm it, the entity? There is always a way. The commander replies grimly. His eyes do not leave mine.

He clenches his jaw. Another pause. Then, I whisper. The man's eyebrows shoot up. His surprise that these words is clear. Thank you. He repeats. And why the hell would you be thanking me?

You knew I wanted answers, right? I replied with a weak grin. But you weren't able to tell me directly. That's why you sent me to the submarine, so that I could find some. The commander chooses tongue. He does not return my grin. Is that what you think? He replies quietly.

His voice strained. A flicker of emotion passes over his face. Regret? Pity? Or perhaps? Guilt? He turns away. You seem like a decent guy, Reg.

He says to me. I'm sorry they sent you here, truly. And I'm sorry I sent you down to the submarine. In the state you were in last night, you would have done nothing for the rig but drum up for the panic. And whilst the failure of the hydraulic section cannot be placed entirely on your absence, we do not know how the night might have unfolded if you had remained at your post. I swallow. The sounds of the song fade momentarily. Did anyone? You know, did anyone die last night?

I'm not sure if I even want to know the answer. but my compulsion for information makes me ask regardless. The commander sighs. 14 from the rig. And we lost a destroyer. The copters are still plucking survivors out of the sea. A destroyer. They lost an entire destroyer.

I tried to imagine the chaos that took place on the waters whilst I was beneath the surface in the submarine. How did it go down? Did the entity breach the surface? Was the warship torn? half like a toy, smashed into pieces by a length of rogue chain, crushed into shrapnel to the drums of the hammering thunder. I wonder if it had been my captain's destroyer.

I wonder if he made it out alive. There's no way my absence was responsible for the destruction of the tower. For the damage caused by the chain, there's no way, there's just no way. I was a part of a team of about ten, ten others. I couldn't have made that much impact. There's just no way. But still, these rationalizations do little to ease the guilt. The song helps.

It returns. It soothes me. The commander tips his cap, his expression grim, and makes to depart. But he pauses at the door and turns back to me one last time. Reg, he says, Do yourself a favor. Just keep your head down, do your work, and take the ship to the debrief in Norway.

in three days' time. His good eye shines with sorrow before he turns to leave. And quit snooping around. I know you are in the backroom cabinets. If I catch you in there again, I'll throw you overboard. And attempt at a joke, I think. He chuckles awkwardly, and I chuckle back. But the air is one of sadness. The song helps. It mellows me. I listen to it play through my head as the commander leaves. and his footsteps echo away down the corridor. And for the next two days, I follow the commander's advice. The chain is gradually hauled back in. Pneumatic reels affixed, and groaning under the strain.

Helicopters bring to us parts and grids of metal for repairs. The platforms are cleared of debris. The work goes on. But I am present only in body. My mind twists and turns and constantly swirls. I dwell upon the mysterious scratchings left by figs on the library wall, the true nature of the entity, the things I heard and saw in the dark beneath the icy waves. I think about the files, locked away.

I know the combination. I could go back. I could try and learn more. The gate. I could try and find out what lies beneath the gate. I wonder how they managed to stop the entity, if it's truly awake. the song just keeps playing. I find myself humming along to its haunting melody. Other workers shoot me glances as the days progress. The song agitates and stresses my thoughts and theories

into a fever. I begin to wonder if there are ways back onto the submarine, just for another look. One more look at the entity. That's all I need. Just one more look. One more look. I think about that I, terrible and yet incredible. The following nights are eventful, as I had come to expect, but none are so wild and chaotic as the night that the chain was torn from the tower. The storms rage on, but the warships are not called into action. They watch cautiously from the sidelines out at sea as the waves crash against their halls. On the fifth day, I find myself here in the break room.

enjoying a rare and not entirely within the rules burst of Wi-Fi. Typing out my experiences in this email to you, Figgs. Apologies for the formatting. I wanted the words to flow as my thoughts did at the time the events took place. I'm breaking the secrets act here, so don't screw me over. Besides, the connection keeps dropping. I'm not sure if this email will even ever get through to you. Maybe if it does, this will be the time you've finally replied to me.

I hope you're all right, mate, wherever you are. A window in the wall next to me shows an approaching storm in the distance. Lightning crackles silently against the horizon, and the hairs on my forearms rise. I've taken a risk and gone against the commander's advice. An opportunity has arisen, you see. The hotter, the little drill that Terry told me about, is going down to the seabed tonight to collect samples. You can fit people inside it, about a dozen or so.

I requested to go down with them, down to the bottom of the sea, just for a chance at another glimpse, a glimpse of the entity. Not that I told them that, of course. I was refused, but I was informed by one of the officers that the pneumatic-operated deep drill will also be going down a little later in the night. For the same purpose, I presume. I've had a little look around it, It's a strange looking thing, like a big metal square.

Well, not that big. Big enough for maybe six or seven people. Connected to the rig via tubes and pipes and cables. The floor is made of two different metals, with a crack that runs down the middle. And they need volunteers. They're here in the break room with me now, waiting to be allowed on board. They're all chatting excitedly, asking all sorts of questions, guessing what they might find or see down there in the dark. And I'm going with them. I have to. I have to know. I just have to.

I wish you could hear the song, Figgs. It's like nothing I've ever heard before. It's beautiful. It's so beautiful. Anyway, I'd better sign off there. I think they're calling for us. Hopefully, mate, I'll get to see you soon. All the best. Reg.