1 /MIRI
The sign read NO TRESPASSING– U.S. GOVERNMENT PROPERTY in faded red letters that screamed both authority and neglect. I traced my fingers over the rusted edges, feeling the decades of secrets underneath. Most people would turn back, citing common sense or self-preservation. But when you’ve built your entire brand on chasing the unexplained into dark corners, common sense becomes a quaint concept for other people. Besides, the electromagnetic readings I’d picked up from my drone flyover last week were off the charts—the kind of signature that screams “something worth finding” to someone like me.
So obviously, I went in.
The fence wasn’t much of a deterrent—eight feet of chain link with a section near the back that had partially collapsed under a fallen oak. I slipped through the gap, pausing only to make sure my recording equipment was secure in my backpack. The locals called this place “The Sinkhole,” but official military documents—the ones I’d managed to unearth after three months of Freedom of Information Act requests—labeled it Site 37-B, Decommissioned 1983.
Except it wasn’t decommissioned. Not really. The satellite imagery I’d compiled showed regular activity until 2002, andthen? Nothing. Like someone had thrown a digital blanket over the entire complex. No heat signatures, no radiation readings, nothing the government’s toys could detect.
But my equipment wasn’t government issue.
I picked my way through the underbrush, noting how the vegetation changed the closer I got to the center of the complex. The oak and maple trees gave way to twisted pines with needles that grew in spirals rather than straight lines. The air grew heavier, charged with something that made the hair on my arms stand at attention. I’d felt this before—in those places where reality wears thin.
“Day one at Site 37-B,” I narrated quietly into my recorder. “Vegetation shows signs of mutation. Temperature has dropped approximately ten degrees despite moving into a valley structure. EMF readings are…holy shit.”
The device in my left hand was spinning wildly, its digital display flashing between numbers too quickly to read before finally settling on a glowing red ERROR message. I’d never seen it do that before, not even when I was investigating that abandoned nuclear research facility in Nevada.
“Something is very wrong with the energy signature here,” I continued, my voice dropping to a whisper despite being alone. “Or very right, depending on your perspective.”
The trees opened up suddenly into what must have been the central complex. Once, it might have been buildings and concrete pads. Now it was a massive crater, perfectly circular, like something had taken a giant ice cream scoop to the earth. Moss and vines crawled over crumbling concrete structures, nature reclaiming what man had built. But that wasn’t what made me stop dead in my tracks.
At the center of the crater was a pedestal. Untouched by the destruction around it, the concrete cylinder rose about fourfeet from the ground, and embedded in its top was…something. Something that shouldn’t exist.
It pulsed with a soft, rhythmic light. Blue-white, like lightning trapped in metal. The object was maybe the size of a basketball, geometrically perfect in ways my eyes couldn’t quite process. It seemed to shift between shapes—hexagonal one moment, then suddenly all curves and spirals the next.
“Found something at the center,” I whispered, already moving toward it like a moth to flame. “Some kind of…device? Artifact? It’s giving off light but no detectable heat. Predates the facility by…I don’t know. It feels ancient.”
This was it. This was the story that would take my podcast from popular niche to mainstream sensation. The mysterious object at an abandoned government site, the bizarre energy readings, the local legends of people disappearing in these woods—it all connected to this thing.
I approached carefully, circling the pedestal. No wires, no obvious power source. The concrete it sat in looked like it had been poured around the object, not like the object had been placed there after. That made no sense. The facility was built in the 60s, but this thing…this thing had the weight of millennia about it.
“I’m going to attempt to capture footage,” I said, pulling out my specialized camera. The moment I pointed it at the artifact, the viewfinder went white, then black. Dead. My phone followed suit seconds later, the battery draining to zero instantly.
“Okay, so it doesn’t like technology,” I muttered, shoving the useless devices back into my pack. “That’s…concerning.”
The humming I’d been hearing since entering the crater grew louder, more insistent. It wasn’t coming from the object—it was coming from everywhere, like the air itself was vibrating with anticipation.
I should have turned back. Any reasonable person would have. But I’ve never been accused of being reasonable, especially not when I’m this close to a breakthrough.
“If you’re listening to this,” I said into my now-dead recorder out of habit, “and I’ve disappeared mysteriously, check Site 37-B. And maybe don’t touch the shiny thing that I’m absolutely about to touch.”
The artifact pulsed faster as I approached, as if it sensed my intentions. I reached out slowly, my fingertips hovering inches away. The air between my skin and the object seemed to thicken, to resist, and then suddenly to pull.
Touch.
The world exploded into light.
I’d like to say it was painful, but it wasn’t. It was beyond sensation—like every cell in my body was suddenly everywhere and nowhere at once. I saw patterns in the light, geometric perfections and impossible mathematics that made perfect sense for one blinding moment before being forgotten.
There was no sound. Just light. Light everywhere. White-gold and blinding and alive. The world flipped sideways, or maybe inside out, and then?—
Nothing.
I came to with my cheek pressed against moss. Not the dry, patchy stuff that had covered the concrete at Site 37-B, but lush, verdant cushions of it that seemed to cradle my head like a pillow. It smelled like crushed leaves and petrichor and a little bit of oh no I’m not in Kansas anymore.
I groaned, pushing myself up to my hands and knees. The world spun briefly before settling into a view that made me question my sanity, my sobriety, and possibly my continued existence on Earth.
Because this? This was not Earth.
