I cannot say with precision when the line between waking and delirium fractured, for in the perpetual void of space, there is no night or day—only the mechanical cadence of the station’s vital pulse... until it stopped. And even then, it was not the silence that disturbed me, but what came after.

  Icarus Theta was a scientific research outpost, orbiting beyond the known boundaries of the solar system, where signals from Earth arrive with the feeble breath of the dying. I was assigned to the recovery team after we received an automated transmission: broken static, barely comprehensible, an inhuman hum followed by a single message: "Awaken below."

  The station was dead. No sign of the seventeen crew members. We found no bodies. Only empty suits in the crew quarters, and a mineral stench—metallic, acrid—that seemed to seep from the very ventilation systems. The walls were etched with symbols, carved with ritualistic precision—geometric, yet erratic—as if a mind that had never known human logic had attempted to imitate it with horrifying closeness.

  There was something beneath the biology lab, a level not listed in the schematics. I discovered it after dreaming three times of a door I did not recall seeing while awake, and yet could describe with terrifying accuracy: black as wet obsidian, without handle or frame, bearing a single carved mark—an open eye weeping inward.

  I opened it. I do not know how. Perhaps it was never truly closed.

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  The descent was nearly vertical, through a narrow shaft that reeked of ozone and rotting flesh. My flashlight flickered as if it refused to illuminate what was coming. The final corridor led to a circular chamber whose walls pulsed softly, as if the structure itself were breathing. At its center, suspended in a containment capsule that seemed more altar than vessel, floated the thing.

  I could not describe it. It was as though my mind tried to translate something that should not be understood. Tendrils of shadow, multiple revolving eyes opening within other eyes, sounds that came not from the air but from my very bones vibrating, like the strings of an instrument forgotten by time. And it watched me. Not with hunger or hatred. With recognition.

  Then I knew the crew was still there—but not in body.

  They were watching with me. Inside me.

  They spoke without tongues, showed me memories that were not mine: civilizations devoured in silence, worshippers offering themselves willingly, entire galaxies unaware they were already infected. They promised knowledge, longevity, visions of the hidden weave beneath reality. And the worst part was that some part of me wanted to accept. Wanted to understand.

  I returned alone. They found me adrift, without oxygen—but alive.

  I do not remember reaching the shuttle. There are times I believe I never left. That this body writes from within another body, like a parasite mimicking humanity. I wake screaming words in tongues I’ve never known. Sometimes, my reflection doesn’t move quite in sync. And in the deepest hours of the night, I hear the calling.

  A low hum.

  A whisper in the bones.

  "Awaken below."

  Do not go to Icarus Theta.

  Or worse…

  Do not let Icarus Theta come to you.