Field Notes: Last Entry
I made it into town just after dusk.
Poor planning really, given what the locals have been talking about.
The streets were empty, shopfronts shuttered early, as if the town itself had decided it wanted no part in what was coming.
I parked outside the diner — the one with the neon coffee cup sign that usually flickers red — but tonight it was dark. I thought maybe I’d grab a quick interview before heading out to the farm, but the place was deserted. Not even a car in the lot.
That’s when I heard it.
Not an engine. Not wind. A hum, low and steady, the kind you feel more in your chest than in your ears.
I looked up and the sky was clear, black as ink, the stars sharp as glass. But something was
there, blocking out the constellations.
⸻
It didn’t move.
It didn’t need to move.
The air thickened around me, heavy like the reports had said. My hands felt slow, like they belonged to someone else. My notebook slipped from my grip, pages scattering across the pavement.
I tried to call out — to anyone, to no one — but the sound didn’t leave my throat.
The glow wasn’t light. It was something else. Something pulling. Something deliberate.
⸻
This isn’t like the other reports.
This isn’t something I can describe and file away.
This—
[eNtrY iNteRrupTed]
…
…
Signal Lost.
⸻
- by Matt Black, field reporter