I Drive a Snow Plow at the Pole. They Said Dont Go Out in the Storm.

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I was halfway through my usual route, clearing the access Rd. between the science building and the airfield. The D8 plow rumbled under me, its massive blade pushing through the fresh powder that had fallen overnight. McMurdo in winter is pretty much what you'd expect. Dark, cold, and empty. Most people clear out during the Antarctic winter, but some of us stay behind to keep things running.

The dashboard clock read 1422, but you wouldn't know it from looking outside. The perpetual darkness of Antarctic winter makes time feel like a suggestion more than a fact. I've been at McMurdo for three seasons now, and I still hadn't fully adjusted to the whole four months of darkness thing. I adjusted the heater and checked my GPS coordinates on the dash display.

The plows cabin was warm enough, but outside it was hitting -60 with a wind chill. Not the kind of cold where you worry about frostbite, the kind where exposed skin freezes in seconds by radio crackle. Plow one. This is Bass. How's visibility out there, Kaden Jenny's voice came through clear despite the static.

I grabbed the handset. Bass, this is plow 1. Visibility's about 100 yards. Winds picking up from the east. Roger that.

Weather's reporting gusts up to 40 knots. Don't stray too far. Copy that. I hung the handset back on its clip. The forecasts had been wrong all week.

We were supposed to have clear conditions today, but the clouds had moved in around noon, bringing light snow. Nothing unusual for Antarctica. Plans here are always more like hopeful suggestions. I just finished clearing the main section when I noticed the snow getting heavier. The flakes went from scattered to thick in minutes, swirling in my headlights.

I slowed down, keeping my eyes fixed on the GPS screen. The route was programmed in, but that wouldn't help much if I drifted off course. Then it hit a full whiteout. One minute I could see the path ahead, the next there was nothing but white. Complete disorientation.

The world outside my windshield disappeared entirely, replaced by a wall of swirling snow that the headlights just bounced back off of. Shit. I slowed the plow to a crawl. Even with the GPS this was dangerous. In a whiteout, you can drive straight off a Cliff without ever seeing it coming.

I reach for the radio. Bass plow one. I've got 0 visibility out here. Complete whiteout conditions. The radio crackled with static before Jenny's voice came through.

Copy that. Plow 1. Can you safely return to base? I checked the GPS. Negative.

I'm about 2 miles out on the east road. Going to hold position until conditions improve. Roger that. Weather says this cell should pass in about 20 minutes. Sit tight.

Will do. Plow one out. I put the plow in neutral and set the brake. Nothing to do now but wait. The engine idled, vibrating the cabin slightly outside.

The wind howled, rocking the massive vehicle. I've been through whiteouts before, but they never got less unnerving. The complete loss of visual reference does something to your brain. Makes you doubt what's up and what's down. I checked my watch.

5 minutes had passed. The storm wasn't letting up. If anything it was getting worse. The plough shuddered against a particularly strong gust. I stared at the white void beyond my windshield, trying to make out anything.

A shadow, a shape, any reference point at all. Nothing. Then I saw them. At first, I thought it was my eyes playing tricks. When you stare at nothing but white long enough, your brain starts inventing things to see.

But these shapes didn't disappear when I blinked. They solidified people standing in the storm. I counted seven of them about 30 yards ahead of my plow. They were just standing there, not moving, not seeking shelter, just standing in formation in the middle of a lethal Antarctic whiteout. What the hell?

I leaned forward, squinting through the windshield. They were wearing some kind of old fashioned Expedition gear, the kind you see in black and white photos from the early 1900s. Heavy wool coats with fur lined hoods. Not the modern synthetic gear we use now. Their clothes looked tattered, worn through in places it didn't make sense.

Nobody could survive more than minutes in these conditions without proper gear, and nobody would be out here in the middle of a whiteout 2 miles from base, just standing around. I grabbed the radio base. This is plow one. I've got visual on what appears to be 7 individuals about 30 yards ahead of my position.

Can you confirm any personnel authorized in sector 4? The radio crackled before Jenny responded, confusion evident in her voice. Negative. Plow one. All personnel are accounted for at base, there shouldn't be anyone in your sector.

I'm looking at 7 people standing in the middle of the storm base. That's impossible Kaden, Visibility conditions would make it impossible to. I know what I'm seeing, Jenny. I cut her off, still staring at the figures. They hadn't moved.

They're wearing old style expedition gear. Looks vintage. World War One era maybe. There was a long pause before Jenny responded. Plow one.

Please verify your oxygen levels and cabin temperature. She thought I was hallucinating. Fair enough, oxygen deprivation or hypothermia could cause visions, but my cabin was warm and the oxygen monitors showed normal levels. All systems normal base. I'm going to approach and investigate.

Negative. Kaden, do not exit the vehicle in whiteout conditions. She was right. It was suicide to go out there, but those people, if they were real, wouldn't survive much longer in this cold. They need help.

Jenny, I'm going out. Kaden, I'm ordering you to remain in your vehicle. Wait for I hung up the radio and grabbed my extreme weather gear from behind the seat. Triple layer parka, insulated pants, face masks, goggles, and heavy mittens. I pulled everything on, making sure no skin was exposed.

Even with all this, I'd have maybe 10 minutes before frostbite set in. I cracked the door open and was immediately hit by a wall of cold so intense it felt like a physical blow. The wind tried to RIP the door from my hand. I forced myself out, securing the door behind me. The cold was beyond cold.

It was an assault on every cell in my body. My lungs burned with each breath. The wind drove ice crystals against my face mask like sandpaper. I could barely see three feet ahead. I took a step forward, then another, fighting against the wind.

My headlamp cut a weak cone of light through the swirling white. Hello. I shouted, but my voice was swallowed by the storm. Can you hear me? I moved forward, guided by the memory of where I'd seen them.

The snow was knee deep in places, making each step an effort. After what felt like forever, but was probably only a minute, shapes began to materialize in front of me. They were still there, still standing motionless in the same formation. Up close, I could see their faces, or what was visible of them beneath their hoods and frost covered scarves.

Their skin was wrong, grayish blue and waxy, frostbitten severely. One of them, a woman at the front of the group, turned toward me. Her eyes were clear and alert, despite her frostbitten face, which made no sense. She should have been dead, or at least incapacitated. No one with frostbite that severe should be conscious, let alone standing.

She spoke. Her lips moved, but I couldn't hear her over the wind. She took a step closer and spoke again. The language wasn't English. It sounded Scandinavian, maybe Norwegian or Swedish.

I can't understand you, I shouted. We need to get you inside. Follow me. I gestured toward my plow, making exaggerated movements to compensate for the limited visibility. The woman nodded and said something to the others.

They all turned toward me in unison. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Something was very wrong here. Their movements were too coordinated, too calm for people who should be in the final stages of hypothermia. But I couldn't leave them out here, whatever was going on.

I turned and started back toward the plow, checking over my shoulder to make sure they were following. They moved in perfect formation, maintaining the same distance from each other. I reached the plow and pulled the door open, climbing inside. The warmth hit me like a wave. I turned back to help the others in, but they were still several yards away, approaching slowly.

Come on, I shouted, waving them forward. The woman in front quickened her pace. She reached the door, and I extended my hand to help her up. Her mitten hand grasped mine. It felt solid, real.

I pulled her up into the cabin, then turned to help the next person. But when I turned back to the cabin interior, it was empty. The woman I had just pulled inside was gone. I blinked, certain I was missing something. The cabin wasn't large, but there was nowhere she could have gone in the split second I'd looked away.

I turned back to the door, thinking maybe she'd fallen back out, but there was no one there. The other six were gone too. Hello. I called out, stepping back outside into the assault of the storm. Where did you go?

Nothing but white in every direction. No footprints except my own, already filling with fresh snow. I climbed back into the cabin, shutting the door against the wind. My hands were shaking, and not just from the cold. I pulled off my mittens and face mask, breathing hard.

The floor of the cabin was wet. Melting snow in a pattern of footprints LED from the door to the middle of the cabin, then simply stopped. I touched the water. It was real. I searched the entire cabin, which didn't take long given its size.

Nothing. No one could have hidden in here, and no one could have exited without me seeing them. But they had been real. I touched the woman's hand. I pulled her into the cabin.

The wet footprints proved someone had been here. I sank into the driver's seat, my mind racing. Either I was hallucinating vividly, or I just experienced something impossible. The radio crackled to life. Plow one, this is Bass.

Respond immediately. Kaden, do you copy? I picked up the handset with numb fingers. This is plow 1. I copy.

What happened? Are you OK? Jenny's voice was tight with concern. I stared at the melting footprints on the floor. I'm.

I don't know what happened. Did you find the people you saw? How could I explain what had just happened? That I'd brought a frostbitten woman into my cabin only for her to vanish into thin air? No, I said finally.

There's no one out here. Must have been a trick of the light or something. Thank God you didn't go out in that storm, Jenny said, relief evident in her voice. Weather says it's clearing up. You should be able to get back to base soon.

Yeah, I said, still staring at the wet floor. I'll head back as soon as visibility improves. Roger that. Base out. I sat in silence as the storm gradually lessened.

The whiteout thinned until I could see maybe 50 yards ahead. My hands had stopped shaking, but my mind hadn't settled. I kept replaying what had happened, trying to make sense of it. I started the plow and put it in gear, turning back toward base. The wet footprints were already drying up, the only evidence of what had happened, or what I thought had happened.

I drove in silence, the questions piling up in my head. Who were they? What did I see? Was I losing my mind in the endless Antarctic night? Whatever had happened out there in the white, I knew one thing for certain, nothing would be the same again.

I grabbed a tray of breakfast and scanned the mess hall. Not too crowded this morning. Most people were either finishing night shifts or still sleeping in. The food wasn't anything special, powdered eggs, something resembling bacon and toast that was somehow both burnt and undercooked. I spotted Eric at his usual corner table, hunched over a book with a coffee mug steaming beside him.

Eric looked up as I approached, his face breaking into a smile. We'd hit it off pretty quick after I arrived at McMurdo. He worked in environmental monitoring, collecting samples and tracking climate data. Smart guy, easy to talk to. Morning.

He said, closing his book. You look like shit. Thanks. I set my tray down across from him. Didn't sleep much.

Storm keep you up? Jenny said you got caught in a bad one yesterday. I pushed my eggs around with my fork, trying to decide how much to say. Eric was probably the only person at the station I actually trusted. We'd spend enough late nights talking about everything from quantum physics to childhood memories that I knew he wouldn't immediately think I was crazy.

Something happened out there. I said, keeping my voice low even though the nearest person was 3 tables away in the whiteout. Eric leaned forward, elbows on the table. What kind of something? I saw people.

The word sounded ridiculous as soon as they left my mouth. Seven of them standing in the snow. Old expedition gear, like from 100 years ago. I expected him to laugh, make some joke about snow blindness or cabin fever kicking in early. Instead, his expression shifted, eyebrows drawing together.

What did they look like? He asked. Blue, Gray skin, frostbitten. Bad. I took a sip of coffee, grateful for something to do with my hands.

A woman spoke to me in some Scandinavian language. I tried to help them into the plow, but when I turned around they were just gone. Eric sat back, his coffee forgotten. Did you tell anyone at base? Just said I didn't see anything.

There were footprints in the cab, though, wet ones. Then they dried up. The mess hall seemed too quiet. Suddenly, a couple of researchers walked by with trays, laughing about something the normalcy of it felt wrong after what I'd experienced. My grandfather used to tell stories, Eric said, after a long pause.

He was Inuit from northern Alaska, he said. When people die in the cold, sometimes their spirits get trapped there. I frowned. What, like ghosts? Not exactly.

Eric glanced around, then continued. The cold preserves them, he said. Keeps them between worlds. They appear to the living when the conditions are right, usually in storms or whiteouts. That's just superstition, I said, but my voice didn't sound convinced even to me.

Eric shrugged. Maybe, But there are stories here too. The lost souls of McMurdo, some people call them. The What? It's a station legend, been around for decades.

He lowered his voice further. Spirits of explorers, researchers, workers, anyone who died out here. Antarctica doesn't let go easily. I remembered the woman's face, the waxy texture of her skin, the empty look in her eyes. My appetite disappeared.

People have reported sightings since the first expeditions, Eric continued. Usually during winter, when it's darkest, most of the time they just watch from a distance. Sometimes they try to communicate. Why would they show themselves to me? I asked.

I've only been here three months. No idea, but my grandfather said once they reveal themselves, they don't stop. He held my gaze. They follow. A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with the station's perpetually inadequate heating.

Follow where? Wherever you go. Eric pushed his empty coffee mug aside. Look, most people here would tell you it's just sleep deprivation or isolation playing tricks on your mind. Maybe it is.

The human brain does weird shit when it's stressed. But you don't think so. He hesitated. I've seen things too. Last winter.

A man in old climbing gear standing outside the environmental lab. When I blinked, he was gone. We sat in silence for a moment. The overhead lights buzzed. Someone dropped a tray in the kitchen with a crash.

So what am I supposed to do? I finally asked. Nothing you can do, really. Just be careful. Don't follow them if they try to lead you somewhere.

Eric checked his watch. I got to go. Samples to process. He stood, gathering his things. Let me know if you see them again, OK?

Yeah, I said thanks. I sat alone with my cold breakfast, replaying the conversation. Part of me wanted to dismiss everything Eric had said as folklore and superstition, but I couldn't shake the memory of those footprints on the floor of my cab. Those had been real. That night.

I tossed and turned in my narrow bunk. The conversation with Eric kept playing in my head, lost souls trapped in the ice following me. It sounded ridiculous in the safety of my room. I finally drifted off around 2:00 in the morning. The dream came immediately, trudging through snow, following dark shapes ahead that never got closer no matter how fast I walked.

The wind howled, words I couldn't understand. I woke with a start, heart hammering. The room was dark except for the small red light on the smoke detector. Something felt wrong. The air seemed colder, heavier somehow.

I wasn't alone. She stood at the foot of my bed, the woman from the storm. Up close, I could see the details I'd missed before. Her face was badly frostbitten, skin blackened around her nose and cheeks. Her eyes were Milky, almost white.

Water dripped from her old fashioned clothes, forming a small puddle on the floor. I couldn't move, couldn't speak. She just stood there, staring at me with those clouded eyes. Her mouth opened slightly, and I heard that same language, barely a whisper. My hands shot out, fumbling for the light switch.

I hid it, flooding the room with harsh fluorescent light. She was gone. The only evidence she'd been there at all was a small puddle of melted snow where she'd stood, already soaking into the carpet. I didn't sleep again that night. The sightings increased over the next few weeks.

At first it was just occasional glimpses, a figure at the edge of my vision that disappeared when I turned my head. Then they became more frequent, more bold. They stood along my plow route, 7 silent figures watching me work. Sometimes just the woman appeared, other times the whole group. They never approached, just watched with their Milky eyes.

I started seeing them in the station too. A man in an old style naval uniform standing at the end of a corridor. 2 figures in vintage expedition gear sitting at an empty table in the cafeteria. The woman outside my window at night, her frostbitten face pressed against the glass. I told Eric about each encounter.

He listened without judgement, offered what comfort he could. They're not trying to hurt you, he said. They're trying to communicate. What do they want? I asked.

I don't know. Maybe they're lost. Maybe they need help crossing over. I'm not exactly qualified for that, I said. The lack of sleep started affecting my work.

I missed radio check. Insurance, got sloppy with equipment. Grayson, my supervisor, pulled me aside after I nearly backed the plow into a storage building. Everything OK, Ferguson? He asked.

You seem distracted lately. Just tired. I said, Not sleeping Well, Maybe talk to Rain about it, she can give you something. I nodded, though I had no intention of telling the station physician I was seeing ghosts. But after a week of almost no sleep, with the figures appearing more frequently, I finally gave in and went to the medical office.

Rain. Alvarado looked up from her computer as I entered. The small medical facility was empty except for us. Kaden, she said. What can I do for you?

I sat on the examination table, the paper crinkling underneath me. Having trouble sleeping How long? Couple weeks getting worse. She asked more questions about my sleep patterns, diet, exercise, stress levels. I answered honestly, except when she asked if I was experiencing anything unusual.

Define unusual, I said. Hallucinations, paranoia, extreme mood swings. She looked at me over her glasses. This environment can be psychologically challenging, especially during winter. I thought about the woman standing at the foot of my bed, the wet footprints, the figures watching me work.

No hallucinations. I lied. Rain studied me for a moment. Your vital signs are normal, but your eyes show fatigue. Chronic sleep deprivation can cause serious cognitive issues if left untreated.

She turned to a cabinet, unlocked it, and removed a small bottle. This is a mild sedative. Take one tablet about an hour before bed. It should help you fall asleep and stay asleep. Any side effects?

I asked, taking the bottle. Possibly some grogginess in the morning, Nothing serious. She made a note in my file. If these don't help, come back and we'll try something else. I'd also recommend reducing caffeine and screen time before bed.

I nodded, pocketing the pills. Thanks. One more thing, she said as I stood to leave. Many people experience unusual psychological symptoms during Antarctic winter. Isolation, darkness, and confinement can affect perception, meaning.

Meaning if you are experiencing anything unusual, even if it seems impossible, it's likely a stress response. The mind creates explanations for unexplained stimuli. It's normal. I looked at her. You think I'm hallucinating?

I think you're experiencing stress induced sleep disturbances that may include perceptual anomalies. She smiled gently. In other words, your brain is tired and playing tricks on you. These should help. She tapped the pill bottle in my hand.

I wanted to believe her, it would be easier if it was all in my head, just stress and exhaustion creating waking dreams. But that didn't explain the wet footprints, the puddles of melted snow. Get some rest, Rain said. Things will look clearer after a few good night's sleep. I left the medical office with the pills in my pocket that night.

I stared at the small white tablet in my palm for a long time before swallowing it with a gulp of water. I lay back on my bunk, waiting for sleep to come. Just as I was drifting off, the temperature in the room dropped. I forced my heavy eyelids open to see the woman standing by my desk.

Behind her were the others crowded into my small room. Their frostbitten faces watched me impassively as the sedative pulled me under. The last thing I saw before sleep took me was the woman moving closer to my bed, her blue Gray hand reaching toward my face. I woke up with a start, heart hammering in my chest.

The sedative had knocked me out cold, but I didn't feel rested at all. My room was empty now, just the lingering chill that took forever to fade after they showed up. I rubbed my face and checked the time. 5:47 AM. Close enough to when I'd need to get up anyway.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stepped onto something wet. Looking down, I saw a small puddle of water on the floor. Melted snow, just like before. I've been dealing with these apparitions for weeks now, and I was at my breaking point. Thank God I had scheduled leave coming up.

Just two more days of work, then I'd be on a transport plane to Christchurch. Maybe getting off the ice would make a difference. Maybe they couldn't follow me there. The next 48 hours dragged by. I kept seeing them.

The woman with her Milky eyes, the man in the naval uniform. All of them watching me silently as I worked. I didn't tell anyone except Eric. Rain would have just given me more pills and probably recommended psychological evaluation. Grayson would have pulled me from duty entirely.

When the morning of my departure finally arrived, I practically ran to the transport plane. The seven original figures stood in a line near the runway, watching me, bored. I didn't look back. The flight to Christchurch took about 7 hours. I slept for most of it, my first decent stretch of uninterrupted sleep in weeks.

When we landed, I stepped off the plane into actual sunshine. The warm air hit my face and I nearly cried with relief. No ice, no darkness, no ghosts. I checked into my hotel, took the longest hot shower of my life and then walked out into the city. Everything felt so normal, it was almost disorienting.

People going about their business, traffic lights, trees with actual leaves. I found a small cafe and sat outside, soaking up the sun and watching regular people do regular things. The first day passed without incident. No apparitions, no temperature drops, no wet footprints. I started to believe that maybe Eric was wrong.

Maybe they couldn't follow me here. Maybe they were tied to McMurdo, to the ice, to the darkness. The second day was the same. I visited a museum, ate at different restaurants, and walked through a park. Nobody with frostbitten skin or century old expedition gear followed me.

I actually laughed out loud at one point, drawing curious glances from passersby. I didn't care. I felt free. On the third day I went shopping and bought myself some normal clothes, jeans and T-shirts I could wear during my leave instead of the station issued gear I'd packed. I ate ice cream in the afternoon sun and called my sister back home, telling her I was having a great time but carefully avoiding any mention of why this break felt so necessary.

You sound better, she told me. More like yourself. Yeah, I said. I guess I just needed to see the sun. That night I slept a full 8 hours without waking once.

No dreams, no visitors. On the 4th day, everything changed. I was crossing a busy intersection around noon when I spotted her on the opposite corner. The woman from the storm, still in her wet old fashioned expedition gear, her skin that same waxy blue Gray. She stood perfectly still amid the moving crowd, her Milky eyes fixed on me.

I froze in the middle of the crosswalk. Someone bumped into me from behind, muttering and irritated. Watch it, mate. The light changed and cars started honking. I stumbled forward, my eyes locked on the woman.

When I reached the corner where she'd been standing, she was gone. I spun around, searching the crowd, but couldn't see her anywhere. You're losing it, Kaden, I whispered to myself. She was never there, but I knew better. The brief peace I felt shattered like thin ice.

I spent the rest of the day looking over my shoulder, jumping at shadows. I cut my shopping trip short and went back to the hotel, locking the door behind me. That evening, I ordered room service instead of going out. I was washing my hands in the bathroom when the temperature suddenly plummeted. My breath clouded in front of my face.

In the mirror, I saw her standing behind me, watching silently. I whirled around, but the bathroom was empty. Heart pounding, I went back into the main room. Through the window, I could see her standing on the sidewalk across the street, looking up at my room. And she wasn't alone anymore.

Two men in vintage naval gear stood beside her, and behind them the figure I recognized as one of the original 7 from the whiteout. I closed the curtains and turned on every light in the room. Sleep was out of the question. I kept the TV on all night, the volume up loud enough to drown out my thoughts.

Around 3:00 in the morning, I dozed off briefly and woke to find all three of them standing at the foot of my bed, dripping melted snow onto the carpet. I screamed and scrambled backward until I hit the headboard. They vanished, but the wet spots remained. By morning, I was a wreck. I had two more days of leave, but I couldn't take it anymore.

I called the McMurdo travel coordinator and asked if I could move up my return flight. Luckily, there was a transport heading back the next day with space available. Everything OK? The coordinator asked. Yeah, just homesick.

I lied. The irony wasn't lost on me. Running back to Antarctica to escape ghosts who'd found me there in the 1st place. I spent my last day in Christchurch in a daze. They were everywhere now.

The woman followed me to breakfast. The naval officer watched from across the street when I returned my rental car. By evening, I counted 6 different apparitions in the hotel lobby as I checked out. None of the hotel staff or other guests seem to notice them at the airport. I sat at my gate with my hands clenched tightly in my lap.

A dozen silent figures had gathered around the seating area, all with the same frostbitten faces and Milky eyes. Some wore expedition gear from different eras, others had modern Antarctic station uniforms. All watched me without blinking. No one else waiting for the flight reacted to them. A businessman sat down right next to one of the apparitions, an older man in what looked like 1950s era cold weather gear, and opened his laptop, completely oblivious.

When boarding began, the spirits lined up alongside the living passengers. I watched in horror as they filed onto the plane, passing right through the gate agent who was scanning boarding passes. Sir, your boarding pass. The agent was looking at me expectantly. I handed it over with shaking hands and boarded the plane.

Every empty seat had a spirit sitting in it. One was directly across the aisle from me, a woman in modern Antarctic gear with a gaping wound across her throat. She turned her head slowly to look at me as I buckled my seat belt. You can't be real, I whispered. None of you can be real.

The woman just stared, water dripping from her hair onto the seat. The flight back to McMurdo was the longest 7 hours of my life. I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't focus on anything but the silent, frozen faces surrounding me. When we landed, they deplaned with the rest of us, their numbers seeming to grow as we stepped back onto Antarctic soil.

My first night back at the station, I went straight to Eric's room. I didn't care if he was sleeping, I needed to talk to someone who wouldn't think I was crazy. I knocked frantically until he opened the door, bleary eyed and confused. Kaden thought. You weren't back till next week, I came back early.

I said, pushing past him into the room. They followed me, Eric to Christchurch, they were everywhere. Eric didn't seem surprised, he just sighed and sat down on his bed, gesturing for me to take the chair. I was afraid of that, he said. You knew this would happen?

I demanded. He shook his head. I suspected my grandfather used to say that once the spirits choose someone, distance doesn't matter. But why me? Why am I seeing them when nobody else does?

Eric was quiet for a moment. My grandfather believed that spirits choose certain people, people who can sense them, who have some connection to their situation. What situation? Being dead. I'm not dead, no, Eric said patiently.

But maybe you understand something about being lost, about being trapped somewhere you don't belong. I wanted to argue, but the word stuck in my throat. Wasn't that exactly why I'd come to Antarctica in the 1st place? To get away, to disappear somewhere so remote that my old life couldn't touch me. How do I make them leave?

I asked desperately. There has to be a way. Eric looked at me with something like pity in his eyes. You don't. He said simply.

They're part of your life now. I stared at him, the full weight of his words sinking in. Over his shoulder, I could see the woman from the storm standing in the corner of his room, watching us silently. I got used to them being around, what else could I do? The first couple weeks after getting back from Christchurch were the hardest.

I jump every time I caught movement in my peripheral vision. My heart would race when I'd step into my quarters and find 3 or 4 of them just standing there watching me with those Milky eyes. But eventually, the constant fight or flight response wore me down. You can only stay terrified for so long before your body just gives up.

Winter settled in hard across McMurdo. The sun disappeared in late April, not to return until August. Perpetual night. The station ran on schedules unconnected to daylight. Breakfast at 7:00, dinner at six.

Work shifts rotating regardless of what the sky looked like. Outside, temperatures dropped to -80 with wind chill inside, we cranked the heat and pretended we weren't living on the most hostile continent on the planet. The ghosts, I started calling them that in my head, Never tried to communicate after that first encounter in the storm.

The woman who'd spoken, Norwegian, never tried again. They never touched anything, never interfered with equipment, never got in the way of operations. They just watched silent observers with their frostbitten faces and vacant eyes. Their numbers grew. First it was the original 7 from the storm, then 12, then 20.

By mid June, I counted over 30 distinct figures. They had patterns. The woman from the storm and two men in naval gear appeared most frequently. Some only showed up once a week. Others would vanish for days before returning.

You're looking better, Eric said one morning over breakfast. Getting used to your fan club? I shrugged, pushing powdered eggs around my plate. Hard to stay scared of something that just stands there. They're creepy as hell, but they don't actually do anything.

How many now? 32, I think, unless I'm counting some twice. Eric whistled low. That's a lot of lost souls. I glanced across the mess hall, where three of them stood near the coffee station, a woman in modern Antarctic gear with a throat wound and two men in what looked like 1950s military issue parkas.

No one else in the crowded room seemed to notice them. I started looking into station records. I said, keeping my voice low. Historical stuff, too. Yeah.

Find anything? I nodded. The woman from the storm, the one who spoke to me, I think she was a Norwegian researcher named Mia Herrera, disappeared in 1983 during a field study. Her team got caught in a sudden storm about 5 miles from where I saw her. Search parties never found her body.

You sure it's her? I pulled out my phone, opened a photo I'd saved from the digital archives. Pretty sure Eric studied the image. A young blonde woman smiling next to scientific equipment. Yeah, I can see it.

The face shape is right. And one of the men, Older guy, early 1900s gear, really tall. I'm pretty sure he's Randy Stark. British Expedition 1912. His whole team died.

You're really digging into this, huh? I put my phone away. What else am I going to do? Ignore them, they're everywhere I go. Doctor Alvarado, still pushing you to go back to the mainland?

I snorted. Every damn time I see her Says the hallucinations or a sign of severe environmental stress wants me to take a medical discharge. You thinking about it? I looked across the cafeteria again. The three spirits hadn't moved.

Nah, they followed me to Christchurch, remember? No point running. So you're just going to what, live with them? Already renewed my contract for another year? I said.

Grayson was surprised. But we're short staffed as it is. He didn't ask questions. Eric shook his head. Most people would be losing their minds.

Who says I'm not? I laughed, but it came out hollow. I take my meds, I do my job, I sleep when I can. Life goes on. That night in my room, I was updating my journal when the temperature dropped.

Suddenly, the woman, Mia, appeared by my desk. Her frostbitten face was as gruesome as ever, but I'd gotten used to the black blue patches of dead skin, the cracked lips, the vacant eyes. Hey, Mia, I said quietly. She didn't respond, never did, but I kept talking anyway. Found your personnel file today.

You were studying ice core samples, right? Climatic research. 29 years old. When you died from Oslo originally. She just watched me with those Milky eyes.

I wonder if you understand me, if you know you're gone. I set my pen down. Do you know why you're here? Why you're following me? Nothing.

Just that same blank stare. I sighed and went back to my journal. A few minutes later, she was gone. The pattern continued through the Antarctic winter days blended together in the perpetual darkness. I'd work my shifts, eat meals with Eric and sometimes a few others, then retreat to my room, where I'd research the identities of my spectral companions.

Some were easy to identify from station records, accidents, medical emergencies, people who wandered off in storms. Others were harder, requiring deep dives into historical archives of early Antarctic exploration. Many remained complete mysteries, nameless faces watching from corners and hallways. One night in July, I confessed something to Eric I hadn't fully admitted to myself.

They're almost comforting now, I said, my voice barely above a whisper. We were in the rec room, playing cards, though neither of us was really paying attention to the game. 5 spirits stood along the wall behind Eric, watching us, silently. Comforting. Eric raised an eyebrow.

The dead people following you around are comforting. I shrugged, embarrassed. Not exactly comforting. Familiar, maybe. I know which ones show up where.

The woman, Mia, she's always in my room, around 10. The guy in the orange modern parka is always by the equipment shed. The Old Navy officer follows me on my plow route. That's weird, man. I know I arranged my cards without looking at them.

But I have this theory. Let's hear it. I think they're lonely, I said. I think they need someone to remember them, to acknowledge they existed. Eric considered this, glancing over his shoulder at the spirits he couldn't see.

So what? They're looking for recognition, maybe I started this thing. I hesitated, feeling foolish. When I figure out who they are, I say their names when they appear, talk to them a little about what I learned. And some of them, not all, but some, they show up less after that.

Like they got what they needed, Huh. Eric laid down his cards. That's actually kind of beautiful in a seriously messed up way. I laughed. Yeah, well, don't tell Doctor Alvarado I'm on a first name basis with my hallucinations.

Your secret's safe with me. I developed a routine. Each time I identified another spirit, I'd acknowledge them by name when they appeared. Randy Stark, the tall British explorer from 1912, was always in the corridor outside the communications room. Commander Thomas Hayes, who died of a heart attack in 1976, haunted the old Operations building.

Anna Chen, lost in a crevasse in 1998, appeared near the science lab. Good morning Commander Hayes, I'd say quietly when passing his usual spot. Weather report looks decent today or evening. Anna still working late in the lab. I see.

I kept my one sided conversations brief and quiet, making sure no one overheard me talking to empty air, but I never skipped the ritual. It felt important somehow. Sometimes I'd tell them little things I'd learned about their lives. Randy, I read about your expedition yesterday. You guys were trying to reach the magnetic South Pole, right?

Got caught in that Blizzard in October. After I'd acknowledged each spirit several times, some of them appeared less frequently. Randy Stark, who'd initially shown up every day, now only appeared once a week or so. Anna Chen vanished entirely after I'd spent a week researching her work and speaking to her about it. Others remained constant companions.

Mia Herrera never missed her nightly appearance in my room. The nameless spirits, those I couldn't identify, continued their silent vigil without change. Doctor Alvarado increased my medication twice more during winter, concerned about my persistent visual hallucinations, despite my insistence that they weren't bothering me anymore. I'm sleeping fine, I told her during one checkup.

Doing my job, no problems, Kaden, she said, her voice heavy with concern. The fact that you've normalized these experiences doesn't mean they're normal. I strongly recommend evacuation to the mainland when the next transport is available. I'm good here, I insisted. Really.

She made a note in my file. At least. Considerate. There are excellent specialists. Who?

I renewed my contract already. I cut in. I'm staying through next year. She looked genuinely worried. Then May I ask why most people in your situation would be eager to leave?

I shrugged, not sure how to explain that leaving felt wrong somehow, that I had unfinished business with the lost souls of McMurdo, that somewhere along the way I'd accepted responsibility for them. I like it here, I said simply. The quiet, the routine. It suits me. One night in late July, I was in my room updating my journal of spirit sightings when Mia appeared.

As usual, she stood by my desk, blue Gray skin cracked with frostbite, eyes Milky and vacant. Evening, Mia. I said without looking up. Right on schedule. I continued writing for a few minutes before noticing something different.

She'd moved closer to my desk, something they rarely did. Most spirits maintain their distance, staying in corners or along walls. I set my pen down and looked at her directly. What is it? She didn't speak, but her frozen hand slowly raised, pointing toward my laptop.

I followed her gesture. The computer. You want me to look something up? No response, just that unwavering pointing finger. I opened my laptop and pulled up the station's digital archives.

Something about you, about your research. Still pointing, still silent, I typed Herrera Mia into the search field and opened her personnel file again. I'd already been through it several times, but maybe I'd missed something. I scrolled slowly, reading aloud as I went. Mia Herrera, born 1954, Oslo, Norway.

Climate researcher. Arrived McMurdo Station January 1983, specializing in ice core analysis. Disappeared March 1983 during field work approximately 5 miles east of station. Presumed dead, body never recovered. I looked up at her.

The ghost's expression hadn't changed, but her finger was now pointing more insistently at the screen. There's something else you want me to find, I realized. Something connected to you. I tried different searches. Her research project, her team members, the storm she died in.

Nothing seemed right. Then I had another idea. Were you not alone? I asked did someone else disappear with you? I searched for incidents in March 1983.

The results showed her disappearance and another entry a week later. I clicked on it. Search team member lost while looking for Herrera Peterson. James body never recovered. I looked up at Mia.

Is that it? James Peterson, he was looking for you. For the first time since that day in the storm, I thought I saw something change in her expression, the slightest shift in those vacant eyes. I'll look for him too. I promised I'll help you find him.

Mia's form flickered slightly, then stabilized. She remained by my desk for several more minutes before fading away, leaving only a small puddle of melted snow on the floor. I started noticing patterns. After a few months of tracking the ghosts, the journal I kept became sort of a science project. Dates, times, locations, and which spirits showed up where.

Some appeared only once, others became regulars. When summer arrived at McMurdo, things changed. The constant darkness gave way to 24 hour sunlight, and the station population tripled as seasonal staff flew in. The place got busy with researchers and support crew, everyone moving around with purpose, excited about projects that had waited all winter.

The ghosts didn't disappear completely, but they showed up less often. Maybe it was the light, maybe it was all the living people crowding the spaces. Either way, I'd sometimes go two or three days without seeing any of them. You look better, Eric said one morning in the cafeteria. He'd stuck around for summer, too, getting more sleep.

Yeah, I said, stirring my coffee. They're not showing up as much. Still see the Norwegian woman, Mia? Sometimes, but not every night. Eric nodded.

You still keeping track of them in my journal? I've got 26 identified now, Found records for most of them. I didn't tell Eric about the other pattern I'd noticed. Certain spirits seem to want something specific from me, Randy Stark especially. He'd appear at odd moments during my shifts, standing in the snow ahead of my plow root, watching me with those Milky eyes.

When I'd get close, he'd vanish, then reappear farther along the road, like he wanted me to follow him somewhere. I ignored it for weeks. Following ghosts into the Antarctic wilderness seemed like a terrible idea, even by my new standards of normal. Then one night in January, during a late shift clearing snow from the airfield access Rd.

Randy appeared again. The sky was bright with midnight sun, the temperature of balmy 15 below 0 practically T-shirt weather compared to winter. Randy stood about 50 yards ahead of my plow, wearing the same tattered expedition gear I documented in my journal. His frostbitten face looked even more stark in the sunlight. Not tonight, Randy, I muttered, continuing my work.

But he kept appearing. I'd plow past where he stood and a minute later he'd be ahead of me again. After the 5th time, I stopped the plow and got on the radio. Bass, this is Ferguson. I'm taking a short break at marker 14 Over.

Copy that Ferguson, Jenny replied. Everything OK? Over. Yeah, just need to stretch my legs back in. 15 over.

Rodger, that check in when you resume. Bass, out. I pulled on my parka, grabbed my GPS unit and stepped out into the cold. Randy stood about 100 yards away, at the edge of a drift. When he saw me walking toward him, he turned and moved away.

Where are you going? I called out, though I knew he wouldn't answer. He kept moving, his form sometimes fading, then solidifying again. I followed, marking my trail on the GPS. We weren't on any established route now, just heading across the ice shelf.

I knew I shouldn't go far, and getting lost out here was a death sentence, ghost guide or not. After about 10 minutes of walking, I stopped. That's far enough, Randy. I can't go farther without proper gear. Randy paused and turned back toward me for the first time since I've been seeing him.

He made a deliberate gesture, pointing down at the snow beneath his feet. Then he vanished in the spot where he'd been standing. Other apparitions began to appear, Three men in the same vintage expedition gear as Randy, their frost bitten faces just as severe. They stood in a circle, looking down at the snow.

I marked the GPS coordinates and took a good look around to memorize any landmarks. There wasn't much, just the distant outline of a mountain range and the station far behind me, but the spot itself seemed completely ordinary, just snow and ice, like everywhere else. I'll come back, I said to the spirits, not sure if they understood.

I need equipment. The ghosts remained watching me as I headed back to my plow. I radioed in that I was resuming my route and finished my shift without seeing Randy again. But I couldn't stop thinking about those coordinates. The next morning, I went to the equipment shed and signed out a ground penetrating radar unit.

They're used by the research teams to locate crevasses or study ice formations. I also grabbed a snow shovel, ice picks, and other excavation tools. I told the equipment manager I was checking for potential hazards on a new plow route. I took a snowmobile out to the coordinates I'd marked. The weather was clear, visibility excellent.

Perfect conditions for whatever crazy thing I was about to do. The spot looked exactly the same in daylight, just another patch of Antarctic snow. No ghosts this time, but I felt watched anyway. I set up the radar unit and started scanning the area. After a few minutes the screen showed something.

Anomalies beneath the surface about 6 feet down. Not natural formations, objects. I marked the perimeter of what appeared to be a concentrated area and started digging. The work was slow and exhausting. The surface snow moved easily enough, but below that was hard packed ice that had to be chipped away bit by bit.

After two hours I'd only gone down about 3 feet. I was sweating inside my gear despite the cold, and my arms ached, but I kept going. Another hour passed, 4 feet down now. The ice was getting darker, older. Then my shovel hit something solid that wasn't ice.

I cleared away more carefully and found fabric weathered canvas, frozen solid. My heart started pounding. I radioed base. This is Ferguson. I found something during my root survey.

Possible historical remains requesting assistance. Over. Ferguson. What's your position? Over.

I gave them the coordinates. Stay put. We're sending a team. Do not disturb Anything further over. Copy that.

Ferguson out. While waiting, I carefully cleared more snow from around the canvas. It was part of a tent, an old expedition tent, buried by decades of accumulating snow and ice. As more of it became visible, I could see it had collapsed inward under the weight of the snow. When I brushed ice away from one section, I found a frozen hand.

The skin was preserved by the cold, mummified but recognizable. Next to it lay what looked like an old fashioned compass and a leather bound notebook. I sat back on my heels, stunned. I'd found them, Randy Stark and his companions, buried in the ice all these years. No wonder their spirits wandered the station.

They'd never been found, never been laid to rest. The support team arrived 30 minutes later, 2 snowmobiles carrying Grayson and a research coordinator I recognized from the geology department. They looked skeptical until they saw the excavation. Grayson crouched at the edge of the hole I'd dug. Jesus Christ.

He muttered, staring at the exposed hand. How did you find this? I couldn't tell him the truth. I noticed an unusual formation while plowing yesterday, Thought it was worth checking out. This is.

Grayson shook his head. This could be one of the lost expeditions. We need to document everything exactly as it is before we move anything. The next few hours were a blur of activity. More people arrived, photos were taken, the area was marked off with flags.

I explained what I'd found to at least five different people, sticking to my story about noticing an unusual formation. By evening, they'd uncovered enough to confirm it was indeed a camp containing human remains. 4 bodies preserved by the Antarctic cold. The camp had been buried by decades of snowfall, eventually disappearing completely from the surface.

One of the researchers found a partial journal that had survived, protected inside a metal case. The last entry was dated June 1912, signed R Stark. It described how their small party had become separated from the main expedition during a storm, and it set up an emergency camp hoping to wait it out. The writing ended mid sentence.

After everything was properly documented, a recovery team carefully removed the remains. I watched as they lifted Randy Stark's body from the ice that had been his tomb for over 100 years. His face, preserved by the cold, was recognizable from his apparition. The same man who had led me here. I don't understand how you found this.

Grayson said as we headed back to the station. That area wasn't on any search grid. No one's looked there in decades. I shrugged. Just lucky, I guess.

That night I waited in my room, wondering if Randy would appear. He didn't. Neither did any of the three men who'd been found with him. For the first time in months, my room stayed warm all night. The station organized a proper memorial service the following week.

The remains would be transported to New Zealand when weather permitted, then returned to their families if descendants could be located. The discovery made international news. Century old Antarctic mystery solved and lost explorers found after 109 years. I stood at the back during the service, watching as people who'd never seen the ghosts paid their respects to Randy Stark and his companions.

They were finally going home. I didn't expect to become famous for finding dead bodies, but after we recovered Randy Stark and his team, word spread fast. Within a week, I was getting emails from the science director and calls from the National Science Foundation. A month later, I was sitting in the communications office doing video interviews with historians from three different universities.

Mr. Ferguson, could you explain again how you identified the potential location? The professor on the screen had a neat Gray beard and glasses that kept sliding down his nose. I noticed an anomaly in the snowdrift patterns while plowing. I said, repeating the story I'd rehearsed with Grayson.

When I cross referenced it with the historical expedition routes from the British Antarctic Expedition of 1912, I realized it matched reports of where Stark's team might have diverted. Jenny shot me an impressed look from behind the camera. She had no idea I was making this up as I went. Remarkable detective work, the professor said.

And what made you think to look in that particular area? I shifted in my chair. Just a hunch, I guess. The way the wind patterns form around that section of the ice shelf creates unusual formations. Something didn't look right.

The truth that a frostbitten ghost in century old expedition gear had led me there wouldn't go over well with the academic community. Or anyone, really. After the call ended, Jenny handed me a coffee. You're a regular celebrity around here now. The guy who solved the century old mystery just got lucky.

I said. Bullshit. She laughed. Grayson said you went straight to that spot with excavation equipment. That's not luck.

I shrugged and changed the subject. Back in my room that night, I noticed something different. The temperature stayed normal. No sudden drops, no puddles of melted snow appearing on my floor. I sat on my bed and looked around the empty room.

Randy, I said out loud. Nothing happened. You there? The room stayed silent and warm. Randy Stark was gone.

So were the three men found with him. They hadn't appeared since we'd recovered their bodies. I pulled out my journal and flipped through the pages where I'd been tracking ghost sightings. There was a clear pattern. Randy and his companions had stopped appearing completely.

The same had happened with Anna Chen after I'd helped locate her remains in a crevasse 2 weeks earlier. That's when it clicked. They weren't just haunting me, they wanted to be found. I stared at my journal, a chill running through me that had nothing to do with ghosts. All this time I thought I was losing my mind, but I wasn't crazy.

I was chosen. These souls were stuck here, and for whatever reason, they picked me to help them. I grabbed a fresh notebook and started a new system. I listed every apparition I'd seen with descriptions, locations, and frequency of appearances. Mia Herrera was still my most frequent visitor, appearing almost nightly before the stark discovery.

The naval officer from the 1950s showed up mainly in the hallway outside the communications office. The woman with the modern gear and throat wound like to stand near the medical Bay. I spent the next two days in the archives during my off hours searching for matching records, my cross reference, disappearances, deaths and lost expeditions with my ghost sightings.

Some were easy, like James Peterson who disappeared looking for Mia in 83. Others were harder to place. When Eric found me buried in the archives, surrounded by printouts and old logs, I didn't bother hiding what I was doing anymore. You're really leaning into this ghost whisperer thing, huh? He said, pulling up a chair.

They're gone, Eric, Randy and his team, they don't appear anymore since we found their bodies. Eric nodded slowly, like they found peace. Exactly, and I think that's what the others want too, to be found to go home. I showed him my notebook. I've documented 37 distinct apparitions.

I've already helped find two groups. You know how this sounds, right? Completely insane. I agreed, but I'm not making this up. They're leading me to them.

Eric studied my notes. So what's your plan? Tell Grayson you need to go digging around Antarctica because the ghosts told you to. Already working on that? I said.

I've been building a case for historical surveys based on anomalous topographical features I've noticed during my roots. And he's buying it after finding Stark. Yeah, he's listening. The next morning, I knocked on Grayson's office door with a proposal in hand. I'd mapped out three locations where ghosts frequently gathered disguised as potential historical sites based on old expedition routes and weather patterns.

Ferguson Grayson waved me in. The man of the hour just got off a call with the foundation director. They're very impressed with your historical work. Thanks. Actually, that's why I'm here.

I handed him my proposal. I'd like permission to conduct some additional surveys during my off hours. He flipped through the pages. Three more potential sites based on what similar anomalies to what I found at the Stark site. Plus, historical records suggest these areas match with documented disappearances.

He studied me over his reading glasses. You've developed quite an interest in Antarctic history. It's fascinating, I said, trying to sound scholarly. The continent preserves things, stories, people. Grayson tapped my proposal.

You found Stark's team, and Chen, that's earned you some latitude. Take Johnson with you for safety, and you can use the equipment on weekends. Thank you, Sir. Two days later, I was trudging through the snow, following the ghost of a woman in 1970s era gear. She'd been appearing near the vehicle maintenance building, always looking toward the East Ridge.

Johnson, a geology tech who'd volunteered to assist, followed behind me with the ground penetrating radar. You really think there's something out here? He asked. Historical records show a Geological Survey team went missing in this area in 1976. I said, watching as the ghost stopped and pointed downward at a particular spot.

Huh. Never heard about that. I marked the coordinates. It didn't make the history books. We set up the radar and began scanning.

20 minutes later, Johnson called me over. Got something, He said, pointing at the screen. Metal about 12 feet down. 4 hours and a lot of digging later, we uncovered the front end of a snow cat. Inside were the remains of two researchers who'd apparently driven into a snow covered crevasse.

Their IDs match station personnel reported missing in September 1976. When we returned to base with the news, a recovery team was dispatched. Grayson clapped me on the shoulder. I don't know how you do it, Ferguson, but that's four lost souls you've helped bring home. If only he knew how literal that statement was.

That night, the woman from the snow cat didn't appear in my room. Neither did her companion. My theory was proving correct. Find the remains. Free the spirit.

Over the next three months, I located two more sites. One held the remains of a Russian researcher who'd wandered off during a storm in the early 1990s. Another revealed the body of a pilot whose helicopter had gone down in 1985. Each discovery brought the same result. Those spirits stopped appearing to me.

People at the station started treating me differently. Some were impressed, calling me the historical detective or the bone Finder. Others seemed uneasy around me, like they couldn't figure out how I kept finding these lost people. Doctor Alvarado called me in for a check up after my 4th discovery. Your sleeping issues seem to have improved.

She noted, reviewing my chart. I'm sleeping better, I confirmed. And the hallucinations. I hesitated less frequent. She studied me.

Kaden, your success with these recovery operations is remarkable, but I have to ask, how are you really finding these sites? Research and observation, I said automatically. The odds of finding six different historical remains in such a short time are statistically improbable. She leaned forward. Are you still seeing things that guide you?

I maintained eye contact. I follow the evidence, doctor. She sighed. Just be careful. Whatever's happening, don't let it consume you.

Back in my room, I updated my ghost journal. Out of my original 37 documented spirits, 14 were now gone, their remains recovered and sent home. 23 remained, including Mia Herrera, who still appeared most frequently that night. She materialized by my desk, as usual. Her frostbitten face had become almost familiar.

Her Milky eyes always seemed to hold a question. I haven't forgotten about you, I told her, or James Peterson. I'm still looking. She didn't respond. Of course she never did.

But she stayed longer than usual, watching as I mapped out the next search area based on where she most frequently appeared outside the station. Word of my discovery spread beyond McMurdo. Researchers from other bases reached out with historical disappearances from their regions. Journalists sent interview requests. Someone started calling me the Grave Whisperer in an online article, and unfortunately, the nickname stuck.

You're getting famous, Eric said one morning at breakfast. How does it feel to be Antarctica's premier Finder of dead people? Weird, I admitted. Everyone wants to know my secret. And what do you tell them I pushed my eggs around my plate.

That I'm good at research. Not that you see dead people. Definitely not that. Eric lowered his voice. How many more do you think are out there?

People who need finding. I thought about the faces that still appeared to me night after night, enough to keep me busy on my next day off. I took the ground penetrating radar to a spot 3 miles east of the station where Mia Herrera's ghost often stood staring at the horizon. I'd convinced Grayson I could handle this survey alone since it was close to base.

The wind was light, visibility good, perfect conditions. As I set up the equipment, Mia appeared about 50 yards ahead, pointing toward a particular snow drift. I followed, pulling the radar unit behind me. She stopped at a spot that looked like any other patch of Antarctic snow and ice. I began scanning, moving in a grid pattern while watching for anomalies on the screen.

After 20 minutes, I got a hit something solid about 8 feet down. I radioed bass. This is Ferguson. I've identified a potential site at coordinates 77.85 S 166 Seven 2 E, requesting recovery support. Copy that, Ferguson.

Jenny's voice came back. What do you think you found this time? I looked at Mia's ghost standing silently beside me. I think I found Mia Herrera, I said, and possibly James Peterson. There was a pause before Jenny responded.

Recovery team will be there in 40 minutes. Hold position. As I waited, Mia's ghost remained beside me, looking down at the snow that had been her burial place for nearly 40 years. For the first time since I'd started seeing her, she looked almost at peace. The station personnel began noticing my pattern of success, but nobody could explain it.

Some called it intuition. Others suggested I had an exceptional understanding of Antarctic terrain and weather patterns. A few whispered about it being strange or suspicious. I didn't care what they thought. With each discovery, I was helping lost souls find their way home.

And in some strange way, I was finding my purpose, too. I watched as the recovery team arrived and began carefully excavating the site where Mia stood. She remained visible only to me, a silent witness to her own recovery. You're going home? I whispered to her.

Both of you. She turned toward me, and for the briefest moment, I thought I saw her nod. Mia started getting restless for a couple weeks after we found her body. She didn't show up at all. I figured she was at peace like the others.

Then one night she was back in my room, standing at the foot of my bed like that first time I sat up, rubbing sleep from my eyes. Mia, I thought you were gone. She didn't say anything. None of them ever did, except for that first time in the storm. She just stood there, pointing at my eastern wall, the same direction she'd been pointing for three nights straight.

What is it? What's out there? I asked, knowing she wouldn't answer. The temperature in my room dropped another few degrees. I could see my breath clouding in front of my face.

Mia's form flickered, then stabilized. She kept pointing, E more insistent now. I got up and checked my ghost journal. I'd been documenting these new appearances, trying to make sense of them. She'd been showing up around 2:00 AM every night, always pointing E, always looking more urgent than the night before.

I found you, Mia, I said. Your body's on its way back to Norway. What else do you need? She just stared at me with those Milky eyes and kept pointing. The next morning, I caught up with Eric in the mess hall.

I hadn't seen much of him lately. Things had been busy since I'd become the station's unofficial Finder of the lost. People either wanted to talk to me about it or avoided me completely. She's back? I said, sliding my tray onto the table.

Eric looked up from his coffee. Who's back? Mia, the Norwegian researcher, first one who appeared to me. He raised his eyebrows. Thought you found her already.

I did, but she's still showing up, pointing E like she wants me to go somewhere. Eric took a long sip of his coffee. Maybe there's something else out there, someone else. That's what I'm thinking, but it's different this time. She seems desperate, and she's pointing way out, not just somewhere around the station.

You going to tell Grayson? I shook my head. Not yet. Need to figure out what she wants first. After breakfast, I headed to the Archives.

I pulled up everything I could find on Mia Herrera and the search parties that went looking for her. I already knew about James Peterson, who disappeared while searching for her, but his body had been recovered alongside Mia's. There had to be something else. I spent hours going through old reports and maps, trying to find any clue about what might be out east of the station.

There were a few old expedition routes, some abandoned research sites, but nothing that jumped out at me. That night, Mia appeared again. This time she wasn't alone. Another figure stood beside her, a man in modern Antarctic gear I'd never seen before. They both pointed.

E, Who is that? I asked. Who are you showing me? Neither responded, of course. They just stood there, pointing until they faded away.

As the sun came up the next day, I went to Grayson's office. I'd prepared my case carefully, with maps and historical data about old expeditions in the eastern sector. I think there might be something significant about 30 miles east of here, I said, spreading a map on his desk. Several expeditions crossed through this area, and there are some anomalies in the terrain that could indicate historical remains.

Grayson leaned back in his chair, studying me more than the map. Ferguson, you found what, 6 sites now? It's impressive work, but we're heading into winter soon. Weather's getting unpredictable, I know, but this could be important. Maybe another lost expedition?

He shook his head. Not worth the risk. We've got three weeks until the darkness sets in. After that, no expeditions until spring, but decisions final. He slid the map back to me.

I appreciate your enthusiasm, but safety protocols exist for a reason. I left his office feeling frustrated. That night, Mia and the unknown man appeared again, looking more urgent than ever. The temperature in my room dropped so low I could see ice crystals forming on my water glass. I'm trying, I told them, but Grayson won't approve an expedition.

They just kept pointing E. For the next week, the apparitions became more frequent. Mia started appearing during the day, something that had never happened before. I'd be checking equipment or eating lunch, and suddenly she'd be there, always pointing E. The unknown man appeared with her most times, his face a mask of frozen desperation.

I tried researching again, digging deeper into satellite imagery of the area, but found nothing conclusive. Whatever was out there, it wasn't visible from above. After another failed attempt to convince Grayson, I realized I had to make a choice. I could wait until spring, potentially months of haunting by increasingly desperate spirits, or I could find another way.

The opportunity came during my maintenance shift on the snowmobiles. I was responsible for checking the fleet, making sure they were fueled and ready for emergency use. No one questioned me. Being in the garage alone, I packed carefully. Emergency rations, Extra fuel, heavy duty sleeping bag, portable shelter, radio, GPS and flares.

I checked the weather reports obsessively until I found my window, a 24 hour period of relatively clear conditions before another storm system moved in. At 4:00 AM, when the station was at its quietest, I loaded my supplies onto the newest snowmobile. I left a note in my room saying I was taking a short approved reconnaissance trip, a lie that might buy me time if anyone checked.

The garage door opened with a groan that sounded impossibly loud in the pre dawn quiet. I pushed the snowmobile outside, started it up and headed E. The headlamp cut through the dim Antarctic twilight as I followed my GPS coordinates. Mia appeared about a mile out, floating alongside me as I drove. She kept pace effortlessly, still pointing ahead.

The unknown man joined her after another mile. They were leading me now, no longer just pointing. The sun never quite rose, we were too close to winter, but a grayish light spread across the horizon, giving me decent visibility. I checked my GPS, constantly marking my path so I could find my way back.

After three hours of driving, I stopped to check my position and refuel. I was about 20 miles from McMurdo now. The spirits waited impatiently as I worked, appearing and disappearing around me like flickering television signals. I'm going as fast as I can. I muttered, my breath clouding in front of me.

The temperature was dropping and the wind was picking up slightly. Nothing dangerous yet, but a reminder that conditions could change quickly. I needed to keep moving. Another hour passed. The terrain became more difficult, ridges and drifts that forced me to slow down.

The spirits multiplied. Now there were five of them, all pointing ahead with increasing urgency. Then it happened. The snowmobile engine made a sputtering sound, followed by an alarming clunk. I throttled back immediately, but it was too late.

Something had broken inside the engine. I tried restarting it, but nothing happened. No, no, no, I said, panic rising in my throat. I was at least 25 miles from McMurdo, too far to walk back, especially with the weather deteriorating. I checked my radio to call for help, but got only static.

The mountains must have been blocking the signal. The spirits gathered around me, still pointing eastward. Are you kidding me? I shouted at them. The snowmobiles dead.

I can't go any further. They didn't react to my outburst, just kept pointing. I took a deep breath, trying to think clearly. I had emergency supplies. I could set up my shelter, activate my beacon, and wait for rescue, but that would mean admitting I'd taken the snowmobile without permission.

I'd lose my job for sure, maybe face criminal charges for stealing equipment, or I could continue E on foot. The spirits clearly wanted me to go only about 5 more miles, based on my map. If I hurried, I might make it there and back to the snowmobile before the storm hit. It was a stupid, reckless decision, but I grabbed my pack, emergency shelter, and GPS.

This better be worth it. I said to Mia, who flickered in response. I started walking E following the spirits. The wind picked up, blowing snow across my goggles. The temperature was dropping fast, probably hitting -40 now.

My heated gear was working overtime, but I could feel the cold seeping in. After an hour of trudging through knee deep snow, I checked my GPS again. I'd only covered about two miles. The storm was moving in faster than predicted, visibility decreasing by the minute. I need to turn back.

I said to the spirits, who now numbered 7. They ignored me, pointing more frantically ahead. Another 30 minutes and the storm hit full force. The wind howled around me, driving snow and ice into any exposed skin. Visibility dropped to maybe 10 feet.

I couldn't see the spirits anymore, but I felt them around me, the intense cold they brought with them cutting through my layers. I kept going, following my GPS, but I was slowing down. My movements became sluggish. I recognized the early signs of hypothermia setting in despite my gear. Finally, I stumbled and fell.

Getting up took all my strength. I checked my GPS with shaking hands. I was almost at the coordinates where the spirits had been leading me, but I couldn't go much further. Show me, I gasped. Show me what's here.

As if in response, Mia appeared directly in front of me, clearer than I'd ever seen her. She pointed down, not a head down, at the snow beneath my feet. I dropped to my knees and started digging with my gloved hands. The snow was packed hard, almost like ice. I pulled out a small folding shovel from my pack and kept digging.

After a few minutes, I hit something solid. Not ice or rock, but something made by humans. I cleared more snow away, revealing what looked like part of a modern backpack frozen solid. The realization hit me like a physical blow. I wasn't just on top of something.

I was on top of a crevasse, a hidden crack in the ice that had been covered by snow and someone had fallen into it. I dug more frantically now, clearing a larger area. The storm raged around me, but I barely noticed. As I exposed more of the opening, I could see down into the darkness about 15 feet below.

A body lay preserved in the ice, modern Antarctic gear, just like the unknown man who had been appearing with Mia. My hands were numb, despite my gloves. I couldn't feel my face anymore. I knew I was in serious trouble, but I had to finish what I'd started. I reached for my beacon, fumbling with the switch through thick gloves.

I found him. I said to the spirits, though I couldn't see them through the Blizzard. I'll make sure he gets home. The beacon activated with a steady pulse of light. It would send my coordinates to McMurdo, but in this storm, no one would be able to reach me for hours, maybe days.

I tried to set up my emergency shelter, but my coordination was gone. My fingers wouldn't work properly. The wind kept tearing the fabric from my grasp. I gave up and curled into a ball, trying to conserve body heat. As consciousness began to fade, I felt the cold intensify around me.

The spirits had returned, surrounding me in a circle. Mia, the unknown man, and others I'd seen over the months. They seem to be standing guard, their frozen forms blocking some of the wind. Ironic, I mumbled through cracked lips. Came to help you now.

I'll join you. Time lost meaning. I drifted in and out of awareness, sometimes seeing the spirits, sometimes seeing nothing but swirling white. At some point, I thought I heard engines, saw lights cutting through the storm, but it seemed like a dream. Hands grabbed me, voices shouted instructions.

I was being lifted, wrapped in something warm. Grayson's face appeared above me, his expression a mixture of anger and relief. You damn fool, he said, though his voice sounded distant. What were you thinking? I tried to speak, to tell him about the body in the crevasse, but no words came out.

As they loaded me onto what must have been a rescue vehicle, I saw Mia standing nearby. For the first time since I'd met her, she wasn't pointing anymore. She stood with her arms at her sides, watching as they took me away. The last thing I remember before losing consciousness completely was the unknown man standing beside her.

His form flickered once, then seemed to grow more transparent as the rescue team worked to stabilize me. I woke up in the medical Bay, staring at a white ceiling. The steady beep of machines filled the small room. My body felt heavy, like I'd been hit by a snow cat. I tried to move, but stopped when pain shot through my left arm.

An IV line ran from my hand up to a bag of clear fluid. Hey, you're awake. Doctor Alvarado stepped into view, holding a clipboard. Don't try to get up just yet. How long?

My voice came out rasping. 3 days. She checked one of the monitors. You were severely hypothermic when they brought you in. Core temperature was dangerously low.

We weren't sure you'd make it the first night. Did they find it? I asked. Find what? The body in the crevasse.

Doctor Alvarado's expression shifted. Yes. After you were stabilized. Grayson sent A-Team back out. They recovered the remains yesterday.

Who was it? Thomas Reeves, environmental researcher. He went missing during a storm last year while collecting ice core samples. She adjusted my IV. The rescue team probably wouldn't have found him for years, if ever.

The crevasse was completely hidden. I closed my eyes, picturing the ghost who'd been appearing with Mia. Now I had a name to go with the face. Kaden. Dr.

Alvarado said, her tone turning serious. Grayson wants to talk to you when you're stronger. What you did was incredibly dangerous. You nearly died out there. I had to go.

No, you didn't. She shook her head. Whatever's going on with you these? Visions, or whatever you want to call them. They're not worth dying for.

I didn't argue. She wouldn't understand. Get some rest, she said. We'll talk more later. After she left, I turned my head toward the window.

Outside, the perpetual Antarctic day cast harsh light across the station buildings. I didn't see any ghosts, but I knew they were out there waiting. Grayson came the next day. He pulled a chair next to my bed and sat down, his face a mix of anger and concern. You know I should send you home on the next flight, he said.

I nodded. You violated at least six safety protocols, took station equipment without authorization, left without proper clearance, went alone into a storm. Do you have any idea how much danger you put yourself in? Or the rescue team? I'm sorry about that part.

I said I never wanted anyone else at risk. Then what the hell were you thinking? His voice rose slightly before he caught himself. I looked at him for a long moment. Would you believe me if I told you?

Try me. I took a deep breath. The ghosts led me there. Grayson's expression didn't change. The ghosts, the spirits of people who died here, they've been appearing to me since that whiteout 3 years ago.

They show me where to find them. I waited for him to call for Doctor Alvarado to declare me unfit for duty. Instead, he leaned back in his chair. You know how crazy that sounds. I do.

And yet you found seven bodies in three years, all in locations that weren't on any search grid. I nodded. Grayson rubbed his face. I've been in Antarctica for 22 years, Kaden. I've seen things I can't explain.

The cold, the isolation, the darkness. This place does something to people. This isn't in my head. Maybe not. He stood up.

Here's what's going to happen. You're confined to station for the rest of the season. No field work. You'll help with inventory and maintenance. When you're cleared by medical, we'll reassess.

It was better than I'd expected. Thank you. He moved toward the door and then stopped. One more thing. Thomas Reeves.

We found his journal in the pack with his body. Last entry mentioned seeing a woman in the storm, said she was trying to tell him something. A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with the room temperature. Get some rest. Grayson said and left.

I stared at the ceiling for a long time after he was gone. 2 weeks later I was back in my room. Doctor Alvarado had cleared me for light duty and I've been helping with inventory in the supply buildings. The work was boring but gave me time to think. I hadn't seen Mia since the rescue or Thomas Reeves.

I figured they'd moved on like the others I'd helped, but other ghosts still appeared occasionally, just not as often or as intensely as before. That night I sat at my desk, updating my journal. I'd started a new section for the spirits that had disappeared after their remains were found. The list had grown.

Randy Stark and three companions, 1912. Expedition. Anna Chen, research assistant, 1998. Judith Harlow and Marcus Webb, snow cat accident, 1976. Victor Petrov, Russian researcher, 1993.

Michael Callahan, helicopter pilot, 1985. Mia Herrera, Norwegian researcher, 1983. Thomas Reeves, Environmental researcher, 2021. I was adding notes about Reeves when a knock came at my door. It's open.

I called. Eric stepped in, carrying two mugs of coffee. Thought you might want company. Thanks. I took one of the mugs.

How's the Comm station? Same as always. Jenny says hi. He sat on the edge of my bed. So word around station is you finally told Grayson about your visitors?

I nodded. Surprisingly, he didn't have me committed. That's Antarctica for you. Spend enough time here, your definition of normal changes. Eric took a sip of his coffee.

How are you really doing? Better, I think. The ghosts, they're different now. Different how I thought about it. They don't follow me everywhere anymore, they just visit, show up for a bit, then fade away.

It's like they know I see them, but they're not desperate anymore. Maybe because you've proven you'll help them. Maybe I closed my journal. Did you hear about Reeves? His journal mentioned seeing Mia in the storm.

Eric nodded. I did. Jenny told me. She also said something interesting came in yesterday. E-mail from the Norwegian Polar Institute.

Apparently, when they were processing Mia's remains, they found a small notebook in her pocket. Most of it was damaged, but they could make out the last entry. What did it say? She wrote about seeing someone in the storm. A man in old fashioned gear said.

He seemed to be trying to lead her somewhere. I felt goosebumps rise on my arms. Randy Stark. That's what I thought too. Eric leaned forward.

What if this has been happening for years? People seeing the ghosts but never telling anyone because they thought they were hallucinating? Or they did tell someone and weren't believed? I remember Doctor Alvarado's skepticism, her insistence that my experiences were stress induced perceptual anomalies. Either way, Eric said, you've done something no one else has.

You believe them, you help them. I hadn't thought of it that way before. I guess I did. Word about Mia Herrera's recovery spread quickly through the Antarctic research community. A month after I was released from medical, I received an e-mail from Doctor Johansson, a senior researcher who'd worked with Mia back in the early 80s.

He was still active in polar research, now heading a climate study in Greenland. The e-mail was brief but heartfelt, thanking me for bringing closure to a mystery that had haunted him and his colleagues for decades. He wrote about Mia's brilliance, her dedication. Her humor made her reel in a way my glimpses of her ghost never could.

More emails followed from former McMurdo staff, who remembered the search for Mia from her family in Norway, even from James Peterson's widow. Each message filled in another piece of who these people have been in life, not just as spirits wandering the ice. Despite Grayson's reprimand and my restricted duties, I found myself becoming something of a quiet legend at McMurdo.

People didn't exactly avoid me, but conversation sometimes stopped when I entered a room. A few brave souls approached with questions about the locations I'd found, about my research methods. I kept my answers vague. Dr. Alvarado continued to monitor me, convinced I was experiencing some form of polar madness.

She'd increased my medication again, though I often didn't take it. The pills dulled my senses, and I worried they might prevent me from seeing the spirits if they needed me. You're looking better, she said during one of our sessions. Sleeping most nights. And the hallucinations.

I never corrected her terminology anymore. Less frequent. She made a note in my file. That's good, the medication seems to be working. I nodded, letting her believe what she needed to.

Three years after my first encounter with the Lost Souls of McMurdo, I was back driving a plow across the ice. Grayson had eventually lifted my field work restrictions, though I was required to check in more frequently and always work with a partner. The ghosts had settled into a new pattern. They no longer crowded my room at night or followed me through the station halls.

Instead, they appeared briefly, standing at the edge of the airfield, watching from distant ridgelines or simply passing through a corridor before fading away. They weren't desperate anymore. Somehow they knew I would see them when the time was right. I'd helped find 3 more lost researchers in the past year working within the system.

This time, I'd present Grayson with carefully researched proposals for historical surveys, backed by enough legitimate data that he couldn't refuse. When the spirits led me to a site, I'd make sure to discover the anomaly through apparently scientific means. The station had accepted my uncanny ability to find the missing as just another Antarctic peculiarity.

Some staff kept their distance, but others, especially those who'd been at the station for multiple seasons, seemed to understand that the ice held mysteries science couldn't explain. On a clear evening in July, during the perpetual Antarctic night, I stood at the large observation windows in the main building. The Aurora was particularly spectacular, sheets of green and blue light dancing across the sky.

I wasn't alone. Several other staff members had gathered to watch the display. Beautiful, isn't it? Jenny said, standing next to me. Yeah, makes you feel small.

I nodded, but my attention had shifted to something on the ice field beyond the station. At first I thought it was just a trick of the Aurora's light, but then the shapes became clearer. They were all there, every spirit. I'd helped find Randy Stark and his companions, Anna Chen, the Russian researcher, the helicopter pilot, Mia Herrera, and Thomas Reeves.

They stood in a loose semicircle on the ice, their forms less solid than I remembered, more like impressions in the air. You OK? Jenny asked, noticing my fixed stare. Fine. I said softly, just thinking.

1 by 1 the spirits began to fade, their outlines blending into the aurora's glow until I couldn't tell where they ended and the lights began. The last to remain was Mia. She looked directly at me and for the first time I saw her smile. Then she too dissolved into the dancing lights. I understood then what I had become.

In this harshest of environments, where the line between life and death was as thin as Antarctic ice, I was a bridge. My ability to see and remember those whom the White Wilderness had claimed ensured they were never truly lost.