I Work at an Underwater Research Station. Don't Come Down Here ALONE.

Hello and welcome back to another episode by Sleepy Pasta. Before you doze off tonight, don't forget to leave a five star review and a comment where you are watching from. Let's begin. The submersible dropped through black water for what felt like forever, 3000 feet down into the Atlantic, northeast of the Azores, and I couldn't see a damn thing through the porthole.

Just my own reflection, staring back, looking about as thrilled as I felt. I'd done this kind of work for eight years. Underwater research facilities, mostly. Fix the air scrubbers, maintain the pressure seals, keep people breathing while they did whatever science stuff they needed to do. Usually took a job, did six months, moved on.

That was it. This one felt different from the start. The pilot, Some guy in a Coast Guard uniform who didn't say much, handed me a tablet when we hit the halfway point. Security clearance forms. I figured it'd be the usual stuff.

Background check, emergency contacts, that kind of thing. Wrong. Biometric scan authorization, full blood panel, psychological evaluation and a non disclosure agreement thick as a phone book. I flipped through it trying to make sense of the legal language. Basically said if I talked about anything I saw down here, they could sue me for everything I'd ever own or might own someday.

Standard procedure. The pilot said when he saw me reading, he didn't look like he believed it either. I signed anyway. Had to. Jasmine's medical bills weren't getting any smaller and this job paid triple my usual rate.

6 months at Poseidon Station for more money than I'd make in two years anywhere else. Sometimes you don't get to be picky. The station looked like someone had stuck a metal tick to the side of an underwater Cliff. Poseidon Station, they called it. Appropriate, I guess.

The whole thing clung to the wall of some abyssal trench, lights glowing against the rock like a Christmas tree nobody wanted. Docking was smooth enough. The pilot knew what he was doing. I grabbed my gear, one duffel bag, nothing fancy, and waited for the airlock to cycle. The woman who met me looked like she'd stepped out of a recruiting poster.

Perfect posture, hair pulled back so tight it probably hurt. Lab coat crisp as paper. Wire rimmed glasses that caught the light just right. Mr. Cook, she said, extending a hand.

Doctor Catherine Elliott, station Director. Her handshake was firm, too firm, maybe, like she was making a point. Joseph, I said thanks for the opportunity. Of course. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.

I trust your journey was comfortable. Can't complain. She led me through a corridor that hummed with the sound of air recyclers and water pumps. Familiar sounds. Every underwater facility sounded the same, like being inside a machine that was working just a little too hard.

We're conducting research on extremophile bacteria, Dr. Elliott said as we walked. Organisms that thrive in conditions most life finds hostile. The pharmaceutical applications are quite promising. I nodded, like I understood.

I didn't, really. Bacteria was bacteria to me. My job was keeping the lights on and the air flowing. The previous engineer, she continued. Manuel Zimmerman, He requested emergency evacuation after three weeks.

Personal reasons that caught my attention. Three weeks, That's pretty fast. Some people aren't suited for extended isolation. Her tone suggested the conversation was over. We passed through another airlock, then into what looked like the main hub circular room with corridors branching off in six directions.

People in lab coats moved around, carrying tablets and looking notable. A few glanced at me, then looked away. Quick. The kind of look you give someone you're not sure you want to know. 12 researchers, Dr.

Elliott said. 4 support staff, including yourself. We maintain strict protocols for operations. We maintain strict protocols for operations. Polite smiles that lasted exactly as long as they had to.

Conversations that stopped when you walked by. Everyone being very careful about everything. Doctor Elliott showed me to a small office near the engineering section. Desk, chair, computer terminal. Stack of maintenance manuals thick as bricks.

Your primary responsibilities are outlined in the technical documentation, she said. Life support systems, pressure regulation, emergency protocols. I assume you're familiar with standard procedures? 8 years worth, I said. Excellent.

She pulled out another tablet. This contains the emergency evacuation procedures. Please review thoroughly. I skimmed the first page. Pretty standard stuff.

Emergency beacon, escape pods, rendezvous coordinates. Then I noticed something says here the external cameras are offline. Maintenance issues, Doctor Elliott said quickly. Indefinitely offline, I'm afraid, at this depth. What do you need cameras for?

Her expression changed, just for a second, but I caught it. The smile got a little tighter, a little more rehearsed. Monitoring the trench wall, she said structural instability is always a concern at these depths. The cameras help us detect any changes in the rock formation that might affect station integrity. Made sense, I guess, but something about the way she said it, like she'd practice the words, bugged me a little.

Right, I said. Well, if you need them fixed, I can take a look. That won't be necessary. We have other monitoring systems in place. The conversation was definitely over now.

Doctor Elliott's posture had gone from professional to dismissive in about two seconds. I'll leave you to get settled, she said orientation begins at O 800 tomorrow. Any questions? I had about 50 questions. Why did the previous guy bail so fast?

Why did everyone here look like they were waiting for bad news? Why pay me three times the going rate for what seemed like standard maintenance work? No questions, I said. Excellent. She left me alone with the manuals and the humming of machinery I couldn't see.

I sat down at the desk and opened the first binder. Standard stuff, like she'd said. Air scrubbers, water recyclers, backup power systems. But I kept thinking about those cameras monitoring the trench wall for structural instability. 3000 feet down in the middle of nowhere, clinging to the side of an underwater Cliff.

What exactly were they expecting to see? That first night down there? I couldn't sleep. Worth a dam. The station had this constant hum.

Air recyclers, water pumps, the hull creaking under 3000 feet of ocean pressure. Normal stuff. I'd worked underwater platforms before. You get used to the sounds after a few hours. But around midnight, something else started up.

I was lying in my bunk, staring at the ceiling panels and thinking about Jasmine's latest medical bills when I heard it. This rhythmic pulse coming through the walls. Not mechanical, organic like the whole station was. Breathing made my skin crawl a little. I figured it was probably just the current hitting the hole.

Funny, deep water does weird things to sound. But it kept going, steady as a heartbeat, pulsing through the metal like the ocean itself had lungs. I tried to ignore it, rolled over, pulled the thin pillow over my head. Didn't help the sound wasn't coming through my ears, it was coming through the walls, vibrating up from the sea floor through the station's foundation anchors.

3:15 in the morning. The intercom crackled. Joseph Cook to Observation Bay. Immediate assistance required. That was Doctor Thornton's voice.

The senior geologist sounded shaky. I pulled on my coveralls and boots. The corridors were dim, running on night lighting emergency strips along the floor, casting everything in that sickly green glow. My footsteps echoed off the curved walls as I made my way through the central hub. The breathing sound got stronger as I moved toward the observation section, found Doctor Thornton pressed up against the main viewport like he was trying to crawl through the reinforced glass.

Big guy, probably 6-2, but he looked small, hunched against that massive window. The observation Bay was dark, except for the external floods, and those only lit up maybe 50 feet into the black water. Dr. Thornton. He didn't turn around, just kept staring out into the darkness.

Do you hear it? He asked. His voice was hoarse, The singing. I listened. Just the usual station sounds and that pulse I've been hearing in my bunk.

Hear what voices, He said, harmonizing. They're using frequencies that they hurt to process, like they're not meant for human ears. I stepped closer to the viewport. Nothing out there but black water and the occasional piece of marine snow drifting past the lights. The pulse was stronger here, though, coming up from below.

Doctor Thornton, maybe you should get some rest. It's been a long don't. He finally turned to look at me. His eyes were wild, bloodshot Gray hair sticking up in all directions. Don't look too long into the darkness, Joseph, whatever you do.

The way he said my name made me nervous, like he knew something about me I didn't. The trench isn't empty, he continued. They want us to think it is. That's the whole point of this place. But it's not empty.

It's never been empty. I didn't know what to say to that. The guy was clearly having some kind of breakdown. Deep sea environments mess with people sometimes. Pressure, isolation, the constant dark.

I'd seen it before on other platforms. Why don't we head back to your quarters? I suggested. I can call Medical if you want. He laughed.

Not a good sound Medical, right? He pressed his palm against the glass. They'll sedate me, ship me topside. Another engineer who couldn't handle the pressure. Doctor Thornton.

Just don't look too long, he said again. And don't listen too hard. Once you start hearing them clearly, you can't unhear it. I helped him back to his cabin. He didn't resist, just shuffled along the corridors, mumbling about frequencies and geometric impossibilities, whatever that meant.

The next morning, Doctor Elliott called an emergency briefing. The briefing room was cramped. Round table, 6 chairs, walls lined with monitors showing external camera feeds and station diagnostics. Everyone was there except Doctor Thornton, the marine biologist Caitlin Jordan, two other researchers I hadn't met yet. Doctor Elliott sat at the head of the table, looking professional in her pressed lab coat.

I'm sure you're all aware of last night's incident, she began. Dr. Thornton experienced what we're classifying as a psychological episode brought on by deep sea environmental factors. She had this practice tone like she'd given this speech before. He's being sedated for his own safety and will transfer topside within 48 hours.

In the meantime, I want to emphasize the deep sea environments can cause hallucinations in susceptible individuals. Pressure psychosis is a documented phenomenon. I glanced around the table. The other researchers were nodding along like they'd heard this exact explanation before. Nobody made eye contact with me or with each other.

The crucial thing, Doctor Elliott continued, is that we maintain our research schedule. Doctor Thornton's condition doesn't reflect on the station safety protocols or our mission parameters. More nodding. Very synchronized. Any questions?

Nobody said anything. The silence stretched until Doctor Elliott dismissed us. After the briefing, I grabbed coffee in the mess hall. Terrible stuff, but it was hot. I was sitting alone at one of the small tables when Caitlin Jordan approached.

She'd been aboard for seven months, according to her file. Marine biologist. Seemed competent. Mind if I sit? I gestured to the empty chair.

She sat down, glanced around to make sure we were alone. That was bullshit, she said quietly. What was the briefing? Doctor Thornton didn't have a breakdown because of pressure psychosis. I sipped my coffee, waited.

The station isn't studying bacteria, she continued. That's just what they tell the new people. What are we studying, then? Caitlin leaned forward. Three months ago, our sonar detected massive geometric structures embedded in the trench wall, 4000 feet down.

Formations too unnatural to be natural. What kind of structures? Think architecture, but not human architecture. Too big, too old. We sent remote drones to investigate and they lost signal within minutes of approaching the structures.

All of them. We've sent 6 drones down there. None came back. The breathing sound from last night suddenly made more sense. Sort of.

Doctor Thornton was the lead on the drone project. Caitlin said he's been monitoring the structures for two months. That's when he started hearing things, seeing things. But it wasn't pressure psychosis. What was it?

She looked me straight in the eye contact. Two weeks after the drones went dark. That's when it started getting really weird, she said. The sounds. I figured she meant hull stress, metal groaning under pressure, standard stuff.

Not through the hull, she said, reading my face inside people's heads. That got my attention. She pulled out a tablet and scrolled through what looked like incident reports. Dates, times, personnel numbers. All very official, all very wrong voices, she said, speaking in languages nobody recognized.

Ancient stuff. Pre linguistic, according to the analysis. We managed to get done topside before they shut down external communications. Pre linguistic, before human speech evolved, before we had words. She tapped the screen.

But that wasn't the worst part. I waited. The singing doctor Jordan's voice got quiet when she said it, like she was telling me about someone who died. Beautiful doesn't cover it. Researchers would just start crying.

No reason they'd be running diagnostics or checking equipment readings. And suddenly they're sobbing like someone they love just got killed. But they couldn't explain why. She showed me a video file, security footage from the main lab, time stamps showed it was from three weeks ago. I watched a guy in a lab coat, maybe 40, beard look normal enough, suddenly drop his clipboard and start bawling just standing there in the middle of the room, tears streaming down his face while other people worked around him like nothing was happening.

That's Doctor Chen, she said. Marine acoustic specialist, been underwater for 15 years. Solid guy. The video showed Chen stumbling toward the viewport, pressing his hands against the reinforced glass like he was trying to get outside to something out there in the dark. They all do that eventually.

Doctor Jordan said the singing draws them to the observation points. They want to get closer. I thought about the scratches I'd seen in the maintenance corridor, those symbols carved into the metal. When did you first hear it? I asked.

She gave me a look. Who says I have? But I could tell she was lying. I experienced it myself three days later, zero to 45 hours. I know the exact time because I checked my watch right after it woke me up.

The singing doctor Jordan was right. Beautiful didn't cover it. It was like every song you'd ever loved playing at once, but somehow it all fit together perfectly. Harmonies that made my chest hurt in a good way, made me think about things I'd forgotten. My mom humming while she cooked dinner when I was 8.

Jasmine laughing at some stupid joke I'd made on our second date. But it wasn't coming through my ears. It was just there inside my head, like a memory that was happening right now. I got up without thinking about it, didn't grab a robe or slippers or anything. Just walked out of my quarters in my underwear and AT shirt, following that sound.

That wasn't really a sound. The corridors were empty. Emergency lighting cast everything in red. My feet were cold on the metal floor, but I didn't care. The singing was getting stronger.

More complex, like a whole choir was warming up inside my skull. I found myself in the observation Bay, same place I'd seen Chen in that security footage. The viewport stretched across the whole wall, reinforced glass, looking out into absolute nothing. Except it wasn't nothing. There were lights out there, not the scattered bioluminescence you'd expect at this depth.

These moved with purpose, structured patterns that definitely weren't random. They pulsed in sequence, forming lines and curves that looked almost like like writing. I pressed my face against the cold glass, same way Chen had done. The singing in my head got louder, more insistent, and those lights kept moving, tracing shapes in the darkness that made my brain itch.

Spirals, geometric forms that reminded me of something. Then it hit me. The scratches in the maintenance corridor, the symbols carved into the metal walls. They matched what I was seeing out there. The lights were talking, or warning or calling.

I stood there for maybe 20 minutes, watching the patterns repeat and shift. The singing never stopped. It was beautiful and terrible, and I wanted to stay there forever. Part of me started thinking about the emergency airlocks, how easy it would be to cycle through, how good the water would feel. That thought scared me enough to back away from the viewport.

The singing faded as I walked back to my quarters. By the time I reached my door, it was gone completely, but I could still see those light patterns when I closed my eyes. I didn't sleep the rest of the night. The next morning, I found Doctor Elliott in the command center. She was reviewing something on her screens, coffee cup in hand, like everything was normal.

We need to talk. I said. She looked up, saw something in my face that made her set the coffee down. You heard it, you not a question. What the hell is really going on down here?

I asked. Doctor Elliott was quiet for a long time. Then she locked her workstation and gestured toward her office. close the door, she said. Once we were inside. I did.

Poseidon Station isn't a research facility, she said. It's a containment operation. The words hit me like cold water. Containment of what? Those structures you've been monitoring, They're not geological formations.

They're buildings. I stared at her. Buildings. A city predating human evolution by millions of years, maybe 10s of millions, We're not sure. She pulled up files on her computer, images I've never seen before, sonar maps showing the structures from different angles.

And they did look like buildings, towers and walkways and what might have been plazas or gathering spaces. Whatever built this place, Dr. Elliott continued. It's still alive down there, still active. The pressure and darkness don't bother it.

If anything, that's exactly what it needs. The singing is a lure, makes people want to get closer, want to descend into the trench. Her voice got flat, professional, like she was reading from a manual. Doctor Thornton didn't request evacuation. He tried to flood the emergency airlock and swim down to join them.

We had to sedate him before he could cycle through. My mouth went dry. Join them. Three other researchers have attempted the same thing over the past month. All of them heard the singing first.

All of them started seeing the lights. All of them tried to leave the station the hard way. She showed me more files, incident reports, medical evaluations, security footage of people I'd never met trying to open airlocks, fighting with other crew members, clawing at viewport seals. That's why we needed someone new, Doctor Elliott said.

Someone who didn't know what this place really was. We hoped you might be immune or at least resistant, but I'm not. No, you're not. We're studying them, Doctor Elliott said. Just like that.

Matter of fact. Like she was talking about collecting water samples or something. I stared at her across that cramped research station table. The fluorescent light above us buzzed every few seconds, made her look older than she probably was. Studying what, exactly?

Whether they pose a surface threat, whether they can be killed or contained. She folded her hands. Real professional. Before they decide to rise. That word hit me wrong.

Rise like these things had plans. Like they were down there making decisions about what to do with the rest of us. You're talking about them like they're intelligent. Because they are. Doctor Jordan nodded from her corner of the room.

She'd been quiet since dropping that contact bomb on me earlier. Now she looked like she wanted to say something, but kept her mouth shut. I figured this was the part where they'd tell me the whole thing was some kind of research project gone sideways. Government stuff, maybe black budget marine biology. That would have made sense.

Instead, Doctor Elliott kept going. We've been monitoring their behavior patterns for 18 months. Communication frequencies, movement, coordination. They're not just reacting to stimuli down there. They're planning the way she said it.

Real calm, like she was reading off a grocery list. Planning what we don't know yet. That's what the six month assessment period is for. I didn't like where this was heading. Assessment period to determine containment protocols, whether conventional weapons work on them, whether depth charges can collapse their habitat structures, whether we can kill them before they become a problem.

She said it like she was talking about pest control. That's when I stood up. Had enough of this whole conversation. I want off this station today. Doctor Elliott didn't move, just watched me with those cold Gray eyes.

That's not possible. Like hell it's not. You got me down here under false pretenses. Didn't tell me about any of this contact stuff. I'm done.

Surface Command has implemented quarantine protocols, she said. No one leaves until we complete the assessment period. I felt something cold settle in my stomach. What does that mean? Anyone attempting early evacuation will be detained indefinitely for public safety.

The room got real quiet after that. Just the hum of the air recyclers and that damn fluorescent light buzzing every few seconds. You're telling me I'm trapped down here? You're telling me we all are? Doctor Jordan finally spoke up.

It's not that bad. The work is crucial and the pay is. I don't give a damn about the pay, but that was a lie. I did give a damn. Jasmine's medical bills weren't going anywhere.

Neither were the collection calls or the mortgage payments. That's how they got me down here in the 1st place. Dr. Elliott knew it, too. I could see it in her face.

Six months, she said. Complete the assessment, file your reports, then you go home with enough money to solve your problems. She made it sound reasonable, like I had a choice. Maybe I did back then, maybe I could have found another way to handle things topside, but 3000 feet down with no way up?

Reasonable sounded pretty good. That was my first mistake. The singing got worse after that conversation. Every night around midnight it would start up again, but now I knew what I was listening to. Not whale songs or geological activity.

Contact. I'd lie in my bunk and hear those voices rising up from the trench, multiple tones weaving together like some kind of underwater choir. Beautiful and wrong at the same time. By my 20th night down there, I started seeing shapes moving beyond the viewports. Not random movement.

Purposeful, like they were patrolling the perimeter or something. These dark forms gliding past the station lights always just outside the illumination range. Big enough to cast shadows, but never close enough to see clearly. I mentioned it to Doctor Jordan during one of our monitoring shifts. You're seeing them too, she said.

Wasn't a question. Seeing what? The scouts, they've been circling the station for weeks now, getting bolder. She pointed to the main viewport there, about 30 meters out. I looked where she was pointing, saw nothing but black water and the faint glow of our external lights.

Then something moved. Just a shift in the darkness, but it was there. What are they doing? Learning, Doctor Jordan said. Studying us like we're studying them.

That thought bugged me more than it probably should have. The idea that we were specimens down here, Lab Rats in a pressurized cage. They're hungry, too, she added. Hungry for what? She didn't answer that one.

The other researchers started acting strange. Around my 30th night, Doctor Martinez began scratching cymbals into the walls of his quarters, weird geometric patterns that didn't match any language I'd ever seen. When I asked him about it, he just shrugged and said the designs came to him in dreams. Doctor Patel started talking to herself in what sounded like a completely different language.

Not Hindi or English or anything recognizable. These flowing syllables that seem to match the rhythm of the singing from below. And Doctor Chen stopped sleeping altogether. I'd find him standing at the viewports at all hours, just watching the darkness beyond. When I tried to talk to him, he'd turn around with this blank expression, like he was looking right through me.

They're calling to us, he said one night, inviting us down. Down where? Home. That word gave me the creeps, the way he said it. Like he meant it.

Doctor Elliott pretended not to notice what was happening to her team, kept talking about research protocols and data collection, but I could see it in her face when she thought nobody was looking. She was scared, Not of the things outside the station of us. By my 40th night down there, I'd had enough.

The singing was constant now, not just at midnight, all day, all night. These voices calling up from the depths like some kind of invitation. And every time I looked out a viewport, I saw more of those shapes circling closer. The other researchers weren't even pretending to be human anymore. Doctor Martinez had covered his entire quarters with those symbols.

Doctor Patel only spoke in that strange, flowing language, and Doctor Chen spent his shift staring into the abyss with this hungry expression on his face. I knew what was coming, could feel it building like pressure behind a dam, so I made my choice. The lower section monitoring station had a whole breech alarm red button behind a plastic cover right next to the emergency communications panel.

Hit that button and every safety protocol on the station would kick in automatically. I waited until the night shift change. Doctor Elliott was in her quarters filing reports. Doctor Jordan was asleep. The others were wherever they went when they weren't pretending to be researchers anymore.

I walked down to the lower section like I was doing a routine systems check. Normal stuff. Nobody paid attention. Then I broke the plastic cover and hit that red button. The alarm was loud enough to wake the dead.

Klaxons blaring, emergency lights flashing, automated voice announcing hull breach in Section 7. Complete chaos in about 10 seconds. I heard footsteps running overhead. Shouts Dr. Elliott's voice over the intercom ordering all personnel to emergency stations.

That's when I sealed the lower section blast doors and headed for the escape pod. The pod was supposed to be for catastrophic station failure only. Automatic launch system, emergency oxygen supply, direct ascent to the surface, big red warning labels all over it about unauthorized use and federal prosecution. I didn't care about any of that.

The pod systems came online as soon as I strapped myself in. Green lights across the board. Oxygen good navigation active emergency beacon ready to transmit. I could hear them pounding on the blast doors above me, Doctor Elliott shouting something about protocol violations, the alarm still blaring throughout the station. Then I hit the launch button.

The ascent was like getting shot out of a cannon, 3000 feet of black water rushing past the porthole as the pod rocketed toward the surface, emergency ballast tanks firing, compressed air system screaming, the whole capsule shaking like it was coming apart. I kept my eyes closed and counted seconds, figured it would take about 12 hours to reach the surface from that depth, assuming the pod held together, assuming I didn't run out of air first.

The singing followed me up. Even through the pods hull I could hear those voices calling from below, getting fainter as I rose, but never completely gone like they were saying goodbye or see you Soon. I broke through the Atlantic surface just after dawn, felt the pod Bob and roll as it hit the waves, sunlight streaming through the porthole for the first time in 40 days.

The Coast Guard cutter Hamilton was already waiting. Captain Jaden Stevens pulled me aboard himself. Big guy with Gray hair and steady hands, the kind of officer who'd seen enough weird stuff that nothing surprised him anymore. You Joseph Cook? He asked.

Yeah, we've been monitoring your emergency beacon for the past six hours. Hell of a ride from that depth. I looked back at the dark water where I'd surfaced 3000 feet down. That research station was still attached to the side of an underwater Cliff, still monitoring whatever lived in the trench below, still containing it for now.

You OK, son? Captain Stevens asked. Look like you've seen a ghost. I thought about Doctor Elliott and her six month assessment period, about the other researchers scratching symbols and speaking in tongues, about those shapes circling the station with purpose and hunger, about the singing that would never completely leave my head. Not a ghost.

I said something worse, something that was learning, planning, getting ready. And whatever it was down there in the depths, whatever had been calling to us through the hull of that station, it wouldn't stay contained forever. I knew that much for certain. The rest was just a matter of time.