We Investigated an Abandoned Arctic Research Station.

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. I boarded the helicopter with my equipment bag clutched tightly against my chest, unable to shake the feeling that this mission was different from the others.

The vibration of the rotors hummed through my body as I settled into my seat, trying to focus on the practical aspects of the journey ahead rather than the knot of worry in my gut. Final equipment check, Doctor Harlow? The pilot's voice crackled through my headset. Almost done, I said, opening my bag for the third time in 20 minutes.

I ran my fingers over each item. Satellite phone, extra batteries, Thermal imaging camera, sample collection kit, first aid supplies, emergency rations, everything was there, just as it had been the last two times I checked this compulsive inventory. Taking wasn't about forgetting something. It was about controlling my growing anxiety. The helicopter lifted off, and I watched the research outpost shrink below us as we bank toward the vast white expanse of Greenland's ice sheet.

My mind kept circling back to the mission briefing from earlier that morning. Frost Point Research Station went dark 3 days ago, the mission director had told me, sliding a folder across the table. No communication, no emergency beacon, nothing. Your team needs to find out what happened. I'd worked recovery and investigation missions before equipment failures, weather damage, even a case of researchers evacuating after a medical emergency without proper protocols.

But something in the director's tone had set off alarm bells. What was their last communication? I'd asked. The director had hesitated before playing an audiophile. The voice had been female, professional, but clearly stressed.

This is Doctor Harper Ward at Frost Point Station. We need immediate evacuation. There's something. The pale men are inside the facility. They're not human.

I repeat, they're not. The transmission had cut off abruptly. Now, staring out at the endless white landscape below, those words echoed in my head. Pale men, not human, the rational part of my brain suggested. Hypothermia, hallucinations, maybe carbon monoxide poisoning.

But another part, the part that had survived three previous Arctic expeditions, wondered if we were flying towards something none of us were prepared for. The helicopter dipped slightly in a pocket of turbulence, jolting me from my thoughts. I looked across the cabin at my team studying each face. Amber Herrera sat with her tablet reviewing glacial data.

At 34, she was one of the best glaciologists I'd ever worked with. Her ability to read ice formations was almost intuitive. She tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear, her brown eyes narrowed in concentration. Beside her, Nolan Santiago adjusted his glasses as he poured over biological research files. Our microbiologist had an encyclopedic knowledge of extremophile organisms and had specifically requested to join this mission when he heard about Frost Point's research into subglacial microbial life.

Across from them, said our security detail, Benjamin Jones, a former Special Forces operator, cleaned his sidearm with practice deficiency. His blonde hair was cut military short, and the scar along his jawline stood out against his fair skin. Sadie Stone sat next to him, checking communication equipment. Younger than Jones but equally capable. Her dark eyes constantly scanned our surroundings, a habit from years of tactical training.

The helicopter began its descent toward our base camp, the temporary outpost that would serve as our staging area before we headed to Frost Point. David Hamilton met us as we disembarked, the wind whipping his reddish Gray hair. As base camp coordinator, he'd been here for weeks, supporting various research teams across the region.

Doctor Harlow? He greeted me with a firm handshake, his Scottish accent thick. Wish we were meeting under better circumstances. Same here, I said, adjusting my glasses against the wind. What's the latest?

Hamilton LED us toward the main tent, his expression grim. Still no contact with Frost Point. And I've got more bad news. There's a storm system moving in from the northwest. Inside the tent, he pulled up weather maps on a large screen.

You've got 72 hours at most before this hits. After that, no one's going anywhere for at least four or five days. I studied the approaching weather front, calculating how far is Frost Point from here, About 40 miles. You'll take snowmobiles tomorrow morning, should reach it by mid afternoon if conditions hold. I nodded, already planning our approach.

We'll need to work fast. Once we're there, search the facility, retrieve any data, look for survivors, and get back before the storm hits. Survivors. Hamilton repeated, his tone making it clear he thought that unlikely. It's been 3 days in sub zero temperatures with no heat signatures detected on satellite.

We still have to try. I insisted. Hamilton nodded, then pulled up satellite imagery of Frost Point on the screen. Here's the latest. No visible external damage to the facility.

I leaned closer, studying the images. Frost Point was a collection of interconnected buildings arranged in a rough circle designed to minimize exposure to the elements. Solar panels and wind turbines provided power with backup generators for emergencies. The station had been built directly above a network of subglacial lakes, bodies of water trapped beneath the ice sheet for millions of years.

Their primary research focus was drilling through the ice to study microbial life in the lakes below, I explained to the team. Some of these microorganisms have been isolated for millions of years. The potential for unique evolutionary adaptations is enormous. Could something have gone wrong with the drilling? Ember asked, studying the images.

Possibly, I admitted they were using a hot water drill to penetrate nearly 2 miles of ice. It's a complex operation. What about that final transmission? Nolan asked the pale men reference. Benjamin Jones spoke up, his voice matter of fact.

Could be hallucinations from oxygen deprivation, carbon monoxide poisoning or extreme stress. I've seen it before. People see things when they're dying. His clinical assessment hung in the air. None of us wanted to acknowledge the likelihood that we were heading toward a recovery mission, not a rescue.

We should all get some rest, I said. Finally, we leave. At first light that night, sleep eluded me. I lay in my sleeping bag, reviewing the mission parameters in my head. 72 hours.

Find survivors, retrieve data, determine what happened, get out before the storm. Simple objectives that felt impossibly complex given the final transmission. Not human. The words played on repeat in my mind until exhaustion finally pulled me under. Morning came too quickly.

After a hurried breakfast, we loaded our equipment onto 5 snowmobiles and did final checks on our cold weather gear. The temperature had dropped overnight, hovering around -30°F. Our specialized suits would protect us, but any equipment failure could turn deadly within minutes. Radio check, I said into my helmet microphone as we prepared to depart.

1 by 1, the team confirmed their communications were working. I nodded to Hamilton, who stood watching our departure. 72 hours, he reminded me. Not a minute more. I'll be monitoring your progress from here.

Understood. I replied, then led the way out of camp, our snowmobiles cutting fresh tracks across the pristine white landscape. The journey was monotonous yet demanding. The ice sheet appeared flat from a distance but up close it was a constantly changing terrain of subtle rises, dips and occasional crevasses that required careful navigation. Every hour we stopped briefly to check our position and try the radio Frost point station, This is Doctor Rodney Harlow, do you copy over Each time only static answered.

By mid afternoon. My back ached from hours on the snowmobile and my face felt raw despite the protection of my helmet visor. I crested a gentle rise and then saw it. Frost point station on the horizon, a dark smudge against the white landscape. I raised my hand, signaling the team to stop.

We formed a line, staring at our destination. No smoke, no visible damage. Amber observed through her binoculars. Power seems to be out though. Nolan added.

No lights. Benjamin moved his snowmobile alongside mine. I don't like it. Too quiet. We tried the Radio One last time.

Frost Point Station, This is Doctor Rodney Harlow. We are approaching your position. Please respond if you can hear this transmission. Static hissed in my ears. Let's move in closer, I decided.

Maintain distance between vehicles and stay alert. As we approached, details of the station became clearer. The main entrance was partially open, with snow drifting inside, a critical breach of protocol in this environment. No tracks LED away from the station, no emergency beacons flashed. The wind turbines stood motionless despite the steady breeze.

We stopped about 50 yards from the entrance, engines idling. No signs of external damage, I noted, scanning the buildings. But that open door, someone left in a hurry, Sadie said, her voice tight. Or something prevented them from securing it. I stared at the dark opening, snow swirling into the facility like an invitation.

Whatever had happened here, equipment failure, human error, or something else entirely, the answers waited inside that silent station, and we had less than 72 hours to find them before the storm trapped us here, too. Gear up, I told the team, killing my snowmobiles engine. We're going in. I followed Benjamin Walsh into Frost Points darkened entrance, my flashlight beam cutting through the gloom.

The yellow light revealed a trail of boot prints pressed into the snow that had drifted inside through the partially open door. The prints overlapped in a chaotic pattern, like people have been moving quickly. Hello. I called out, my voice echoing down the main corridor. Anyone here?

This is the recovery team from Nuke Station. Walsh moved ahead of me, his own light sweeping methodically from side to side. Frost Point personnel report. His voice carried the practiced authority of military command. No response came back, just silence.

We moved deeper into the facility, our boots crunching on the thin layer of snow that had blown in. The temperature inside was barely warmer than outside, a bad sign. The heating system should have kept the interior at least 60° warmer than the brutal cold of the Greenland ice sheet. Power's been out for a while.

I said, watching my breath cloud in front of my face. The corridor stretched ahead of us, lined with closed doors leading to various station sections. Behind us, I heard the others enter Ember, Nolan, and Sadie. Their flashlight beams joined ours, creating shifting patterns of light and shadow on the walls. Something felt wrong about the stillness.

Research stations are never truly quiet. There's always the hum of equipment, ventilation systems, the sounds of people working. This silence felt heavy, unnatural. You smell that? Walsh asked, pausing mid stride.

I took a deep breath and caught it immediately, a strange metallic smell hanging in the air. Not the typical scent of machinery or electronics, but something sharper, almost like copper or iron, but with an underlying note I couldn't place. They put me on edge. Blood, Sadie suggested quietly from behind us. Maybe, Walsh said, Or chemicals could be something leaked.

When the power went out, we continued forward, calling out periodically. Each unanswered call made my stomach tighten a little more. The corridor opened into a junction with hallways branching in three directions. Maine Research Hub should be straight ahead, I said, consulting the facility layout I'd memorized during our briefing. Walsh nodded, and we pressed on.

The metallic smell grew stronger as we approached the double doors at the end of the corridor. Walsh pushed them open, and we stepped into what should have been the Heart of Frost Point Station. Our flashlights revealed a scene of chaos. Tables had been overturned, chairs thrown against walls. Scientific equipment lay smashed on the floor.

Microscopes, sample containers, computer monitors. Papers were scattered everywhere, some stained dark. Jesus Nolan whispered behind me. I moved my lights slowly across the room, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Along one wall, dark splatters stood out against the white paint.

The pattern was unmistakable. Blood spray, like something. It hit with force on the opposite wall. I counted 5 distinct holes punched through the metal panelling. Those are bullet holes, Walsh said, moving closer to examine them.

9 millimetre standard issue. Security personnel fired their weapons, Sadie noted, her own hand moving instinctively toward her holster. Spread out, Walsh ordered. Check the adjacent rooms. Stay in pairs.

Ember and Nolan moved toward the laboratories on the left side of the hub. Sadie took position near the entrance, Keeping watch on our backs. Walsh began examining the bullet holes more closely. I headed for the main computer terminal at the center of the room. It was still intact, though the screen was dark.

I set my pack down and pulled out a portable power source, connecting it to the computer's emergency backup system. After a few seconds, the screen flickered to life, bathing my face in blue light. Got something? I called out. The others glanced my way but continued their search.

The computer's file system was intact. I navigated to the research logs, looking for the most recent entries. Doctor Harper Ward was the station chief, but the final logs were from Doctor Elena Kostova, the lead geologist. I opened the first file from three weeks ago. Day 47 of drilling operation reached target depth of 2150 meters.

Ice core samples show unusual stratification patterns at one 900 lbs meters. Doctor Ward is excited about the anomalous readings from the sonar mapping of the sub glacial lake. The cavity appears much larger than initial survey suggested. I skipped ahead a week. Day 54.

Something strange today. The drilling platform sensors picked up vibrations that don't match any known glacial movement patterns. Doctor Patel thinks it might be thermal expansion, but the readings don't support that theory. Ward wants to send a camera down the borehole tomorrow. The next entry was shorter, dated just 10 days ago.

Day 56. Everyone heard it today. Strange sounds coming up from the borehole, Not mechanical, almost like I don't know how to describe it. Ward says it's just ice shifting, but Arlo swears he saw something moving on the camera feed before it cut out. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold air.

The entry from two days later was even more disturbing. Day 58. George thinks someone is watching him, says he keeps seeing figures at the edge of his vision when he's working on the lower level. Ward told him it's just stress and isolation playing tricks, but now Arlo is saying the same thing. I haven't seen anything myself, but there's a feeling in the station now like we're not alone.

The second to last entry was dated just four days ago. Day 60. Ward finally admitted something's wrong. Three people reported seeing figures, watching them from the shadows. Tall, thin figures with pale skin.

Security did a full sweep but found nothing. Ward ordered the bore hole sealed. Until we can get an evac team here. Too late. Maybe the comms are down.

Something damaged the satellite array last night. No one is admitting they went outside to do it. The final log entry was time stamped just hours before Harper's distress call. They're inside now. The pale men.

They came up through the drilling platform. Somehow they don't stop when shot. They're taking people. If anyone finds this, destroy the borehole. Don't let them get out.

They're not human. They're the entry. Cut off there, Walsh. I called. My voice sounding strange to my own ears.

You need to see this. He came over quickly, reading over my shoulder as I scrolled back through the entries. His face hardened with each one. Show the others. He said.

I called Ember and Nolan back, they just returned from checking the labs. More blood in the sample storage room, Ember reported, and signs of a struggle in the break room. But no bodies. No bodies anywhere, Nolan added. Where is everyone?

I turned the screen so they could all see and summarized what I'd found. The logs mentioned pale men coming up through the borehole, the same term Harper used in her final transmission. What the hell are pale men? Nolan asked. Could be hallucinations, Amber suggested.

Maybe a gas leak or some kind of toxic exposure from their drilling. That doesn't explain the bullet holes, Sadie said. From her position by the door, or the blood, or where everyone went. Whatever happened, Walsh said, it started at the drilling platform. That's where we need to go next.

I nodded, disconnecting my power source from the computer. The drilling platform is on the lower level. There should be a stairwell at the end of the east corridor. We gathered our equipment and moved out, Walsh taking point with Sadie bringing up the rear. The east corridor was darker somehow, the beams of our flashlights seeming to penetrate less deeply into the gloom.

As we walked, I noticed something odd on the walls. At first I thought it was just normal frost buildup from the failing environmental systems, but as I looked closer, I realized the frost wasn't forming in random patterns. It created geometric shapes, almost like crystalline circuitry spreading across the metal surface. Look at this, I said, stopping to examine the pattern.

The others gathered around their lights, illuminating the strange formation. I've never seen ice crystallize like that, Ember said, reaching out to touch it. Don't, Walsh warned, and she pulled her hand back. We continued toward the stairwell, the frost patterns becoming more elaborate as we went. When we reached the heavy security door leading to the lower level, Walsh tried the handle.

It was unlocked. Stay alert, he said, drawing his side arm. Sadie did the same. The stairwell was pitch black. Our lights revealed more of the strange frost patterns covering the walls, thicker here than in the corridor above.

We descended carefully, the metal stairs creaking under our weight. At the bottom we faced the final airlock door that would lead to the drilling platform. I moved forward to examine it and stopped short. The doors been forced. I said, running my light along the frame.

The heavy metal was bent outward, the locking mechanism completely destroyed from the inside. Walsh moved up beside me, his expression grim. Whatever happened here, it wasn't an external breach. They came up through the drilling platform, I said, remembering the logs. And then they forced their way out.

The five of us stood there, staring at the damaged door, the implications sinking in. Whatever had been down there was now loose in the station or beyond. We need to see what's on the other side. Walsh said, finally Ready. I nodded, though I wasn't ready at all.

None of us were, but we had a job to do. Walsh gripped the bent edge of the door and pulled. With a screech of protesting metal, it swung open, revealing the darkness beyond. I entered the drilling platform and stopped dead in my tracks. The entire area was completely destroyed.

The massive drill that had bored through nearly 2 miles of ancient ice now lay twisted and broken like some giant hand had snapped it in half. The ice floor around the borehole had partially collapsed, creating a jagged ring of broken chunks surrounding the dark opening. Jesus. I whispered, my breath visible in the Frigidaire.

Our flashlight beams swept across the devastation, revealing scattered tools, abandoned equipment, and what looked like dried blood on some of the machinery. The destruction told a clear story of panic and violence, but like the rest of the station, there were no bodies to be found. What could have done this? Amber asked, her voice barely audible as she stood beside me.

Nothing human, Walsh replied, his weapon drawn as he moved carefully toward the edge of the collapsed area. Nolan had wandered to a workstation near the wall and called out Doctor King. I found something. I made my way over to him, careful to watch my footing on the uneven floor. He was holding what looked like a handheld camera, it's small screen still intact.

Doctor Patel found this, he said, turning it on. There's footage. The team gathered around as Nolan pressed the play. The small screen flickered to life, showing a shaky view of this same room, but intact, with the drill operational and researchers in cold weather gear working around it. The time stamps showed it was from 8 days ago.

The readings are off the charts, a woman's voice said from behind the camera. Something's happening down there. The camera panned to the borehole, where several researchers were backing away, their faces masks of confusion and growing fear. One of them pointed. There's something coming up.

The camera zoomed in shakily on the borehole. For a moment, there was nothing but darkness. Then something pale and elongated began to emerge from the hole, something that looked like a limb but was too long, too thin to be human. What the hell is that? Someone shouted.

The camera jerked wildly as people began to run. There were screams, a crash, and then the video cut to black. Nolan looked up at me, his face pale. That matches what was in the logs. I nodded, trying to keep my voice steady.

We need to report back immediately, gather what data we can and get out of here. I'll collect ice samples from around the borehole. Ember said, already pulling collection tubes from her pack. I'll help. Nolan added, moving to join her.

Walsh positioned himself between our team and the borehole, his weapon ready. Make it quick. He ordered. Sadie, watch the entrance. Sadie took up position near the airlock door we'd come through, her own weapon drawn.

I pulled out my sample kit and joined Ember and Nolan near the edge of the collapsed area, careful to stay well back from the actual borehole. The ice here had strange properties. It wasn't just frozen water. There were patterns in it, similar to the frost formations we'd seen in the corridors, but more defined, almost like circuitry embedded in the ice itself.

As I collected a sample of the unusual ice, I heard something, a faint scraping sound coming from the direction of the borehole. I froze, sample tube in hand. Did you hear that? I asked quietly. Walsh tensed, raising his weapon.

Everyone back up now. The scraping sound came again, louder this time. Then the lights failed completely, plunging us Into Darkness, broken only by our flashlights. The temperature, already cold, dropped rapidly. I could feel it, a bone deep chill that seemed to come from nowhere.

Move to the exit. Walsh ordered, his voice tight with controlled urgency. We began backing toward the airlocked door, our flashlight beams dancing wildly across the destroyed room. My beam swept past the borehole, then jerked back. Something was moving there.

A pale, elongated limb emerged from the hole, too long, too thin to be human, just like in the video. It was followed by another, and then a bulbous head rose into view. My flashlight beam illuminated it fully, and I felt my breath catch. The creature was tall and emaciated, with limbs that seemed too long for its body.

Its head was disproportionately large, with enormous black eyes that reflected my light like polished Obsidian. But it was the skin that made my stomach turn. It was nearly translucent, revealing shadowy organs pulsing beneath. Back up. Walsh hissed, raising his weapon.

Now the creature pulled itself completely out of the hole with unnatural grace. Standing to its full height, at least 7 feet tall, it turned those black eyes toward us, head tilting in what almost looked like curiosity. Walsh fired three shots in rapid succession. The bullets hit the creature squarely in the chest, making it flinch, but nothing more.

No blood appeared. The creature looked down at the impact points, then back at us. It's not stopping. Sadie called out, her voice tight with fear. We need to go.

More movement came from the borehole. Another pale figure was emerging. Then a third run. Walsh shouted, firing again as we turned and sprinted for the airlock door. Sadie reached it first, yanking it open and ushering us through.

I ran past her, followed by Ember and Nolan. Walsh was still firing, backing toward us as more of the creatures pulled themselves from the borehole. We made it through the door and into the stairwell. I turned back just in time to see Sadie scream as pale arms wrapped around her waist, yanking her backward with impossible strength.

Sadie Walsh shouted, lunging forward and grabbing her arm. For a moment they were caught in a terrible tug of war, Sadie's face contorted in pain and fear. Then her hand slipped from Walsh's grip and she was dragged back toward the borehole, her screams cutting through the air. Walsh emptied his weapon into the advancing entities, the muzzle flash illuminating their pale forms in strobe like bursts.

They kept coming. Unfazed by the bullets, One reached for him with those impossibly long fingers. Walsh, I shouted. He turned toward us, his face set in grim determination. Go get out now.

He slammed the airlock door shut, but not before I saw pale hands grabbing him from behind, pulling him into their midst. The last thing I saw was Walsh fighting, using his empty weapon as a club as the creatures surrounded him. Then the door closed, cutting off the sounds of struggle, and we were alone in the stairwell, our ragged breathing and the pounding of my heart the only sounds I could hear.

I fled with Doctor Torres and Doctor Patel toward the exit, pushing my legs to move faster than they ever had before. The sound of our boots pounding against the metal floors echoed through the corridor as we ran. The emergency lights cast long distorted shadows that made every corner look like it might hide one of those things.

Almost there. I gasped, seeing the main entrance ahead, just 50 more yards. Then they appeared. 3 pale figures emerged from side corridors with that same fluid, unnatural movement, like puppets controlled by invisible strings. Their elongated limbs and bulbous heads blocked our escape route completely.

Back, go back. Torres shouted, grabbing my jacket and pulling me to a stop. We turned to retreat, but more figures had materialized behind us. We were trapped in the middle of the corridor, the creatures closing in from both directions with their eerie silence that somehow felt worse than any sound they could have made.

Patel stumbled, falling slightly behind us. I reached back for her hand, our fingers almost touching. A pale arm shot out from a doorway we just passed. It's impossibly long fingers wrapped around Patel's waist, yanking her sideways with terrifying strength. Her eyes met mine for a split second, wide with terror.

Help me. She screamed, her arms still outstretched toward me. I lunged for her, but Torres grabbed my shoulder, holding me back. Patel's scream cut off with a sickening abruptness. 1 moment she was there, the next she was gone, pulled into the darkness of the side room.

We can't help her. Torres hissed in my ear, her fingers digging painfully into my arm. In here now. She pulled me toward a door marked STORAGE and shoved me inside, following quickly and sealing the door behind us. The small room was packed with shelves of supplies, spare parts, tools, and emergency equipment.

Torres moved with surprising calm, pushing aside a metal shelf to reveal a small access hatch in the wall. Maintenance tunnel, she explained, already working to unscrew the panel. Runs between the outer and inner walls for repairs. Connects to a service exit on the east side. How do you know about this?

I asked, keeping my voice low as I pressed my ear against the door, listening for movement. To help design the station. Torres whispered, her fingers working quickly on the last bolt. These tunnels weren't in the public blueprints. A heavy thud against the storage room door made us both freeze.

The metal panel dented inward slightly. They're coming through. I said, moving to help Torres with the Hatch. The final bolt came loose and she pulled the panel away, revealing A narrow, dark passage barely wide enough for one person. You first, she ordered, handing me her flashlight.

I'll seal it. Behind us, I squeezed into the maintenance tunnel, the cold metal walls pressing against my shoulders. The passage was cramped, designed for access, not comfort. I crawled forward on hands and knees, hearing Torres enter behind me and the metallic sound of the panel being pulled back into place. Another loud bang echoed from the storage room, followed by the screech of tearing metal.

Move. Torres urged from behind me, her voice tight with fear. I crawled faster, the beam of my flashlight bouncing wildly off the metal walls. The tunnel sloped downward at a gentle angle, taking us below the main level of the station. The air grew colder and frost coated the metal walls in intricate patterns similar to what we'd seen throughout the facility.

Above us, something heavy moved across the floor. Footsteps, but with an odd cadence. Too many limbs or too few. The ceiling of our tunnel flexed slightly with each step. They're following our path, I whispered.

Just keep going, Torres replied. The tunnel branched several times at each junction. Torres directed me with quick, hushed commands. Left here, right at this turn, straight ahead now. The maintenance shaft seemed to go on forever, twisting through the guts of the station like a metal intestine.

Sounds of pursuit echoed through the metal tunnel, scraping, thumping, and occasionally a high pitched noise that might have been communication between the creatures. The sounds grew louder then fainter as we change direction, but never disappeared completely. After what felt like hours, but was probably only minutes, I spotted a faint glow ahead, natural light filtering through another access panel.

That's our way out. Torres confirmed, her breath warm against my neck. I reached the panel and pushed, but it didn't. Budget panic surged through me as I shoved harder. The external panels are sealed against the cold, Torres explained.

There's a release lever to your right. I found the lever and yanked it down. The panel popped open with A rush of frigid air that burned my lungs. Daylight, pale and weak but real, poured into the tunnel. I pushed myself through the opening and tumbled onto the snow outside, Torres following close behind.

We'd emerged on the eastern side of the facility, about 100 yards from where we parked the snowmobiles. The wind had picked up, blowing snow across the ice in swirling patterns. We made it. I gasped, relief flooding through me. Torres grabbed my arm, her grip painfully tight.

Look, she said, pointing across the ice field. My relief evaporated instantly. Dark shapes moved across the white landscape. More pale figures, at least a dozen of them, emerging from what looked like a fissure in the ice about 1/4 mile away. They were moving toward us with that same unnatural gait spreading out in a semicircle.

They're cutting us off from base camp, I realized aloud. The snowmobiles, Torres said. It's our only chance. We ran. Our boots crunching through the snow crust.

The cold air burned in my lungs, each breath painful. The snowmobiles stood where we'd left them, partially covered by drifting snow. I reached mine first, brushing snow from the seat in controls. My fingers, clumsy in their gloves, fumble with the ignition. The engine sputtered, then roared to life.

Torres was still working on hers, her movements frantic. Come on, I shouted. Ride with me. She nodded, abandoning her snowmobile and running toward mine. She was only steps away when I saw movement from the corner of my eye.

A pale figure had somehow circled behind us, moving faster than seemed possible. Behind you, I screamed. Torres turned, but too late. A pale, elongated hand shot out from behind a snowdrift and grabbed her ankle. She fell face first into the snow, her momentum carrying her forward even as the creature began pulling her backward.

Harlow. She screamed, her fingers digging furrows in the snow as she was dragged away. Go tell them what happened here. I gunned the snowmobile toward her, but two more pale figures appeared between us, their massive black eyes fixed on me. Torres was being pulled toward the fissure in the ice, still screaming, still fighting.

I had a choice. Try to save her and likely die myself, or escape with what we'd learned. The weight of the sample tubes in my pocket and the camera footage we'd recovered felt suddenly heavy. With a sick feeling in my gut, I spun the snowmobile around and opened the throttle. The machine leapt forward, speeding away from the station, away from Torres and her screams, which gradually faded behind me.

I drove recklessly fast across the ice, not daring to look back. The snowmobiles engine wind in protest as I pushed it beyond its limits. Miles passed beneath me as I headed in what I hoped was the direction of base camp, using the sun's position to navigate. After nearly an hour, the engine began to sputter.

The fuel gauge showed empty. I'd been so focused on escape that I hadn't checked the levels. The snowmobile slowed, coughed, and finally died, leaving me stranded in the middle of the vast white emptiness. Night was falling, the temperature was dropping rapidly, and I had limited supplies. I took stock of what I carried, the sample tubes, the camera.

Emergency rations for maybe one day, and my satellite phone, which showed no signal in this remote location. I abandoned the snowmobile and continued on, foot trudging through deepening snow as darkness fell completely. The wind picked up, driving ice crystals against my face mask. Each step became harder than the last as exhaustion and cold seeped into my bones.

I don't remember falling. One moment I was walking, fighting against the wind, and the next I was on my knees, then lying face down in the snow. A strange warmth spread through me, the dangerous comfort of hypothermia. I knew I should get up, keep moving, but my body refused to respond. As consciousness faded, I thought I saw shapes moving in the darkness around me, tall, pale figures watching from just beyond the limit of visibility.

Real or hallucination, I couldn't tell anymore. The snow continued to fall, gradually burying me in its cold embrace. I woke to someone shaking me roughly and shouting my name. Harlow, Harlow, can you hear me? I opened my eyes to see David Hamilton's weathered face hovering above mine, his expression a mixture of relief and concern.

His reddish grey hair was dusted with snow, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air. Found him. He shouted to someone I couldn't see. He's alive. I tried to speak, but my lips were cracked and frozen.

Hamilton brushed snow from my face and body. I've been half buried during the night. The team. I managed to croak. They're gone, all gone.

Save your strength. Hamilton said, wrapping an emergency thermal blanket around me. Search team's been looking for you since you missed check in. Lucky we spotted the abandoned snowmobile. 2 other figures appeared, members of the search and rescue team.

They lifted me onto a stretcher and carried me to their waiting helicopter. As we rose into the air, I caught a final glimpse of Frost Point Station in the distance, looking deceptively peaceful under the morning sun. The next few days passed in a blur of medical treatments and debriefings. I was taken to Newark Hospital, treated for severe hypothermia and frostbite on my fingers and toes.

The doctors said I was lucky to keep all my digits. On my third day in the hospital, the military officials arrived, Two men in civilian clothes who never provided their full names or agency affiliations. We need to discuss what happened at Frost Point, the older one said, setting up a recording device beside my bed.

I told them everything. The destroyed drilling platform, the pale creatures emerging from the borehole, how they'd taken Walsh and Sadie, then Patel and Torres. I described the samples we collected and the video footage from the handheld camera. Where are the samples now? The younger official asked.

In my equipment bag. I said. And the camera, too. The men exchanged glances. Dr.

Harlow, the older one, said carefully. We sent a recovery team to Frost Point yesterday. They found the station empty. I sat up straighter, wincing at the pain in my ribs. That's impossible.

There were signs of struggle everywhere, blood on the walls. The drilling platform was destroyed, the station was intact, he continued. No signs of violence, no blood, no damage to the drilling platform, and no personnel either alive or dead. That's not possible. I insisted I saw it.

We all saw it. The younger man opened a folder. The medical team found elevated levels of carbon monoxide in your blood. The recovery team discovered a malfunction in the station's ventilation system that would have allowed Co to build up in the living quarters. You're saying I hallucinated everything?

I asked incredulously. Carbon monoxide poisoning can cause extremely vivid hallucinations, the older man said. As for your team, we're still searching, but it's possible they became disoriented and wandered off into the ice field. That's not what happened, I said firmly. Check my samples, they'll prove what I'm saying.

Another exchange of glances between the men. Your equipment bag contained only standard gear, the younger one said. No samples, no camera. I stared at them, understanding slowly dawning. They were covering it up, or worse, they already knew what was down there.

Get some rest, Doctor Harlow, The older man said, standing. We'll speak again when you're feeling better. After they left, I sat in my hospital bed, staring out the window at the distant ice sheet that covered most of Greenland. I knew what I had seen. The Pale men were real, living beneath the ice, perhaps for centuries or longer, and now they were no longer contained.

I thought about Torres's final moments, about Walsh fighting to the end, about Patel's scream cutting off so abruptly. I thought about the strange patterns in the ice, like crystalline circuitry. Whatever these creatures were, they weren't simply animals. They had intelligence, purpose. As night fell, I continued staring out at the ice sheet.

Somewhere out there, beneath 2 miles of ancient ice, they were waiting, watching, perhaps spreading through the network of subglacial lakes and tunnels, and no one would believe me when I tried to warn them. The darkness beyond my windows seemed to deepen, and for a moment I thought I saw a pale, elongated face with enormous black eyes looking back at me.

I blinked and it was gone, if it had ever been there at all. But I knew the truth. The pale men were real, and they were still out there, waiting in the darkness.