We Landed on a Planet with No Sun. Something Isn't Right Here.

I've been running point on this mission for almost a year. That's how long it took to get the crew together, study the data we had on this place, and convince the brass that we could actually pull this off. A sunless planet. That was what they called it in the briefings. Like calling the ocean wet water or something.

But I got it. This wasn't just some rock floating in the dark between stars. This thing had its own gravitational pull, its own atmosphere, its own weird properties that made absolutely no sense according to everything we knew about planetary formation. The final approach felt different than anything I'd done before. 22 years of deep space missions, and I'd never seen anything like what was waiting for us on the other side of our viewport.

Usually when you're coming in on a new world, you get some kind of visual feedback. Reflected Starlight, atmospheric glow, something. This was like flying into a hole in space itself, Commander. External lighting systems are at maximum output. Nathan called out from his station.

He'd been my go to astronaut for the past three missions. Reliable guy, never panicked, never questioned orders. The kind of crew member you want when things get weird. Still getting zero visual confirmation of surface features. I'd hand picked every single person on this team.

Nathan for his steady nerves. Bonnie, because she could fix anything with moving parts. Fern because if this place had some kind of biological hazard, I wanted the best medical officer I could find. Beverly, because she'd followed me through worse situations than this and never once let me down. Leroy, because communication was going to be everything on a mission this far from home.

Shane, because if we got lost on this rock, we'd need someone who could find our way back. And Jacqueline, because we had no idea what we'd find down there. And a good geologist can tell you things about a place that save your life. That was the theory, anyway. Beginning atmospheric entry in 60 seconds, Shane announced from navigation.

His voice had that calm, professional tone he always used when we were about to do something potentially stupid. All systems green. I watched the external camera feeds on my screen. We had 12 different angles, all equipped with the most advanced low light technology the agency could afford. Every single feed showed the same thing.

Nothing. Just black, not the black you get in deep space where you can still see stars in the distance. This was like looking into a pool of ink. Fern, how are we looking on life support? I asked.

All nominal commander. She replied. Fern had this way of talking that made you feel like everything was under control, even when it wasn't. Clinical atmospheric readings from the probes indicate breathable air composition, though I'm recommending we maintain suit protocols until we can run extended environmental tests. The ship shuddered slightly as we hit the outer atmosphere.

Nothing unusual about that. But then something happened that I'd never experienced before. Our external lights, all of them running at full power, just seemed to disappear, like the darkness was eating them. Bonnie, are the floods still operational? I called over to Engineering.

Running at full capacity. She said, and I could hear the confusion in her voice. All systems show green, but the light output. She paused, probably checking her readings again. It's like the photons just stop existing 10 feet from the hull.

That should have been impossible. Light doesn't work that way. You shine a light in space, it travels until it hits something or gets absorbed by dust particles or whatever. It doesn't just vanish. But the evidence was right there on our screens.

Our ships lighting systems were powerful enough to illuminate a small city, and they weren't penetrating more than a few meters into whatever was surrounding us. Touchdown in 30 seconds. Shane called out. Landing site coordinates confirmed, setting us down on what the probes indicated was stable terrain. I felt the familiar sensation of a controlled descent, the ship's engines firing in short bursts to slow our approach, the artificial gravity adjusting to account for the planets pull.

All normal stuff, but the view outside remained that same impenetrable black. When we touched down, I expected some kind of impact vibration, maybe the sound of landing thrusters echoing off the surface. Instead, we settled with this muffled thud, like we'd landed on something soft, something that absorbed sound the same way it absorbed light.

We're down, Shane reported. All systems stable. External pressure is within normal parameters for human activity. I stood up and looked around the cabin at my crew, seven faces looking back at me, waiting for orders. These were good people, experienced professionals who'd volunteered for this mission, knowing it was probably the most dangerous thing any of us had ever attempted.

The least I could do was keep them alive. All right, people, I said. This is what we trained for. The darkness outside isn't behaving the way we expected, but that doesn't change our primary objectives. We establish a secure base camp, we conduct our surveys, and we get everyone home safely.

But the moment I looked back at the external cameras, I felt something I hadn't experienced since my first deep space mission 15 years ago. That cold sensation in your gut when you realize you're completely out of your element. The darkness outside wasn't just an absence of light, it had weight to it, Substance.

Like it was pressing against our hull, trying to get inside. Nathan, Bonnie, I said, pushing down the unease. I want our portable lighting systems deployed immediately. Full perimeter illumination. Whatever this stuff is, I want to carve out a space we can actually see in.

Nathan nodded and started pulling equipment from the storage lockers. Bonnie was already running diagnostics on the portable floodlights. These weren't your standard camping lanterns. We'd brought military grade lighting systems designed for hostile environment operations. If anything could punch through this darkness, it would be these Fern.

I want continuous monitoring of everyone's vitals. I continued. If this environment is affecting us in ways we don't understand, I want to know about it immediately. Understood, Commander, she said, activating her medical monitoring station. Initial readings show slightly elevated stress indicators across the crew, but that's to be expected given the circumstances.

I turned to Beverly. She'd been my second in command on four different missions, and I trusted her judgement more than anyone else in the agency. Bev, help me get our instruments set up. We need to map our immediate surroundings and establish safe zones. Copy that, she said, already moving toward the navigation equipment.

Nathan and Bonnie work together to get the first floodlight system operational. I watched through the internal cameras as they suited up and prepared to venture outside. The airlock cycled and then they were gone into that oppressive darkness. External team report status. I said.

Into my calm Where? This is weird, Commander. Nathan's voice came back, distorted by interference. The floodlights are working, but it's like the light only travels about 15 feet before it just stops. We can see each other in the immediate area around the ship, but beyond that it's like a wall.

Bonnie's voice added. A wall made of darkness. While they worked on establishing our lighting perimeter, Fern monitored everyone's biological responses from her station. Her readings were all over the place, but nothing that suggested immediate danger. Heart rates were elevated, stress hormones were up, but that was normal for first day operations on an unknown world.

Beverly and I tried to get our mapping instruments online, but they weren't cooperating. Our ground penetrating radar couldn't establish A baseline reading. Our atmospheric sensors gave inconsistent data. Even our basic compass was spinning randomly, like the planets magnetic field was constantly shifting. This doesn't make sense, Beverly muttered, adjusting the radar controls for the third time.

These instruments worked perfectly during our approach. Now they're acting like they're being jammed. Commander Leroy's voice cut through the ambient noise of the cabin. He'd been working on maintaining contact with our support vessel in orbit. I'm getting heavy interference on all communication bands.

The signal degradation is increasing. That was a problem. Our orbital support was our lifeline home. If we lost contact with them, we'd be completely isolated on this rock, with no way to call for help if things went sideways. How bad is it?

I asked. Right now, I can still maintain basic communication, Leroy said, making adjustments to his equipment. But the interference seems to be getting worse. And there's something else. The interference patterns are They're not random.

There's a rhythm to them, like a pulse. Before I could respond to that, Shane called over from his station commander. I'm working with Jacqueline to establish safe routes between our landing site and the survey points we identified during approach, But without reliable instrument readings, we're basically working blind. Jacqueline looked up from her geological analysis station.

The surface composition readings I'm getting don't match anything in our databases, she said. Whatever this planet is made of, it's not following standard geological principles. I watched Nathan and Bonnie through the external cameras as they continued setting up our lighting systems. They'd managed to establish a rough circle of illumination around our ship, maybe 50 feet in diameter.

Beyond that perimeter, the darkness pressed in like a living thing waiting. I should have known something was wrong when the portable flood started flickering that first night. Not the usual kind of flicker you get when batteries run low or connections get loose. This was different, deliberate, almost. Nathan was checking the perimeter lights around 2200 hours.

Standard procedure. We'd established a routine where someone walked the circle every two hours, made sure our safe zone stayed safe. I was reviewing supply logs when Nathan's voice crackled over the calm commander. I'm seeing some irregularities with the lighting array. What kind of irregularities the darkness is.

It's not staying back like it should. That got my attention. I set down the supply manifest and grabbed my headlamp. Explain that, Nathan. Well, Sir, when I shine my light directly at the perimeter, the beam just stops.

Like it's hitting a wall. But there's nothing there. I figured he was seeing things. First day on an alien world. Weird atmospheric conditions.

Mind playing tricks? That's what I told myself. Stay put. I'm coming to your position. But when I stepped outside our makeshift command tent, I could see what he meant.

Our floodlights were throwing their usual bright circles, but the edges looked wrong, fuzzy, like the light was being absorbed instead of just fading naturally. I walked over to where Nathan was standing at the eastern edge of our perimeter. He was pointing his headlamp straight ahead, and sure enough, the beam just ended about 10 feet out.

Not dimmed, Ended. That's not normal. I said. Pretty obvious statement, but sometimes you've got to say the obvious things out loud. Nathan nodded.

Should I radio it into base? Not yet. Let's figure out what we're dealing with first. That was my first mistake. I should have reported the anomaly immediately, but I was thinking like a soldier, not a scientist.

You don't call for backup until you've assessed the threat. We spent the next hour testing different angles, different light sources. Same result every time. The darkness had edges now, boundaries that our lights couldn't cross. Around midnight, Nathan's headlamp died.

Just went out. No warning, no dimming. One second he was illuminated, the next second he wasn't. Nathan. I called out.

He'd been standing right next to me, maybe 3 feet away. No response. I swung my own light toward where he'd been. Nothing. Empty space.

That's when I started yelling. Nathan sound off. Silence. I activated my emergency beacon and started calling for the rest of the crew. Beverly was first to respond, then Leroy, then Shane.

We formed up in the command area and I gave them the situation. Nathan's missing last known position was eastern perimeter. His light failed and he disappeared. Beverly looks skeptical. Disappeared how?

I don't know how one second he was there, next second he wasn't. We organized a search party, four of us with high-powered spotlights staying within arm's reach of each other. Systematic grid pattern calling Nathan's name every 30 seconds. Found his helmet about 20 feet beyond where our perimeter lights should have been effective.

It was cracked down the middle, clean, split like someone had taken a chisel to it. No blood, no fabric, no sign of Nathan himself. Just an empty helmet sitting in the dirt. Bonnie picked it up, turned it over in her hands. This doesn't make sense.

The structural integrity ratings on these helmets. You'd need industrial equipment to crack 1 like this. Maybe he fell? Shane suggested. Hit a rock.

What rock? I asked. The ground around us was flat as a parking lot. No obstacles, no elevation changes, nothing harder than packed soil. We searched until dawn.

That's not saying much on a sunless planet, but our chronometers said six hours had passed. Found nothing else. No footprints leading away, no drag marks, no equipment scattered around. Just that helmet. When we got back to base camp, I called everyone together.

Seven of us left. Now I could see the fear starting to creep into their faces, the way people look when they realize the mission parameters have changed and nobody told them we're dealing with an unknown hazard. I said. Until further notice, nobody goes beyond the lighted perimeter. Nobody works alone.

We maintain visual contact at all times. Bonnie raised her hand. Commander, what do we tell Mission Control? Good question. How do you explain that one of your crew members vanished into thin air?

That the darkness on this planet doesn't behave like darkness? Should we report a crew member missing due to equipment failure? We request immediate extraction protocols. That seemed to calm them down a little. Having a plan helps, even when the plan is just get the hell out of here.

But the extraction window wasn't for another 72 hours. We had to survive three more days. Bonnie started obsessing over the equipment that first day. I'd catch her running diagnostics on the floodlights every hour, checking connections, swapping out battery packs that were reading full charge. She test the same circuit five times in a row, get the same results, then test it again.

Bonnie, I said during one of her marathon equipment checks. The lights are working fine. No, they're not. She was crouched next to the main Power Distribution panel, multimeter in hand. The voltage readings are inconsistent.

Look at this. She showed me. The display numbers look normal to me, but I'm not an engineer. What am I looking for? The fluctuations, they're getting worse, and they're not random.

She pulled up a data log on her tablet. See this pattern? It's almost like something's testing our systems, probing for weaknesses. That part bugged me a little, the idea that something might be actively working against our equipment. But I'd seen enough weird stuff in my career to know that strange doesn't always mean dangerous.

Keep monitoring it, I told her. Let me know if anything changes significantly. But she couldn't let it go. Every few hours she'd come find me with new readings, new theories about what might be causing the problems. Her anxiety was starting to affect the rest of the crew.

People were jumpy enough without their chief engineer telling them the lights might fail at any moment. On the second day, I woke up to find Bonnie's bunk empty. I checked the duty roster. She wasn't scheduled for any outside work. Nobody had seen her leave.

Her personal gear was still in her quarters, but her tool kit was gone. I found her about 30 feet beyond our perimeter. She was kneeling in the dirt with her multimeter, taking readings on nothing, just pointing the probes at empty air and watching the display. Bonnie. I called out.

Get back inside the perimeter. She looked up at me, but her expression was blank, confused, like she didn't recognize my voice. The readings are stronger out here, she said. There's definitely some kind of electromagnetic field. It's interfering with our equipment.

I don't care what the readings say. Get back inside the safe zone now. She stood up slowly, but instead of walking toward me, she took another step away from the lights. That's when she started screaming. It wasn't a scream of pain or fear fear.

It was pure terror. The kind of sound you make when you see something that your brain can't process. High pitched, desperate, like an animal caught in a trap. The screaming went on for maybe 10 seconds, then it cut off like someone had thrown a switch. Bonnie was gone.

I ran to where she'd been standing, but there was nothing. No tool kit, no multimeter, no sign she'd ever been there. The ground wasn't even disturbed. By the time I got back to base camp, Fern Palmer had locked herself in the medical Bay. I could hear her talking through the door.

Not to me, not to anyone on the crew. Just talking. Constant stream of words, most of them too quiet to make out. Fern, I called. Open up.

We need to talk. Can't use the lights, she said. They're watching through the lights. Who's watching the darkness? It's not empty.

There's something in there. And every time we turn on a light, we're telling it where we are. I tried reasoning with her, told her we needed her medical expertise, that the crew was depending on her, but she'd made-up her mind about the lights. She believed they were attracting whatever had taken Nathan and Bonnie.

For two days she stayed in there. I could hear her moving around, talking to herself, sometimes laughing. Not the good kind of laughing, the kind that makes your skin crawl. On the third day, the medical Bay went dark. Not a power failure, not a blown fuse.

The lights just went out, section by section, like something was turning them off 1 by 1. When we finally got the door open, Fern was gone, just like the others. No trace, no sign of struggle, no equipment left behind. The medical Bay was empty, clean, like nobody had ever been in there at all.

Leroy and Shane figured they could fix it. That's what they kept saying, anyway. The communications array had been giving a static for three days straight, and they thought maybe if they bypassed the primary receiver and rerouted through the backup systems, we'd get a clear signal out. I should have told them to stop.

They've been working on it since dawn, if you could call it Dawn, on a planet that never saw sunlight. Their portable work lights cast these weird shadows across the hall while they stripped wires and tested connections. Leroy kept adjusting his glasses every 30 seconds. That nervous habit of his Shane just kept muttering about interference patterns and signal degradation.

We're getting something, Leroy said. Around 1400 hours. He had the headset pressed tight against his ear, eyes closed in concentration. It's faint, but there's definitely a carrier wave getting through. I walked over to check their progress.

They'd torn apart half the comp panel and rewired it with spare parts from the emergency kit. Looked like a bomb had gone off in there, but I didn't say anything. These guys knew their jobs. Can you boost the signal? I asked.

Shane nodded toward a jury rigged amplifier they'd cobbled together. Already tried that. Something's jamming us from the outside like the planet itself is eating our transmissions. That should have been my first real warning, the way he said it. Not like a technical problem, but like something alive was stopping us.

They worked until past 2200 hours. I brought them coffee from our dwindling supplies and watch them test frequency after frequency. Nothing but static and dead air. Leroy's hands were shaking by then, whether from caffeine or frustration I couldn't tell. One more adjustment, he kept saying.

Just need to fine tune the carrier frequency. That's when the power surge hit. I was in the main cabin checking our remaining battery reserves when every light in the ship flickered and went bright for maybe 2 seconds, bright enough to hurt your eyes. Then half of them went dead completely. The silence that followed was wrong, too complete.

I couldn't hear the hum of the calm array anymore, couldn't hear Leroy and Shane talking outside. I grabbed my portable flood and headed for the airlock, Found their work lights scattered around the hull, still glowing but dim. Tools spread across the metal plating like they just dropped everything and walked away. No sign of either man.

I called their names until my throat was raw. Searched every inch of the ship inside and out. Their personal gear was still in their bunks. Leroy's glasses were sitting on his pillow, folded neat like he'd planned to come back for them. That was it, just gone.

Jacqueline lasted one more day after that. She'd been working with Shane on mapping potential escape routes before everything went sideways, and I think losing him hit her harder than the rest of us. She got quiet, real quiet, wouldn't eat much, just sat in the lab staring at her geological samples. I should have stayed closer to her, should have made her stick to the buddy system we'd established, but she seems stable enough, and Beverly and I were trying to figure out how to stretch our remaining power cells.

Found Jacqueline's light unit the next evening, sitting on her lab table next to an unfinished report about soil composition. The light was still on, battery indicator showing 3/4 charge. She was just gone, like the others. That left me and Beverly. Beverly Rogers had been my most trusted officer since day one of this mission.

31 years old, sharp as they come, never lost her composure, even when things went completely to hell. If anyone was going to help me figure a way out of this mess, it was her. We set up in the main cabin with all our remaining portable lights arranged in a circle around us, created our own little island of illumination while we went through our options.

How long can we stretch the power? Beverly asked. She had our supply manifest spread across the table, making calculations with a pencil stub. Maybe 3 more days if we're careful. I said 4 if we shut down everything except life support and one light unit.

She nodded, made another note. Always thoughtful, always thinking ahead. That's why I trusted her. What about the emergency beacon? Already tried it.

Same interference that killed the calm array. The shuttle checked it twice. Something drained the fuel cells completely. They're reading zero across the board. We went through every possibility we could think of.

Hiking to higher ground with a portable beacon, trying to Jerry rig a signal amplifier from spare parts. Even discussed whether we could survive long enough for a rescue team to track our last known position. Nothing looked good. There's something else, Beverly said. She was staring at her hands, not meeting my eyes.

I've been feeling it too, that presence you mentioned, like something's watching us. I've been hoping I was imagining it. The weight of invisible eyes, the sense that the darkness beyond our lights wasn't empty at all. How long? I asked.

Since the second night, it's getting stronger. We rationed our remaining food and worked out a sleep rotation that would keep someone awake with the lights on at all times. Beverly took first watch while I tried to get some rest, but sleep didn't come easy. Every sound outside the hall made me think about Fern and Nathan and the others.

I must have dozed off sometime around 0300 because I woke up to Beverly calling my name. Larry. Her voice was steady, but I could hear the tension underneath. You need to see this. I sat up and immediately knew something was wrong.

The circle of lights around us seemed dimmer, not failing this effective against the darkness pressing in from all sides. What is it? Beverly was holding her portable light unit, staring at the power indicator. It was at full charge an hour ago. I checked the readout.

50% and dropping fast. That's. Impossible and. I said these things are rated for 12 hours continuous use. I know we watched the battery level fall in real time.

45 percent. 4035 Beverly, move closer to me. She scooted her chair over until our knees were almost touching. My own light was holding steady, but hers kept draining, like something was feeding on it. 20% fifteen, Larry, she said, and her voice was different now, smaller.

I can feel it pulling. The light in her hands flickered once, twice. Don't let go of it, I said, reaching for her arm. 10% five. The unit went dead.

I'll never forget what? Happened next. The darkness didn't just. Fill the space where her light had been. It moved, flowed around Beverly like thick water, and she was gone before I could even grab for her.

Not fading. Not disappearing slowly. Just there one second. And completely absent the next. Like the darkness had.

Swallowed her whole. I was alone. Sitting in the main cabin with one working light and the weight of that presence pressing against every surface of the ship. I could feel. It now really feel it.

Malevolent, impatient and hungry. The hull creaked. Not from temperature changes or structural stress. Something else. My portable light flickered.

I made it to the cockpit and sealed the blast door behind me. The main power systems. Were still functional, but as I watched the status displays, warning lights started appearing 1 by 1. Environmental controls, navigation systems, life support, backup. The darkness was getting inside.

It wasn't just surrounding us anymore. It was infiltrating the. Ship itself, working through our systems like some kind of infection. I could hear it in the walls, feel it in the deck plating beneath my feet. This had been our final sanctuary, and now it was failing too.

The main lights dimmed. The computer screens flickered. I realized then that the darkness wasn't just some environmental hazard we'd stumbled into. It was alive, intelligent and it had been playing with us from the very beginning. I figured if anyone.

Was going to find our ship. They deserve to know what happened here, what this place really was. The emergency beacon still had maybe 20 minutes of power left. I could see the battery indicator blinking amber on the console, that slow steady pulse that meant it was running on fumes. 20 minutes to get.

It right to make sure whoever came after us wouldn't make the same mistakes I. Pulled up the emergency. Broadcast protocol on the main terminal my. Hands were shaking a. Little.

Not from fear, exactly, more like when you've been running on coffee and adrenaline for too long and your body starts reminding you that you're still human, still mortal. The message template popped up on screen. Standard expedition. Report format, mission parameters, crew status, environmental conditions, all that official bullshit that nobody actually reads I.

Deleted the whole. Thing and started over. This is Commander Larry Schultz of the Deep Space Expedition vessel Aurora, Mission designation A779. If you're receiving this transmission, do not approach this planet. Do not send a rescue mission.

Do not send anyone. I stopped typing, stared at the words for a second. They look too small on the screen, too quiet for what they were supposed to say. We landed here 8. Days ago, full crew of seven.

As of this transmission, I am the only survivor. That part hurt to. Type Seven people. Good people. Nathan with his terrible jokes about dehydrated food.

Bonnie always humming while she worked on the engines. Fern. Reading Medical. Journals during her downtime, like other people read mystery novels. Leroy teaching Shane card tricks between communication checks.

Jackie collecting rock samples like they were precious stones. All gone. The planet exhibits no. Detectable solar radiation. Complete absence of natural light sources.

Our portable illumination systems function normally but have limited effective range beyond the perimeter of artificial lighting. The darkness appears to possess properties inconsistent with normal environmental conditions. I was trying to sound professional, scientific, like maybe if I use the right words it would make sense to someone, like maybe the next crew would figure out what we couldn't.

But that was bullshit and I knew it. The darkness is alive, it moves with purpose and intelligence. It can manipulate our equipment, interfere with our communications, and it takes people, not kills them, takes them. They disappear without trace, without struggle, without leaving any evidence they were ever there. My fingers stopped.

Moving on the keyboard, the cockpit felt smaller suddenly. The emergency lighting. Cast these weird shadows that seem to shift when I wasn't looking directly at them. Probably just my eyes playing tricks. Probably.

Just the stress getting to me. Probably. 1st we lost Nathan. Thornton during a perimeter check. Then Bonnie Mills disappeared from the engine Bay.

Dr. Fern Palmer vanished from the medical station. Leroy Chang and Shane Estrada were taken while attempting to repair our primary communications array. Jacqueline Harper disappeared sometime during the night cycle while on duty in the geology lab. I had to.

Stop again. The words were getting blurry on the screen. Not from tears or anything like that, I was past that. Just tired. So damn tired.

Each disappearance followed the same pattern. No distress signals, no signs of struggle, no equipment disturbance. The affected areas showed no evidence of human presence after the fact. It's like they were. Simply erased.

The Amber. Light on the battery indicator was blinking faster now. Maybe 15 minutes. Left maybe less. I've documented everything.

I could in the ship's databanks, environmental readings, equipment logs, personal testimony from crew members before they were taken. Someone smarter than me? Might be able to make sense of it, but. Don't send them here. To try I.

Leaned back in the. Pilot's chair. It creaked a little under my weight. Funny how normal sounds. Could seem so loud in a place like this, so significant.

This planet is a. Trap. I don't know what it wants or why it does what it does. But it's patient. And it's intelligent and it doesn't make mistakes.

We thought we were exploring, we thought we were discovering something new, but we were just walking into something that's been waiting here for a very long time. Jesus, I whispered. I started typing faster. The ship's power. Systems are compromised.

The darkness is affecting our electrical grid. All portable devices have failed or are failing. The emergency beacon will not last much longer. Do not attempt rescue. Operations do not send survey teams classify this planet as off limits and mark it as a no approach zone.

Whatever scientific value it might have is not worth human lives. The lights went out completely. The cockpit plunged into absolute darkness. Not the kind of dark you get when you turn off the lights in your bedroom. Not.

Even the kind you. Get in a cave or a basement. This was something else, something that pressed against. Your eyes like a physical weight. I kept typing.

Muscle memory guided my fingers across the keyboard. I couldn't see the screen, but I could hear the soft clicking of the keys had. To trust that the. Computer was still recording. This is my final.

Transmission. To my family if. Anyone bothers to forward this message, I'm sorry. I did everything I could to bring everyone home to the families of my crew. They died with honor.

They. Were good people and. Good officers and they deserved better than this place. The clicking stopped. My fingers had found empty air where the keyboard should be.

I. Reached out with both. Hands feeling around the console. Nothing. The pilot's chair was still there underneath me, but but everything else had just gone, like the control panels had dissolved into the darkness.

Hello I. Called out. My voice sounded small, muffled, like I was shouting into a pillow. No response, no echo, nothing. I stood up from the chair and took a step forward.

My foot found solid deck plating, another step still there. But when I reached out with my hands, I couldn't find the cockpit walls. Couldn't find anything at all. The darkness had rushed. In around me while I wasn't paying attention, while I was focused on typing my warning message, it had.

Been waiting for me. To finish waiting for me to say goodbye. I thought about Nathan. And his stupid jokes. About Bonnie's humming.

About all of them. Disappearing one by one while I stood there helpless. Watching my crew get. Picked off like we were nothing more than insects caught in a web. Now it was my turn.

I wondered if the message had actually transmitted, if the beacon had managed to send it out before the power died completely. Maybe someone would get the warning. Maybe the next expedition would read my report and decide to stay home. Maybe. The darkness pressed closer.

I could feel it now, like a living thing wrapping around me. Not cold, not warm. Just there, Patient, inevitable. I've been wrong about. A lot of things on this mission.

Wrong about the planet's nature, wrong about our equipment, wrong about our chances of survival. But I've been right about one thing. This place had been waiting for us. Waiting for explorers and scientists and anyone else stupid enough to think they could study something like this and walk away. We weren't the 1st.

Expedition to land here. I was sure of that now. We wouldn't be the. Last. The planet had one.

Again added seven more names to whatever collection it was building in The Endless Night. 7 more victims who thought they were explorers but turned out to be prey.