The signal came at 2:17 a.m.
Vostok-7: What Returned Wasn't Alone
The signal came at 2:17 a.m.
It was faint, barely a blip on the radar screen, but unmistakable. SOS is a recurrent Morse code. Vostok-7. Alive. The location of a Soviet spacecraft that vanished in 1982 was in line with the coordinates. Dr. Lena Harrow, senior communications analyst at the Arctic Listening Post, blinked at the screen, adrenaline slicing through her fatigue. The Vostok-7 had been written off as a Cold War mystery. All crew presumed dead. But this signal—it was real.
She hesitated, fingers hovering over the intercom. “Control, this is Harrow. We have…something.”
A black helicopter with screaming blades against the frozen wind descended through the snowstorm fifteen minutes later. Men in dark coats stepped out—military, but not the kind with names on their uniforms.
The taller one said, "You'll come with us." “Now.”
No explanations. No time to pack. Harrow was bundled into the chopper, headset shoved over her ears. The wind howled outside, but she could hear the voice crackling through the static—a man, weak but repeating the same desperate message.
"This is Cosmonaut Alexei Morozov. Vostok-7. Alive. God, please help me." They landed on a Russian icebreaker that had been modified to function as a mobile research lab. Harrow was ushered below deck, past armed guards, into a room lined with computers and an old tracking satellite dish. A balding scientist, speaking fluent but accented English, greeted her.
“I’m Dr. Petrov. You are the only one who has received the full signal. We need your help to triangulate.”
She examined the display. The signal was bouncing from low orbit. not just from space, but also from a moving object. A low-Earth satellite? No. It was too slow. The math made no sense. She stated, "Whatever it is, it is descending." That got everyone's attention.
Over the next four hours, they tracked it. The signal grew stronger—then suddenly, at 6:42 a.m., it stopped.
A warning klaxon blared. Something had crashed onto the ice shelf 40 kilometers from the ship.
Harrow joined the recovery team aboard a snowcap. By dawn, they reached the site: a blackened crater, steam rising from a melted patch in the glacier.
A metallic capsule lay half-buried in ice at the center. Soviet insignia. Vostok-7.
Petrov gasped. “Impossible.”
The hatch was scorched but intact. One of the soldiers stepped forward with a cutting torch. As the metal hissed and buckled, the door fell open.
The interior was dark. A red light flashed briefly. And inside—*
A man. *
emaciated, with wild eyes and a frosty beard. A spacesuit hung off him like a ghost. He covered his eyes as he looked up. “Morozov,” Petrov whispered.
They pulled him out. Alive. Freezing. Mutely clinging to Harrow’s sleeve like a child.
Back aboard the ship, Morozov was locked in a medical bay under constant guard. Harrow argued to speak with him, but was denied.
That night, she hacked into the observation feed.
Morozov was pacing like a caged animal, muttering in Russian.
She patched in an old translation program. The audio came through in fragmented whispers:
“…they said decades… but it was days… the stars moved wrong…”
“…we went through… not space… not time…”
“…he followed me back.”
Then—total silence. The display went into static. Alarms went off. Harrow ran through the corridors as emergency lights flashed. A guard slammed into the wall, throat torn open. Another staggered past her, whispering: “Eyes… black eyes…”
She reached the medical bay.
The door slammed open. Inside: blood. Shattered glass. No Morozov.
But carved into the far wall, in smeared red, was a single word:
"BELOW."
She turned—only to see shadows shifting in the flickering light.
And then, a second transmission began.
Not in Morse code.
She didn't know any language. But it kept happening. Getting louder.
Closer.
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Suborna Paul
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The Collector
There’s a house on Wren Hollow Road that no one talks about anymore. Not openly. Not since the incident.When Clara moved into town, she was told it was just a run-down Victorian property, left to rot. No one warned her about the house two doors down. The one with no visible owner, no lights, no movement. And yet, the mailbox was always empty.On her third night in her new home, Clara noticed something strange.Her front porch light flickered. At first, she chalked it up to bad wiring. But then she saw the figure—barely visible, standing at the edge of the street, right in front of the derelict house.Too still to be alive. Too real to be a trick of the dark.She blinked. It was gone.The next day, she asked her neighbor, an elderly woman named Mrs. Ridley, about it.“Oh, that place?” the woman muttered, clutching her rosary. “Don’t look at it. Don’t talk about it. And whatever you do, never let it see you watching.”Clara pressed, but Mrs. Ridley slammed her door.That night, Clara dreamed of the figure again—this time standing in her hallway. She woke with a scream, her bedroom light flickering as if echoing her fear.Trying to shake the paranoia, she returned to her normal routine. She was a sculptor, working with wood and clay. Her studio was in the sunroom at the back of the house, full of light during the day, but at night it transformed into a cavern of shadows.One morning, Clara found something odd among her tools—a wooden figurine. Roughly carved, about five inches tall. It looked like her.Same clothes. Same hairstyle. Same necklace.She didn’t remember making it.Shrugging it off as a leftover from moving boxes or a weird joke, she placed it on a shelf.But the next day, it had moved.Slightly.Turned a few degrees, as if facing the window.And the following night, it stood at the edge of her bed.She didn’t sleep that night.She called the police. They searched her house, found no signs of entry. Told her it was probably a prank. Maybe a neighbor.But Clara had started noticing the figurines multiplying.Each one more detailed. More personal.One had a chipped ear, just like her.Another wore her favorite hoodie—one she had worn just the day before.And worse, they were showing emotion. The latest one had a twisted expression of terror carved into its wooden face.Something was watching her.Collecting her.***Desperate, Clara returned to Mrs. Ridley.“They always choose the curious,” the woman whispered, eyes sunken with regret. “That house... it doesn’t just sit there. It waits. For attention. For obsession. The Collector feeds on interest. You saw it. That’s all it needed.”“What do I do?” Clara pleaded.Mrs. Ridley hesitated. “You have to give it back what it gave you. But you won’t like what that means.”***That night, Clara burned the figurines. Every last one. She doused them in lighter fluid and tossed them into a metal bin in her yard. The flames roared to life, sending acrid smoke into the sky.And then she heard the screams.Not from her. Not from any neighbor.From the fire.Tiny, high-pitched wails coming from the burning wood.She staggered back, horrified. The flames surged unnaturally high, turning blue at the tips. And then, silence.Except for the creaking of her studio door.It had opened on its own.Inside, her tools were floating—slowly twisting midair. Chisels, carving knives, shaping tools. One by one, they turned to face her.Then dropped to the floor.All except the carving knife.It hovered closer.Her hand moved, seemingly without her control.She screamed, struggling against the unseen force.*“Give it back,”* a voice rasped, right beside her ear. Cold breath brushed her neck.Her hand tightened on the knife.*“Give. It. Back.”*She plunged the blade into the wood slab beside her. A desperate attempt to resist.But the slab… bled.Not sap. Not varnish.Blood.The wooden surface pulsed like flesh, veins and all.Something howled from inside the walls. A long, inhuman wail that shook the floorboards.Clara turned to flee—but her door was gone.In its place was a window.To the house on Wren Hollow Road.But this time, the house wasn’t still.Its windows were eyes.Watching her.Its shingles shivered. Its porch stretched like an open jaw.And in the front yard, dozens of tiny wooden figures lined the grass, all staring at her through the glass.Each one… was a former resident.Each one had been collected.She was next.Clara smashed the window with her bare hands and leapt through.Only it wasn’t her yard.It was the house’s.She landed hard on twisted roots, the soil soft like skin. The house creaked overhead.Its front door opened.There was no inside. Only darkness.And the Collector waited.She turned to run, but wooden hands burst from the ground and gripped her ankles. Tiny faces carved into them whispered in unison.*“Face it. Join us.”*The last thing Clara saw before she was dragged inside was a new figurine sitting on the porch steps.It looked just like her.Screaming.***By morning, her house was empty.The studio spotless.No sign Clara had ever lived there.But if you walk past the house on Wren Hollow Road now, you’ll see one new figure sitting in the front yard.Wooden.Still.Watching.And if you stop… if you stare too long…It might just make one that looks like you.
By Suborna Paul9 months ago in Horror
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