1976: The Borealis Expedition [Chapter 3]

The hum of the machines echoed ominously within the confined space of the Borealis, a sound that seemed to vibrate through the walls, through the very bones of the crew. Ilmar Guttorm stood rigid before the console, his eyes fixed on the screen displaying the live feed from the depths. The image of the structure—massive, otherworldly—filled the room with a cold dread that no one dared to voice.

"Dr. Guttorm," Lieutenant Rurik’s voice was taut, strained, as though he were fighting to maintain his composure. "The sample collectors are ready. We can deploy them on your command."

Ilmar nodded, but his attention was still locked on the screen. The structure's surface was smooth, impossibly so, as if it had been crafted from a single piece of metal. It defied explanation, defied everything they knew about the natural world. And yet, here it was, buried beneath miles of ancient ice, waiting to be discovered.

"Deploy the collectors," Ilmar ordered, his voice barely above a whisper. He felt the weight of the decision pressing down on him, the knowledge that they were about to cross a line from which there would be no return.

The crew moved with a grim efficiency, sending out the robotic arms of the submarine to extract samples from the structure. The arms reached out, mechanical and precise, their instruments designed to delicately gather fragments of rock and ice. But as the collectors approached the surface of the structure, something unexpected happened—something that sent a chill through everyone on board.

The structure responded.

It was subtle at first—a faint, almost imperceptible shift in the water around the submarine. The sensors picked up a spike in electromagnetic activity, a sudden surge that made the screens flicker and distort.

And then, the humming sound they had been hearing grew louder, more insistent, resonating through the submarine like a heartbeat.

"What the hell is that?" one of the crew members muttered, their voice tight with fear.

Ilmar didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His mind was racing, trying to comprehend what was happening. The structure was emitting some kind of energy, something that wasn’t just mechanical or biological—it was something else, something that defied categorization.

"Pull back the collectors," Rurik ordered, his voice rising in urgency. "We need to—"

But before he could finish, the screens went dark. Every monitor, every instrument, every light on the Borealis flickered and died, plunging the submarine into complete, suffocating darkness. The humming sound had become a roar, vibrating through the hull, shaking the submarine as if some enormous force was trying to crush it from the outside.

"Emergency power!" Ilmar barked, but there was no response. The crew was frozen in place, their fear palpable in the darkness.

A low, grinding sound filled the air, the kind of sound that scraped along the nerves and buried itself deep in the subconscious. It was the sound of metal twisting, groaning under pressure, and it was coming from the structure beneath them.

"Get us out of here," Ilmar hissed, his voice trembling with barely controlled terror. "Now!"

Rurik scrambled to restore power, his fingers flying over the controls, but the submarine remained inert, a lifeless shell suspended in the icy depths. The only light came from the emergency panels, casting a sickly red glow over the faces of the crew.

"Something’s coming," whispered one of the younger crew members, his voice breaking. "Something’s down there…"

And then they saw it—an enormous shadow rising from the depths, moving with a slow, deliberate motion toward the Borealis. It was too large, too vast to be anything natural, its shape indistinct, more a mass of darkness than a physical form. But it was there, unmistakable, and it was coming for them.

The hum had turned into a deafening pulse, a rhythmic pounding that seemed to synchronize with the rapid beating of their hearts. The temperature inside the submarine plummeted, and a thin layer of frost began to form on the inside of the windows, spreading like a spider’s web across the glass.

Ilmar stared at the shadow, his breath fogging in the frigid air. It wasn’t just the cold that made his heart seize in his chest—it was the realization that the structure wasn’t a building or a machine. It was something alive. And it was waking up.

"Brace for impact!" Rurik shouted, though he had no idea what they were about to face.

But the impact never came.

Instead, the shadow stopped, hovering just beyond the reach of the submarine. For a moment, it seemed to study them, as though it were deciding what to do with these intruders who had disturbed its ancient slumber.

And then, with a suddenness that left them all gasping, the submarine was yanked downward, pulled into the depths as if caught in the grip of an enormous, unseen hand. The force was overwhelming, throwing the crew against the walls, sending instruments crashing to the floor. They were sinking fast, too fast, and there was nothing they could do to stop it.

Ilmar struggled to his feet, his mind screaming for him to do something, anything, but he was powerless. The last thing he saw before the lights finally went out was the shadow wrapping itself around the submarine, encasing them in darkness so complete it felt like they had been swallowed whole.

In the blackness, the only sound was the relentless pounding of the pulse, a sound that seemed to emanate from the very walls of the Borealis, as if the submarine had become part of the living structure itself.

And then, all at once, the pulse stopped.

The silence that followed was absolute. It was as though the submarine had been cut off from the rest of the world, suspended in a void where time and space no longer mattered. The crew, bruised and terrified, huddled together in the darkness, too afraid to speak, too afraid to even breathe.

Ilmar felt something cold touch his hand, and for a brief, horrifying moment, he thought it was one of the shadow’s tendrils reaching out to claim him. But when he looked down, he realized it was just frost—thick, crystalline frost that was spreading across the walls, across the floor, across the bodies of the crew.

"Dr. Guttorm," Rurik’s voice was barely a whisper, choked with fear. "What do we do?"

Ilmar opened his mouth to answer, but no words came. He had no answers, no explanations. All he knew was that they had crossed into a place that was never meant for the living—a place that existed on the edge of reality, where the laws of nature no longer applied.

And now, they were trapped.

In the distance, somewhere deep within the structure, something stirred—a sound like the creaking of ancient doors, slowly swinging open. The noise was low, drawn out, as though whatever was behind it had waited an eternity for this moment. The air grew colder still, the frost thickening, and Ilmar realized with a dawning horror that whatever lay beyond those doors was coming for them.