MidnightScreams

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You’ve always been a survivor. That’s what you tell yourself as you descend into the tunnels, the air growing colder and thicker with every step. The walls are slick with moisture, the faint glow of your headlamp reflecting off the jagged stone like the scales of some great, slumbering beast. You don’t believe in monsters—not the kind that lurk in the dark, anyway. But you believe in power. And power is what brought you here.

The device on your wrist hums softly, its needles flickering as it measures the temporal distortions. You’ve been chasing this anomaly for years, ever since you first discovered the faint ripples in the fabric of time. It led you here, to this forgotten place beneath the earth, where the air smells of rust and decay and something else—something you can’t quite name.

You’ve always been ruthless. It’s how you’ve survived this long. You’ve lied, cheated, and killed to get what you want. And what you want now is the source of the anomaly. The power it promises.

The tunnel narrows, forcing you to crouch as you move forward. The walls seem to pulse faintly, as if alive, and the air grows heavier, pressing against your skin like a suffocating blanket. You can feel it now—the pull of the anomaly, a low, resonant thrum that vibrates in your bones.

And then you see it.

The tunnel opens into a vast chamber, its ceiling lost in shadow. The walls are covered in strange, pulsating veins that glow faintly with an otherworldly light. At the center of the chamber is a massive, black obelisk, its surface smooth and featureless. It hums with a sound that makes your teeth ache, a sound that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

You approach it cautiously, your hand hovering over the weapon at your side. The obelisk is cold to the touch, its surface unnaturally smooth. As your fingers brush against it, you feel a sudden, searing pain in your skull, and images flood your mind—images of things that should not exist.

A city, vast and ancient, its spires reaching into a sky filled with writhing, impossible shapes. Creatures that defy description, their forms shifting and twisting as they move through the streets. And beneath it all, a presence—a vast, malevolent intelligence that watches you with a cold, calculating hunger.

You stumble back, your breath coming in ragged gasps. The pain in your skull fades, but the images remain, burned into your mind like a brand. You know what this is now. This is no mere anomaly. This is a gateway. A doorway to something far beyond your understanding.

And it’s calling to you.

You’ve always been a survivor. But survival means nothing here. The rules of your world don’t apply in this place. The air is thick with the stench of decay, and the walls seem to close in around you, their pulsating veins growing brighter with every passing moment.

You try to leave, to retrace your steps, but the tunnel is gone. The chamber is a labyrinth now, its walls shifting and twisting like the coils of some great serpent. You can hear it—the low, resonant thrum of the obelisk, growing louder with every step. It’s in your mind now, a voice that whispers things you can’t understand but feel in the deepest, darkest parts of your soul.

You’ve always been ruthless. But here, in this place, you are nothing. A speck of dust in the vast, uncaring void. The presence is everywhere, its cold, calculating hunger pressing down on you like a weight.

And then you see them.

Figures, emerging from the shadows. They are human—or at least, they were. Their bodies are twisted and broken, their faces frozen in expressions of unimaginable agony. They move toward you, their movements jerky and unnatural, and you realize with a cold, sinking dread that they are not alive. They are puppets, their strings pulled by the presence that watches from beyond the gateway.


You draw your weapon, but it’s useless. The figures are upon you in an instant, their cold, dead hands gripping your arms and legs. You struggle, but their strength is inhuman, their grip unyielding.

They drag you toward the obelisk, its surface rippling like liquid as you approach. The pain in your skull returns, sharper this time, and the images flood your mind once more—the city, the creatures, the presence.

You scream, but the sound is swallowed by the oppressive darkness. The figures force you to your knees, their cold, dead hands pressing your face against the surface of the obelisk.

And then, you see it.

The gateway opens, and the presence pours through—a vast, writhing mass of darkness and light, its form shifting and twisting as it moves toward you. You can feel it in your mind, its cold, calculating hunger consuming you piece by piece.

You’ve always been a survivor. But here, in this place, survival is meaningless. The presence is everywhere, its voice a deafening roar that fills your mind and drowns out everything else.

And then, silence.

When you wake, you are back in the tunnel, the obelisk and the chamber gone. But you are not alone. The presence is with you, its cold, calculating hunger a constant weight in your mind.

You try to leave, to return to the surface, but the tunnels are endless, their walls shifting and twisting like the coils of some great serpent. The figures are there too, their cold, dead hands always just out of reach.

You’ve always been ruthless. But here, in this place, you are nothing. A puppet, your strings pulled by the presence that watches from beyond the gateway.

And you know, deep down, that you will never escape.