The Silence Beyond the Door
I wasn’t supposed to be there. A junior technician like me had no clearance for the sublevels beneath Hangar 4 at Area 51.
I wasn’t supposed to be there. A junior technician like me had no clearance for the sublevels beneath Hangar 4 at Area 51.
But curiosity gnawed at me, stronger than caution. Late one night, when security changed shifts, I slipped past a cracked keypad door and into a narrow concrete hallway, the walls sweating with condensation. At the end was a single steel door, marked only by a faded symbol—a triangle encasing an eye.
The humming started as I approached, low and bone-deep, vibrating through my shoes. I pushed the door open just enough to peer inside. There, bathed in dim red light, was a containment chamber unlike anything I'd ever seen. Thick cables snaked across the floor, pulsing like arteries. Inside the glass, something moved—not with legs or arms, but with a fluid, unsettling grace.
My comm unit crackled in my pocket, though no one was on the other end. Static flooded my ears, and with it, a whisper: "Turn around."
Heart hammering, I backed away, but the thing inside reacted. It turned—if such a thing could turn—pressing something like a face against the glass. For a fleeting second, I saw features disturbingly human… but twisted, wrong. As if someone had tried to sculpt a person out of melted wax and forgotten where the eyes should go.
The chamber lights flickered. The hum deepened into a low roar. I didn’t wait. I ran, not stopping until I was back at my station, pretending like nothing had happened.
The next day, that corridor didn’t exist on any schematic. The door was gone. No one mentioned it. When I asked a senior officer about Hangar 4, he simply stared at me, unblinking, until I mumbled an apology and walked away.
Sometimes, late at night, I still hear the hum beneath my feet.
And I wonder if it’s still waiting.
But curiosity gnawed at me, stronger than caution. Late one night, when security changed shifts, I slipped past a cracked keypad door and into a narrow concrete hallway, the walls sweating with condensation. At the end was a single steel door, marked only by a faded symbol—a triangle encasing an eye.
The humming started as I approached, low and bone-deep, vibrating through my shoes. I pushed the door open just enough to peer inside. There, bathed in dim red light, was a containment chamber unlike anything I'd ever seen. Thick cables snaked across the floor, pulsing like arteries. Inside the glass, something moved—not with legs or arms, but with a fluid, unsettling grace.
My comm unit crackled in my pocket, though no one was on the other end. Static flooded my ears, and with it, a whisper: "Turn around."
Heart hammering, I backed away, but the thing inside reacted. It turned—if such a thing could turn—pressing something like a face against the glass. For a fleeting second, I saw features disturbingly human… but twisted, wrong. As if someone had tried to sculpt a person out of melted wax and forgotten where the eyes should go.
The chamber lights flickered. The hum deepened into a low roar. I didn’t wait. I ran, not stopping until I was back at my station, pretending like nothing had happened.
The next day, that corridor didn’t exist on any schematic. The door was gone. No one mentioned it. When I asked a senior officer about Hangar 4, he simply stared at me, unblinking, until I mumbled an apology and walked away.
Sometimes, late at night, I still hear the hum beneath my feet.
And I wonder if it’s still waiting.
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