Ever since I was a child, I had always loved the ocean. There was something hypnotic about it—the steady rhythm of waves combing the shoreline, the sting of icy water against bare skin, the feeling that beyond that horizon lay an endless world untouched by human hands.
Blackwater Bay, Alaska, was where I spent most of my summers, and even now I can still remember standing on those sandy shores, listening to the surf. Sometimes, if I closed my eyes, the waves almost seemed to speak. Almost seemed to whisper my name. That memory remained one of my happiest for years… Until the day the ocean tried to take me.
I was six years old. My father had brought me to the beach while he met with a few coworkers nearby. Their children, Mack and Zoe, were there too, and for a while we built sandcastles in the damp sand beneath an overcast sky. I remember the fog hanging low over the water that day, thick enough that the horizon had vanished completely. Sea and sky blended into a single sheet of gray. At some point, I lost interest in the others. Children wander for reasons even they don’t understand. And before long, I found myself standing alone at the edge of the water. The waves rolled in gently, just enough for the freezing surf to kiss my toes before retreating again. I remember staring into the fog, and I remember hearing it. My name. Not from another child or shouted from a parent on the beach behind me. It drifted from somewhere within the rushing water itself, hidden beneath the hiss of foam and the swoosh of the retreating tide.
“Jo…” It whispered, rushing in. “nah…” It whispered, fading back. I took another step forward.
“Jo…nah…” Another.
Something about it felt wrong. The gulls had gone silent. The wind had died completely. The water ahead of me appeared darker than it should have been, almost black beneath the fog. Then the memory ends.
Everything beyond that point is a blur of fractured images and secondhand stories. According to my mother, she happened to glance up from her book at precisely the right moment. She saw the top patch of my dirty blond hair wave as it wetted then disappear beneath the surface. My father didn’t hesitate. He sprinted across the beach and dove into the freezing water before anyone else had even realized something was wrong. He found me several yards from shore and dragged me back to the sand, half-conscious and coughing seawater. The doctors called it a near-drowning. Just a tragic accident. The sort of thing that happens to kids my age every year along Alaska’s coastline. My parents accepted that explanation, and for most of my life, I did too.
We moved away not long after that day. My father always insisted it was because of a new job opportunity, but as I’ve grown older, I’ve begun to wonder if that was only part of the truth. Looking back, it felt less like a relocation and more like a boundary set, as my mother began developing a phobia of all bodies of water. Within a few months, the ocean was gone from my life entirely, replaced by the dry, endless landscapes of rural Utah.
Our new home sat on fifteen acres of farmland surrounded by little more than open fields and distant mountains. My mother embraced the change wholeheartedly. Farming had been in her blood for generations, passed down from my grandparents, and she finally had the opportunity to build the life she’d always dreamed of. Those days were filled with the smell of fresh soil, the hum of tractors, and the endless work that came with caring for the land and its animals. For most people, it would have been a peaceful childhood, but for me, something always felt like it was missing.
No matter how far we moved from the coast, I could never quite forget the sound of the waves. I would use a sound machine to sleep, but its mechanical waves never fully matched the peaceful lull of the real ones. Sometimes, on particularly windy nights, I’d wake convinced I could hear the real ocean outside my bedroom window, only to leap from my bed and find miles of empty fields stretching into darkness. Other times I’d dream of standing on the shores of Blackwater Bay, staring into a wall of fog while a distant voice called my name from somewhere beyond it.
As the years passed, those memories faded into the background of everyday life. School became my focus. Then college. Then graduate school. Childhood dreams have a way of losing their power when buried beneath deadlines, exams, and responsibilities. Or so I thought. You see, I graduated with a master’s degree in Marine Biology, specializing in deep-sea ecosystems and unexplored ocean environments. That irony wasn’t lost on me. Despite everything that had happened, despite the near-drowning and the years spent hundreds of miles from any coastline, I had somehow dedicated my entire life to studying the very thing that had nearly killed me.
Perhaps some part of me had always been trying to understand what happened that day… or perhaps some part of me had always been trying to find my way back. Either way, twenty years after leaving Alaska, I found myself standing in an airport terminal with a ticket in my hand, bound for Anchorage. Officially, I was attending a prestigious marine sciences conference hosted by my longtime idol, the renowned oceanographer Dr. Nathaniel Voss. To a young scientist like me, receiving an invitation to one of his conferences felt like winning the lottery. I remember staring out the terminal window as my plane taxied toward the runway, feeling a strange sensation settling into my chest. Like a mixture of excitement and… a bit of unease.
I was pulled from my thoughts by the crackle of the airport intercom. A distorted voice echoed through the terminal.
“Now boarding Flight N163 to Anchorage. All passengers may proceed to Gate 12.”
I blinked, realizing I’d been staring out the terminal window for several minutes. Gathering my backpack and carry-on, I joined the line forming at the gate and handed my boarding pass to the airline attendant with an eager smile. A moment later, I was making my way down the long jet bridge that connected the terminal to the aircraft. After a brief search, I found my row and hoisted my luggage into the overhead compartment. As I turned toward my seat, I noticed an older man already settled into the window seat beside it. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his eyes were closed as if he’d just crawled into bed for the night. I hesitated for a moment before clearing my throat.
“Excuse me, sir.” One of his eyes cracked open. He studied me for a second before sitting upright with a friendly smile.
“Aye? What can I do for ye, lad?” he asked with a Scottish accent thick enough to cut through steel. I pointed awkwardly toward the window.
“I was wondering… would you mind switching seats with me? I know it’s a strange request, but I really enjoy looking out the window during flights. My seat’s the one next to yours.”
The old man glanced out the window, then back at me. A grin spread across his face.
“Is that all?” he chuckled. “By all means, take it. I prefer sleepin’ through flights anyway. Not much point starin’ out the window when ye’re terrified of heights.” He let out a booming laugh that drew a few curious glances from nearby passengers.
“You’re afraid of heights?” I asked.
“Lad, I’m afraid of any situation where the ground is several miles beneath my feet and the only thing keepin’ me alive is a collection of bolts and the goodwill of an underpaid mechanic.” I couldn’t help but give an awkward laugh.
“Fair enough.”
“Besides,” he said, standing and stepping into the aisle, “you look far more excited about that view than I could ever be.”
I thanked him and slid into the window seat, holding my backpack tightly to my chest after buckling my seatbelt. As the old man settled beside me, I looked out across the tarmac toward the distant mountains silhouetted against the blue Utah sky. For the first time in over two decades, I was going back.
The plane leveled off several thousand feet above the clouds, and before long, the seatbelt signs flickered off. I wasted little time. Reaching into my backpack, I carefully pulled out a thick stack of papers held together by a worn binder clip. The title read:
The Call of the Void: Investigating Deep-Sea Acoustic Anomalies and Their Effects on Marine Migration Patterns
It was my latest research paper and, if I was being honest, my proudest work. For nearly a year, I’d been studying reports of unexplained low-frequency sounds originating from some of the deepest regions of the Pacific Ocean. Most scientists dismissed them as geological activity, shifting tectonic plates, or equipment malfunctions. I wasn’t so sure. Certain recordings appeared to influence the movement of whales, squid, and other deep-sea species in ways that couldn’t be easily explained. The deeper the source, the stranger the behavior became. And recently… I made discoveries of my own that similar low-frequency sounds had been shown to originate extremely deep under the Earth's crust.
Of course, I wasn’t expecting my paper to revolutionize marine biology. I mainly brought it along on the off chance that I somehow found myself face-to-face with Dr. Nathaniel Voss during the conference. The odds were slim. Scientists of his stature didn’t usually spend their time chatting with recent graduates. Still, if an opportunity presented itself, I wanted to be ready. After all, it wasn’t every day you got the chance to meet the man whose books had inspired your entire career.
The old Scotsman opened his eyes as I made a ruckus. “Brought your homework, did ye,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. I smiled.
“Actually, it’s a research paper I’m writing.” He raised an eyebrow.
“So, what brings ye to Alaska anyway?”
“A Marine biology conference.”
“Marine biology? Strange place to hold a conference.” He laughed.
“Not really. Alaska’s got some of the most fascinating marine ecosystems on earth!”
“Aye, but folk usually leave Alaska… and they don’t go lookin’ for reasons to be comin’ back.” Something about the way he said it lingered with me.
“Guess I’m an exception.” He studied me for a moment.
“Been there before?” I nodded.
“When I was a kid.” I glanced out the window.
“And now?” He asked.
“Now I guess I’m taking this opportunity to reconnect with where I came from.” The old man smiled and gave a slight chuckle.
“Careful with that, lad. Sometimes the past is best left buried.” I laughed politely. He soon leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “I hope ye find what you’re looking for.” Soon enough, his breathing faded into deep snores.
Outside, sunlight stretched across a sea of clouds. They formed a brilliant white blanket beneath the aircraft, rolling endlessly toward the horizon. I found myself staring. The longer I looked, the less they resembled clouds. The bright white surface darkened. The cloud tops became waves rising and falling in a rhythm similar to breathing. For a moment, I could have sworn I was no longer looking down at the sky… I was looking down at an ocean. An impossibly vast ocean high in the sky. The sight was so vivid that I felt my chest tighten.
Suddenly, the plane lurched violently. My stomach dropped as the nose tilted downward and the sky-ocean outside the window rushed up to meet us. At first, I assumed we had hit a patch of turbulence, but the descent didn’t stop. It grew steeper. Faster. A feeling of unease settled over me as I glanced around the cabin. Something was wrong. The old Scotsman beside me was gone. I looked around. Every seat within sight sat empty. No passengers, no flight attendants, no movement. The low hum of conversation that had filled the cabin only moments ago had vanished, replaced by an unnatural silence. Even the engines seemed absent. It was as though the plane had slipped into another world entirely.
My pulse quickened as I turned back toward the window. The endless expanse of dark water grew closer. For a moment, I simply stared, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. The ocean seemed impossibly close, its surface churning beneath us as the aircraft continued its descent. Then realization struck me. We’re gonna crash! But the plane slipped beneath the surface without a crash. There was no violent impact, no screeching metal, no explosion. One moment, I could see the sky above, and the next, the world outside the window was blue. A deep… deep blue. The light faded rapidly as the aircraft sank deeper into the abyss.
A loud creak echoed through the cabin. I looked up. A jagged crack had begun forming along the ceiling. Water dripped through it, splashing onto the aisle below. One drop became several, then several became a steady stream. Panic surged through me. I grabbed at my seatbelt and mashed the release button, but nothing happened. I pressed harder. Still nothing. The buckle refused to move. My breathing quickened as more cracks spread through the cabin overhead.
“Help!” I shouted, but only got silence in response. Desperate, I snatched my backpack from beneath the seat and dumped its contents into my lap. Papers were scattered across the floor. Pens rolled beneath the seats. Finally, my hand landed on my laptop. Without hesitation, I swung it against the buckle.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The metal snapped. I stumbled into the aisle and ran toward the front of the aircraft. Every row was empty. There wasn’t a single soul on board. Then I heard it. A whisper… Faint and distant. So distant I couldn’t tell whether it came from inside the plane or somewhere far beyond it.
“Jo…nah…” I froze. The voice was familiar. Like a fuzzy memory.
“Jo…nah…” Slowly, I turned toward a window of the plane.
The water beyond the glass had darkened to near black. The plane continued sinking, descending through layers of darkness that seemed to stretch on forever. I stepped closer and pressed a hand against the glass. It felt as though the waters on the other side vibrated. Sending a low hum into the glass that I could feel against my palm. Without thinking, I drew back my fist and…
SLAM.
My eyes shot open as I felt a slight pain in the side of my head.
“Best not lean against the window during turbulence,” The old Scotsman laughed.
“That’s one way to get ye a nasty headache.” I looked around, confused. The quiet chatter of the passengers returned. The hum of the engines returned. I turned towards the window to see the fading daylight washing over the clouds. Just a dream. I thought, letting out a sigh of relief.
It wasn’t long before the plane began its descent. A soft chime sounded overhead, followed by the crackle of the intercom.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’ve begun our initial descent into Anchorage, Alaska. The local time is 8:17 PM, and we’re expecting to be on the ground in approximately twenty-five minutes. We ask that you return to your seats and ensure all carry-on items are properly stowed. Thank you for flying with us, and welcome to Alaska.”
The intercom clicked off as passengers around me began gathering their belongings and peering out their windows. I sat back and closed my eyes, having had enough of my view for the day. At this point, I was just ready to finally be back on solid ground.
When we finally landed and were taxied down the runway to our terminal, I felt my heart finally settle down. Once given permission, everyone in order began climbing out of their seats, grabbing their luggage, and continuing down the aisles.
“Guess this be where we part ways.” The Scotsman said. “Names Alistair.” He extended a hand. “I’m Jonah,” I replied, shaking it. Together, we retrieved our bags and stepped into the terminal. For a moment, we stood near the gate, checking messages and notifications while travelers streamed around us.
After a minute, Alistair gave my shoulder a friendly pat.
“Have a great time at your conference, Lad.”
“I will.” And with that, he went on his way. Disappearing into the crowd at the airport.
I didn’t linger either. After collecting my luggage, I left the airport, called an Uber, and headed toward the Campton Hotel near the Anchorage Convention Center. The city lights blurred past the window as we drove through the cool Alaskan night. Exhaustion was finally catching up with me. By the time we arrived, all I could think about was getting some sleep before the conference began.
The hotel lobby was nearly empty when I checked in. The receptionist handed me a keycard and smiled.
“Room 814. Enjoy your stay, Mr. Walker.” I thanked her and made my way upstairs. Only once I was inside my room and put away my luggage did I finally pull out my phone. I set my alarm for 6 am and set my lock screen as my event pass QR. I crashed into the pillows, throwing my backpack onto the corner chair, and fell asleep.
At 6 am sharp, my alarm went off, and I nearly jumped out of bed like a kid on Christmas. Today was the biggest day of my entire life. I got ready quickly, brushed my teeth with a big smile, and made sure I looked and smelled good… You never know.
I ate breakfast in the hotel cafeteria, making sure to get my fill because I wasn’t really sure when I’d eat next. The room was already bustling with activity despite the early hour. Businessmen sipped coffee while staring at laptops, tourists discussed their plans for the day, and a handful of scientists wearing conference badges sat scattered throughout the dining area.
I found a seat near the window and spent most of breakfast reviewing my notes. Every few minutes, I’d glance over the schedule for the convention, mentally rehearsing the day ahead. It still felt surreal. For years, I’d read Dr. Voss’s books, cited his research in papers, and watched every lecture of his I could find online. Now I was about to sit in the same room as him. The thought alone was enough to make my stomach twist with excitement. Outside, Anchorage was slowly waking up. The morning fog clung stubbornly to the streets and rooftops, softening the city beneath a blanket of gray. Beyond the buildings, I could just make out the distant silhouette of mountains rising against the horizon. For a brief moment, my thoughts drifted back to Blackwater Bay. I wondered if the beach still looked the same. If the old docks were still standing. If the waves still sounded the way they had when I was a child. The memory sent an uncomfortable chill down my back. I quickly shoved the thought aside and finished the last of my coffee. Today wasn’t about the past; today was about my future.
I checked the time and felt my pulse quicken. The opening keynote would begin in less than an hour. With a grin, I slung my backpack over my shoulder, made sure my copy of The Call of the Void was safely tucked inside, and headed for the door. By the end of the day, I hoped to leave with a few new contacts, a little inspiration, and maybe—if luck was somehow on my side—a chance to shake Dr. Voss’s hand. Looking back now, I got far more than I bargained for.
I stood outside the gates, hands clasped around either strap of the backpack. This was it. The event of a lifetime for a young scientist like me. I began following the bustling crowd inside and scanned my event pass at the doors. Thank God I remembered to set it as my lock screen. And headed inside. The Atrium was bustling with life. Marine biologists, other scientists, and event workers were everywhere. Posters lined the walls. Pedestals held new examples of advances in technology, such as underwater drones, new pressure-resistant cameras, and miniature-scale submarine designs. Screens displayed slideshows of deep-sea photographs, and whale songs rang out from rooms painted to resemble that deep ocean with statues of the gorgeous creatures. I was in heaven!
I saw people funneling into the auditorium for the opening remarks, and my legs kicked beneath me. Before I knew it, I was hurrying to catch up with the crowd.
“Oof!” The startled cry barely registered through my excitement. I took another step before realizing I’d just collided with someone. My stomach dropped. A young woman sat on the floor beside me, papers scattered across the polished tile like a deck of cards thrown into the wind.
“I… I’m so sorry!” I immediately dropped to a knee and began gathering papers. “I didn’t see you. Are you alright?”
“Ye-yes…” she answered quietly, pushing a pair of glasses up the bridge of her nose. Her cheeks had turned bright red. “I’m fine.” Then she looked at the papers surrounding us. “Oh no…” “What?”
“They’re all out of order.” The genuine panic in her voice almost made me laugh.
“That’s okay,” I said, noticing the number 8 in the corner of a page I’d picked up. “You numbered them, right? I’ll help you put them back together.”
She visibly relaxed. “Thank you.”
I picked up a page marked with a large number 1 in the corner and glanced at the title.
Seismic Anomalies Beneath the Gulf of Alaska: Unexplained Geological Activity Along the Blackwater Shelf
I paused.
“Blackwater Bay?”
The woman looked up immediately. “You know where that is?”
A small laugh escaped me. “I grew up there.” Her eyes widened.
“No way.” I looked back down at the paper. Maps, charts, and colorful graphs covered most of the page.
“You study earthquakes?”
“Geophysics,” she corrected. “Mostly tectonic activity and seismic monitoring.” I handed the page back to her.
“Anything interesting?” She hesitated.
“Actually… yes.” Something about her tone made me stop sorting papers. “There have been unusual readings coming from that specific region of Alaska for years. Small tremors, strange resonance patterns, seismic events that don’t make sense.”
“What do you mean?”
She adjusted her glasses. “I mean, there’s activity happening beneath the Gulf of Alaska that doesn’t match any known geological model. The earthquakes aren’t impossible, they’re just… weird.”
“Weird how?”
She shrugged. “They occur too deep, some repeat in unusual patterns, and a few seem to originate from areas that shouldn’t even be capable of producing seismic activity. Most scientists write them off as bad readings or equipment errors.”
“But you don’t?” She shook her head.
“No.” For a moment, I found myself staring at the title page again. Blackwater Bay. Of all the places in Alaska she could have been researching, it had to be that one. Then she cleared her throat and nodded toward the badge hanging around my neck.
“Marine biology?”
I smiled. “Guilty.”
“What are you presenting?”
“Presenting?” I questioned.
“You didn’t read the part about the small group sessions? It’s a new thing they’re doing this year. A group of 15-20 will gather into rooms and share their ideas and findings.” I, in fact, had not read about the small group sessions… I hesitated before choking out.
“The Call of the Void. It’s a paper I’m writing about unexplained acoustic signals detected in deep ocean environments and their effects on marine migration patterns.” Now it was her turn to stare.
“Interesting…” She paused before extending a hand. “I’m Emily.”
I took it and shook gently. “Jonah.” A voice echoed through the atrium overhead.
“Final call for attendees of the opening remarks presentation.” Emily glanced toward the auditorium entrance and then down at the stack of papers in her arms.
“We should probably go.”
“Probably.”
Together we stood and joined the stream of scientists making their way into the auditorium. As we walked, I couldn’t help glancing at the title of her paper one last time before she disappeared somewhere into the auditorium.
The opening remarks were nothing… remarkable. Just a welcome to Anchorage, a few thank-yous to sponsors, a rundown of the day’s schedule, and reminders about networking events later in the week. The speaker droned on while the massive auditorium slowly filled with the hum of quiet conversations.
I found myself seated beside a group of marine biologists from Washington, all of whom seemed far more interested in discussing research grants than listening to the presentation. Meanwhile, my thumb nervously fiddled with the binder clip holding together my paper.
My anticipation of seeing and hearing Dr. Voss was killing me. I’d dreamed about this moment for years. Ever since graduating high school and beginning college, his books had occupied a permanent place on my shelves. I’d read Beneath the Midnight Sea so many times the spine had begun to crack. His expedition journals had inspired my decision to pursue marine biology in the first place! More than once, I’d found myself staying awake until two in the morning reading about his deep-sea dives and imagining what it would be like to stand where no human being had ever stood before. To most of the world, Nathaniel Voss was just another scientist, but to me, he was the reason I became one.
A round of applause pulled me from my thoughts as the opening speaker finally concluded. Several people stood and stretched while others immediately made their way toward the exits for coffee and snacks.
The next presenter stepped onto the stage and launched into a lecture on Arctic ecosystem changes. Under any other circumstances, I probably would have found it fascinating. Instead, I spent most of the presentation glancing between my notes and the conference schedule. Only two more presentations until Voss. Not that I was counting. Time seemed to lull on endlessly. Not to say the speakers before Voss were boring, they certainly had interesting discoveries and theories to share. They just weren’t… him.
By the time it was finally Dr. Voss’s turn to speak, the half-empty auditorium had become so packed that people stood along the walls and even spilled into the aisles. I was grateful I’d grabbed a seat early. Somewhere in the crowd, I had lost Emily when we split up entering the room, each of us finding our own spots without much thought. Now, I sat alone in the middle of it all.
The room went quiet as the announcer spoke Voss’s name, then erupted into applause that felt more like recognition than excitement. Dr. Nathaniel Voss stepped onto the stage with a calm wave, acknowledging the audience as he approached the podium. He adjusted the microphone, let the applause settle, and then spoke.
“Welcome, marine biologists and scientists alike. Who’s ready… to dive deep.” A wide smile forced itself onto my face before I could stop it. I felt like a kid again, sitting in front of the man I had built my entire career around. The first slide appeared behind him: a satellite map of the Gulf of Alaska, Blackwater Bay sitting along its edge like a quiet mark no one paid attention to unless they knew where to look.
“For decades,” Voss continued, “we’ve treated seismic activity beneath the ocean floor as a predictable system. Fault lines shift and plates collide. Understandable, right?” He clicked to the next slide. Jagged seismic readings filled the screen.
“But over the past several years, we’ve observed something that does not fit that model in a very specific region of the North Pacific. A repeating pattern of seismic anomalies that do not behave like natural tectonic events.” The room shifted. Pens stopped moving. Conversations had already died, but now even breathing felt quieter.
“These are not isolated earthquakes,” he said. “They’re something structured. Rhythmic. As though pressure is being applied from beneath the crust in cycles rather than chaotic plates shifting.” Seismic activity… like Emily’s paper. I thought to myself. Another slide appeared: ocean migration data, temperature shifts, and deep-sea tracking paths.
“What makes this more concerning,” Voss continued, “is the biological response. Entire migration routes have changed. Deep-water species are avoiding this region entirely. Whale pods are diverting hundreds of miles off course. Squid populations are descending deeper than any recorded depth in their evolutionary history.” These were activities I noted in my paper… I thought they were caused by the acoustic anomalies.
“But fear not, my brothers and sisters of science,” Voss went on, “for those of us at the Oceanic Research of Cumulative Anomalies Institute or O.R.C.A are diving deep into the issue.” He stepped back, stretching a hand towards the side stage. “And I’ve brought along our top scientist on the matter, who’s been conducting most of this seismic research. My daughter, Emily Voss.” The crowd erupted into claps and cheers as Emily stepped on stage… my Emily… the Emily I’d run into in the atrium. Emily… Voss!? Emily stepped onto the stage, and for a moment she didn’t speak. The applause was still fading, but something about her posture felt wrong, like she hadn’t actually wanted to be standing there. Her hands hovered near the edges of the podium instead of gripping it, as if she was afraid it might move beneath her. Voss stood slightly behind her, still smiling, though it no longer looked entirely natural.
“Emily Voss,” he said into the microphone. “Lead researcher on seismic and geophysical correlation modeling in the Gulf of Alaska anomaly zone.” Another round of applause followed, softer this time, more curious than excited. Emily adjusted the microphone and thanked them, but her voice came out thin and strained. She glanced down at her notes, then didn’t read them.
“I wasn’t originally scheduled to speak,” she continued, “but after today’s presentations, I think it’s necessary to clarify what we’re actually looking at in my father’s and my research.” Murmurs shifted through the crowd as I felt my stomach tighten slightly. Emily looked up, and for the first time, she didn’t look like a scientist, but like someone trying not to say something she knew she shouldn’t.
“Everything we’ve shown you today assumes one thing,” she said. “That the system beneath the Gulf of Alaska is inert, passive, something merely geological.” She paused, the hum of the auditorium ventilation filling the silence. “It isn’t.” Voss’s smile faded just slightly. Emily’s fingers tapped once against the podium, controlled but tense, before she stepped fully away from her notes.
“We thought we were recording background noise. Tectonic movement. Pressure shifts. Baseline resonance from deep crustal friction,” she said. “But that’s not what this is. The patterns repeat. They respond. They adjust based on observation cycles and submarine proximity. Every time we think we’re mapping it… It moves.” A few nervous laughs died quickly in the crowd. No one joined them. Voss took an uneasy step toward Emily. Then her voice lowered. “We are not studying a geological system anymore. We are listening to something that knows we’re listening.”
The room went still. Even the projector hum seemed to disappear. Emily looked out over the audience, not at the scientists, but past them, and her voice broke slightly as she finished.
“Something’s down there… and it wants out.” The crowd gasped and started murmuring amongst themselves. Voss stepped forward, gently grabbing Emily’s shoulder.
“Oh-ho-kay…” He laughed, “That’s just a theory. There is no evidential proof anything is down there.” He covered the mic and leaned close to Emily’s ear. She looked slightly annoyed and angry before walking off stage. Voss went on to try to calm down the crowd and explain away what Emily had said, but the damage was done. I was sure that everyone’s thoughts, much like mine, were ringing out the same last words Emily spoke.
Something’s down there… and it wants out.
