Feeding Ground

πŸ“… Published on January 3, 2025

β€œFeeding Ground”

Written by Craig Groshek
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

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⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME β€” 30 minutes

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Part I

The night sky was clear above the McPherson Observatory, a canopy of stars stretching infinitely across the darkness. But I no longer found comfort in the familiar constellations. My name is Dr. Timothy Cole, senior astronomer, and I once considered myself lucky to spend my life peering into the mysteries of the cosmos. But that was before I found it β€” the thing that waits in the void, consuming all light, all hope.

I record this log not for posterity, but as a warning. If you hear it, then what we found is no longer confined to the darkness between the stars. It has found its way here, and you must understand what that means.

We thought we were prepared. We thought the James Webb Space Telescope would expand our horizons, show us new worlds, and perhaps β€” just perhaps β€” offer a glimpse into the existence of other sentient life. I believed in those possibilities more than anyone. For decades, I’ve spent countless nights at the observatory, meticulously collecting data, hungrily analyzing the secrets each star held.

And then, three weeks ago, we aimed the JWST at a distant point in the galaxy β€” a star labeled HD 1284. At first, it seemed unremarkable, just another pinprick of light hanging in the vast expanse. That is, until Sarah Brighton, my assistant, noticed something odd in the data.

β€œSir,” she had said, voice tight with an edge of excitement, β€œthere’s… an anomaly.”

I leaned over her workstation, my curiosity piqued. The screen showed HD 1284’s light curve β€” a normally steady pattern β€” dipping sharply at regular intervals. Every two Earth days, the star’s brightness would decrease by a noticeable percentage, as if something massive and opaque was crossing in front of it. Then, just as abruptly, the light would return to normal.

My heart began to race. A discovery like this was what astronomers lived for: a new planet, potentially, or a binary star system with a hidden companion. But then Sarah’s face twisted into a frown.

β€œIt’s… it’s not just the light curve,” she said slowly, tapping at the keys. β€œI’m picking up fluctuations in the star’s mass and temperature.”

That gave me pause. I leaned in closer, staring at the data feed in disbelief. The star wasn’t just dimming. Its mass was fluctuating. That was impossible β€” stars don’t simply lose and regain mass like a balloon being inflated and deflated.

β€œRun the calculations again,” I ordered, my voice sharper than I intended. Sarah flinched but obeyed, fingers flying over the keyboard. We sat in tense silence, the hum of the equipment the only sound in the empty observatory. The numbers updated on the screen, confirming what we had already seen.

The fluctuations were real. Something was siphoning energy and mass from the star.

β€œIt’s like… like something’s eating it,” Sarah whispered.

I recoiled at the suggestion, but I couldn’t deny what the data suggested. I felt a chill creep down my spine, a sensation I hadn’t experienced since I was a young researcher confronted by the unknowable depths of the universe for the first time. It wasn’t awe or wonder this time β€” it was fear.

β€œLet’s not jump to conclusions,” I murmured, more to convince myself than her. β€œThere’s got to be a natural explanation. Dark matter, gravitational lensing β€” something we’re not considering.”

Sarah nodded, but her expression remained troubled. β€œWhat if it’s… I mean, what if it’s… alive?”

β€œAlive?” I scoffed, but the word lingered like a bad taste in my mouth. Stars are consumed all the time β€” by black holes, by neutron stars β€” but those are cold, mechanical processes. What she was suggesting was unthinkable: a predator that fed on stars like some cosmic parasite.

Still, we had to know more.

* * * * * *

We spent the next week analyzing every bit of data we could pull from the JWST, rerunning simulations and cross-checking our findings with other telescopes. It was grueling work, the kind that would normally excite me. But every time we dug deeper, the answers we found only led to more disturbing questions.

There were the dips in brightness, of course, growing longer and more pronounced as if whatever was consuming the star was becoming more aggressive. The mass fluctuations were harder to quantify, but it became clear that the star was being stripped, layer by layer, of its outer shell.

Then there was the temperature. As the star dimmed, its surface temperature dropped, a phenomenon that defied every known principle of astrophysics. Stars undergoing natural changes don’t cool down like that β€” not unless their core energy is being sucked out.

It was two weeks in when we got the first image.

I’ll never forget that moment. We’d managed to adjust the JWST’s infrared capabilities to focus on a smaller area, hoping to capture whatever was causing the fluctuations. The screen flickered, pixels aligning as the image slowly rendered. I leaned in, my breath held tight in my chest, andβ€”

β€œGod,” Sarah whispered, her hand flying to her mouth.

There, haloed by the dying light of HD 1284, was a shadow. No, not a shadow β€” a presence. A dark, amorphous mass, almost like a smear of ink on the fabric of space itself. It was larger than a planet, nebulous and shifting, its edges blurring into the void. It seemed… fluid, its form pulsing and rippling as if it were alive.

My skin prickled. I stared, unblinking, as the thing undulated, extending long, sinuous tendrils toward the star. They wrapped around the blazing sphere, and the star flickered β€” its light swallowed by the darkness. It was as if the star itself were being smothered by an entity too vast and incomprehensible to grasp.

β€œJesus,” I said, my voice barely audible. β€œWhat… what the hell is that?”

β€œShould we report this?” Sarah asked, eyes wide.

I couldn’t answer. I felt paralyzed, staring at the thing devouring a star millions of times larger than Earth. To send this to NASA β€” to let the world know what we’d found β€” would change everything. I could already imagine the headlines: β€œPredator Star Discovered!” β€œUnknown Entity Consuming Stellar Mass!” But the implications…

I couldn’t help but feel that merely by observing it, by training our gaze on it, we were inviting its attention.

β€œI need more data,” I said finally, my voice hoarse. β€œIf we report this now, they’ll dismiss it as a glitch. We need to confirm. We need—”

β€œWhat if it notices us?” Sarah interrupted, voice trembling.

β€œDon’t be ridiculous!” I snapped, but the words rang hollow. Because deep down, in the part of me that had always been most attuned to the cosmos, I felt a presence staring back through the lens β€” something aware and malevolent.

I turned off the monitor.

β€œIt’s just a star,” I muttered. β€œWe’re jumping at shadows.”

But even then, I knew it was a lie. I knew I would be back tomorrow, staring at that same screen, watching that same, terrible thing feeding.

Because something in the back of my mind whispered that we were no longer the observers.

We were the observed.

Part II

A knock on my office door startled me from my thoughts. The sudden intrusion felt like a physical shock after so many hours of solitary focus. I turned, bleary-eyed, to see Sarah standing in the doorway, her face pale and tight with worry.

β€œTimothy,” she whispered, glancing nervously over her shoulder, β€œthey’re waiting for you in the conference room. Dr. Ramirez just arrived.”

I felt a jolt of adrenaline. I hadn’t expected Elena to get involved so soon. Dr. Elena Ramirez, the director of the JWST project, was a formidable presence β€” brilliant, ambitious, and known for her no-nonsense approach. If she was here, it meant this was no longer a research curiosity. It was an emergency.

β€œRight,” I muttered, brushing my unkempt hair back and fumbling for my glasses. β€œLet’s go.”

The walk to the conference room felt like traversing a dark, lonely chasm. The usual hum of activity in the observatory was gone, replaced by an uneasy silence. I could feel the tension simmering in the air, the weight of too many sleepless nights bearing down on everyone. Something had shifted since our discovery of the Feeder. It wasn’t just the data or the unsettling images β€” it was the feeling that we were peering into something that should have remained hidden.

The room was small, with the blinds drawn tight, a single table surrounded by grim-faced scientists. Elena stood at the head, her arms crossed. Beside her, Dr. Michael Yates, the observatory’s chief physicist and my oldest friend, leaned back in his chair, staring thoughtfully at the blank screen in front of him. Opposite him was Dr. Ravi Singh, a cosmologist whose brilliance was matched only by his volatility.

β€œTimothy,” Elena said without preamble, fixing me with a sharp gaze as I took a seat. β€œExplain.”

I hesitated, glancing around the room. They were all waiting, their expressions a mix of curiosity and thinly veiled anxiety. I could feel Sarah’s presence at my side. We were standing on the precipice of something monumental, and I wasn’t sure if I could put it into words.

β€œWe’ve been monitoring HD 1284,” I began, my voice steady despite the knot in my chest. β€œThe fluctuations we detected in its brightness were unlike anything we’ve seen before. We initially thought it could be a planetary transit or some form of stellar instability, but… it’s not.”

I clicked a button on my laptop, and the monitor behind me flared to life, displaying the first image we’d captured of the entity. A murmur rippled through the room.

β€œThis is what’s causing the anomaly,” I said quietly, gesturing to the dark, sinuous shape coiled around the star. β€œWe believe it’s some kind of… entity, siphoning mass and energy from HD 1284. It’s feeding on the star.”

Dr. Singh let out a low whistle. β€œFeeding? You make it sound like it’s alive.”

β€œI don’t know if β€˜alive’ is the right word,” I admitted. β€œBut it’s certainly… behaving in a way that suggests purpose. We’ve ruled out gravitational lensing, dark matter, and any known astrophysical phenomena. Whatever this is, it doesn’t follow natural laws.”

Elena narrowed her eyes. β€œWhat’s its size?”

β€œRoughly the mass of Jupiter, though it’s hard to be precise. It doesn’t have a consistent shape. It shifts, like a fluid.” I paused, swallowing hard. β€œAnd it’s getting bigger.”

β€œHow?” Michael leaned forward, his expression intense. β€œWhere is it drawing mass from?”

β€œThe star’s outer layers,” Sarah said, speaking up for the first time. Her voice trembled slightly. β€œIt’s like a… a parasitic organism, latching on and draining it. And it’s not just light it’s consuming. The gravitational field around the star is warping in response, almost as if the entity is absorbing space-time itself.”

A heavy silence settled over the room. Ravi’s gaze flickered between me and Sarah, his mouth set in a grim line.

β€œAre you suggesting it’s a form of dark energy?” he asked.

β€œI’m suggesting,” I said slowly, choosing my words carefully, β€œthat we’re dealing with something completely outside our understanding of physics. It doesn’t behave like a physical object, yet it exerts physical influence. It’s… predatory.”

Michael laughed, a dry, humorless sound. β€œA predator star? Come on, Tim. That’s absurd.”

β€œIs it?” I shot back, more forcefully than I intended. β€œThink about it. We’ve always assumed life to be bound by biological principles, but what if that’s just a limitation of our perception? What if there are forms of life out there that don’t fit our definitions? Forms that can thrive in the vacuum of space, that consume on a cosmic scale?”

β€œEnough!” Elena interrupted sharply. β€œWe’re not here to speculate. I want concrete data, Timothy. What is this thing? What are its capabilities? And, most importantly, is it a threat?”

I hesitated. Was it a threat? My instincts screamed yes, but I had no evidence to back up that fear. The Feeder hadn’t shown any aggression β€” it was just… feeding. But there was something deeply unsettling in the way it moved, the way it reacted to the telescope’s gaze.

β€œThere’s more,” I said softly. β€œWhen we focused the JWST on it, we detected a faint signal β€” a low-frequency hum that doesn’t correspond to any known natural emissions.”

Ravi sat up straighter, his eyes sharp. β€œA signal? You didn’t mention this before.”

β€œI wasn’t sure what to make of it,” I admitted. β€œIt’s almost imperceptible, buried in the background noise. But it’s rhythmic, structured. Almost like—”

β€œLike communication?” Michael asked, his skepticism giving way to a glimmer of something darker. Fear.

β€œYes,” I whispered. β€œOr a lure.”

Elena’s gaze hardened. β€œWhat do you mean?”

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to continue. β€œWhat if this isn’t the first star it’s consumed? What if it moves from one stellar system to another, draining stars of their energy? And what if the signal we picked up is a… a beacon? A way to attract other sentient beings, like us, to come and investigate?”

β€œAnd then it devours them, too,” Ravi finished quietly, his face pale.

β€œThat’s insane,” Michael muttered, shaking his head. β€œStars die all the time. Supernovae, black holes—”

β€œNot like this,” I interrupted. β€œNot this deliberately. I don’t think it’s just consuming the star. It’s baiting us. Drawing us in.”

Another heavy silence fell over the room. I could see the disbelief on their faces, the struggle to reconcile what I was saying with everything they knew about the universe. But there was something else, too β€” a flicker of doubt, of dread. Because if I was right…

β€œHow long do we have?” Elena asked, her voice flat.

I stared at her, uncomprehending. β€œWhat do you mean?”

She looked at me as if I were a child. β€œIf it’s aware of us, if it’s hunting… how long until it finds us?”

A shiver ran through me. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. The idea of the Feeder shifting its gaze from HD 1284 to Earth was too terrifying to contemplate. But as I opened my mouth to respond, Sarah let out a choked sound, her eyes wide with horror.

β€œDr. Cole… look at the screen.”

We turned as one. The image on the monitor had changed. The Feeder, that dark, indefinite mass, was still coiled around the star β€” but it was no longer passive. It had shifted, its tendrils extended, reaching out as if… as if it were searching.

And then, slowly, deliberately, it twisted. The star’s light flared and dimmed again, a rhythmic pulse that sent a chill down my spine.

It was looking back at us.

β€œIt knows,” I whispered.

The room exploded into chaos.

Part III

My descent into obsession began that night. The chaos of the meeting quickly subsided, but the fear never left. We went our separate ways, each struggling to grasp what we had witnessed. Dr. Ramirez immediately ordered a lockdown on all research involving HD 1284, restricting access to the telescope and data files. No one was to discuss it, document it, or, God forbid, leak it to the public.

But I couldn’t stay away.

I spent the following days holed up in my office, staring at the high-resolution images we’d captured of the Feeder. I analyzed and reanalyzed the signal, listening to its rhythmic pulse until it was burned into my brain. There was something there, something hidden beneath the surface, just waiting to be uncovered. Sarah pleaded with me to take a break, to get some sleep, but I brushed her off, consumed by the need to understand.

What was it? How did it move? Why did it feel like it was aware of us?

I found myself waking up in a cold sweat every night, dreams haunted by shadowy tendrils coiling around stars, snuffing out their light. It was as if the Feeder was creeping closer, inching its way through the black void toward me. Each time I woke, gasping and shivering, I would rush back to the observatory, needing to confirm that it was still out there β€” still confined to the distant reaches of space.

And yet, every time I looked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it had moved.

One night, I intercepted something new. I was reviewing the star’s emission spectra, trying to pick out any anomalies, when I noticed a faint spike β€” a barely perceptible fluctuation in the background noise.

I leaned closer. It was the same signal we’d picked up before, only… different. There was a new rhythm to it, a secondary pulse that reverberated through the first. I ran it through the analyzer, isolating the frequencies, and stared in disbelief as a pattern emerged.

It was mimicking our attempts to communicate.

β€œSarah!” I called out, my voice hoarse from days of disuse. I hadn’t spoken to anyone in what felt like an eternity, lost in the world of data and static. But she was there β€” she was always there, lingering on the edges, watching me with those worried eyes.

She appeared in the doorway, a ghostly figure in the dim light. Her face was thinner, drawn, as if she hadn’t been sleeping either. I wondered if she, too, was feeling it β€” the pull of the Feeder, the irresistible urge to look deeper.

β€œWhat is it?” she asked quietly.

β€œListen,” I whispered, turning the speakers up. The signal played softly, a low, haunting hum that seemed to vibrate through the air. It was hypnotic, almost melodic in its complexity, and I felt a strange comfort wash over me as I listened. It was the first time, in weeks, that I didn’t feel afraid.

β€œIs that… new?” she asked, stepping closer. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

β€œIt’s responding to us,” I finally managed. β€œEvery time we’ve sent a signal, every time we’ve tried to analyze it… it’s been listening. And now—” I pointed to the screen, where the twin pulses throbbed in perfect synchronization. β€œIt’s mimicking our frequency. It’s trying to… to communicate.”

Sarah stiffened beside me. β€œOr it’s… learning.”

The words sent a shiver through me. Learning. Mimicking. Adapting. What if it wasn’t just responding out of curiosity? What if it was studying us, figuring out what made us tick, the way a predator studies the movements of its prey?

β€œWhat do we do?” she whispered. I turned to her, seeing the fear etched in her face, and felt a surge of protectiveness. She was too young for this, too innocent. She didn’t deserve to be drawn into the same madness that had ensnared me.

β€œWe can’t stop now,” I said softly. β€œWe’re too close. We need to keep watching, keep—”

β€œNo,” she interrupted, shaking her head violently. β€œWe need to stop, Timothy. This… this thing is manipulating us. Can’t you feel it?” Her voice broke, and she grabbed my arm, fingers digging into my flesh. β€œEvery time we look at it, every time we send a signal, it’s like… like it’s reaching out. Like it’s wrapping itself around us.”

I wrenched my arm free, anger and frustration bubbling up. β€œYou’re overreacting! It’s a phenomenon β€” a discovery. This is what we do, Sarah. We study. We learn.”

β€œNot this,” she murmured, stepping back, her face pale. β€œThis isn’t science, Timothy. This is—” She trailed off, glancing around as if the shadows in the room were listening. β€œIt’s hungry.”

The word echoed in the silence, hanging heavy in the air. Hungry. I wanted to laugh, to brush it off as paranoia, but something deep inside me recoiled. Was that what this was? Had we awakened something that shouldn’t have been disturbed? Something that was growing stronger the more we probed its secrets?

β€œI’m going to talk to Dr. Ramirez,” she said suddenly, her voice wavering. β€œThis needs to stop.”

I surged to my feet. β€œNo! You can’t β€” she’ll shut it all down. We need more time, more—”

β€œLook at yourself!” she cried, eyes blazing. β€œYou’re falling apart! You don’t eat, you don’t sleep β€” you’ve become a slave to this thing, whatever it is. If we keep going, we’ll—”

β€œWe’ll what?!” I snarled, fists clenched. β€œWe’ll understand? We’ll finally see?”

β€œOr we’ll go mad,” she whispered. The words were soft, barely audible, but they cut through me like a knife. β€œPlease, Timothy. Let it go.”

I stared at her, chest heaving, and for a moment β€” just a moment β€” I considered walking away. Letting the darkness swallow up the Feeder and forgetting we ever looked into the abyss. But then the signal pulsed again, throbbing through the room, and my resolve hardened.

I couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when I was so close.

β€œYou do what you want,” I muttered, turning back to my laptop. β€œBut I’m staying.”

She was silent for a long time, and I refused to look at her. I couldn’t. If I did, I might waver and turn back.

β€œI’m sorry,” she whispered finally, and I heard the soft click of the door closing behind her.

I didn’t see her again for three days.

* * * * * *

I kept working, alone in the silent observatory. I slept in my office, surrounded by screens filled with data feeds and looping video of the Feeder’s dark, undulating mass. I ate when I remembered to, hardly tasting the cold sandwiches and stale coffee I scrounged from the break room. Time blurred, days and nights melding into a single, endless vigil.

And all the while, the Feeder watched.

It wasn’t just paranoia. I could feel it. Every time I adjusted the telescope, every time I narrowed the focus to get a clearer image, it would shift, its tendrils flaring outward, reaching toward the lens. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but I knew what I was seeing.

It was reacting to me.

It was responding.

And it was getting closer.

The thought made my skin crawl, but I couldn’t look away. I stayed glued to the screens, cataloging every flicker, every movement, every tiny variation in the signal’s pattern. It was speaking to me β€” I was sure of it. There was a message buried in the hum, a meaning just beyond my grasp.

I was close. So close.

Then, on the third night, it happened.

I was running the latest batch of images through the analyzer when the signal suddenly spiked, a sharp burst of energy that sent my equipment whirring in alarm. I scrambled to adjust the settings and watched as the Feeder’s dark mass seemed to expand, swallowing the star completely.

The room vibrated with a low, thrumming hum, the sound reverberating through my skull. I gasped, clutching the edge of the desk, my vision blurring as the signal intensified. It was everywhere, filling the room, the observatory, the entire worldβ€”

And then, just as suddenly, it stopped.

I blinked. The screens went dark, the equipment falling silent. I stared at the blank monitors, my mind racing.

β€œWhat… what the hell just happened?”

The silence stretched on for what seemed like an eternity. Then, finally, I reached out, trembling fingers hovering over the keyboard.

That’s when a single word appeared on the main screen, typed out in stark, white letters:

HELLO.

My blood turned to ice.

Part IV

I bolted upright in my chair, feeling as if the room was closing in around me, and swallowed hard. My eyes remained fixed on the single word glowing on the monitor.

HELLO.

It was impossible. There was no way it could have sent that message. I must have been hallucinating β€” sleep-deprived and jittery after days without rest. But as I stared at the screen, my fingers hung over the keyboard, trembling.

β€œHello?” I whispered. I typed the word into the command line and hit β€˜Enter,’ then waited.

For a long, agonizing moment, nothing happened. The screen remained blank except for the word that shouldn’t have been there. Then, slowly, letter by letter, a new message appeared beneath it.

WHY DO YOU WATCH?

A shiver ran down my spine. My hand jerked back from the keyboard as if it were a viper. I glanced around the empty room, half-expecting to see something lurking in the shadows. But it was just me, the quiet hum of the computers, and the distant rumble of the observatory’s ventilation system.

It was trying to communicate.

My pulse pounded in my ears. Every rational part of me screamed to shut it down, to sever the connection and destroy every piece of data we had gathered. This was beyond science β€” it was madness. Yet, somewhere deep inside, curiosity burned brighter than fear.

Because I didn’t just want to know what it was.

I wanted to know why.

β€œWhat are you doing here?” I typed hesitantly, the keys clacking loud in the silence.

The response came faster this time, the letters appearing almost instantly.

FEEDING.

The words sent a chill through me, but I forced myself to continue. β€œFeeding on stars?”

YES.

β€œWhy?”

TO LIVE. TO GROW.

The simplicity of its answer unsettled me. There was no malice, no grand cosmic agenda. Just the cold, indifferent instinct of a voracious predator. But something about the way it responded… it was almost conversational, as if it wanted me to understand. As if it craved interaction.

β€œAre you alive?” I asked, my hands sweating.

The reply was immediate.

NOT AS YOU UNDERSTAND IT.

My mind reeled. I leaned forward, incredulous. What was I dealing with? A creature? An intelligence? Something that existed outside the boundaries of life as we knew it? I swallowed hard, glancing at the data feeds on the other screens.

β€œWhy did you reach out to us?”

This time, the pause stretched on for several seconds. When it answered, the response was chillingly simple.

I AM HUNGRY.

I stared at the screen. Hungry. I had already known that it was feeding on the star, but what if that wasn’t the whole story? What if the star was just… a means to an end? A lure, a way to attract attention?

β€œWhat do you want?” I typed slowly.

The response made my blood run cold.

TO BE SEEN.

My mind raced, piecing together the implications. To be seen. It wasn’t just feeding on the star. It was broadcasting. It wanted to be observed. And I had fallen right into its trap. My obsession, my relentless need to understand… I had given it exactly what it wanted.

I was its prey.

I shoved back from the desk, gasping. I had to stop. I had to cut the connection, destroy every trace of this nightmare, before itβ€”

The monitor flickered, and a new message appeared, freezing me in place.

IT IS TOO LATE.

I felt the blood drain from my face. Too late? What did it mean? Had I already triggered something, set some chain of events in motion that couldn’t be undone? My thoughts were spiraling, panic clawing at my chest. I scrambled to shut down the systems, but the keyboard was unresponsive, the screens locked on that single, damning phrase.

Then, in one heart-stopping moment, all the monitors blinked off, plunging the room into darkness.

I spun around. The entire observatory was silent. The computers were dead, the data feeds blank. I fumbled for the power switch, but it wouldn’t turn on. The backup generators didn’t kick in. Every system was down β€” as if the entire network had been… consumed.

β€œNo, no, no!” I muttered, slamming my hand against the desk. This couldn’t be happening. I had to get the data back, I had toβ€”

A low hum filled the room, vibrating through the walls. I froze. It was the signal β€” the same rhythmic pulse we’d picked up from the Feeder. Only now it wasn’t coming through the telescope.

It was coming from inside the observatory.

The floor trembled beneath my feet, the sound growing louder, deeper. I stumbled toward the door, my legs shaking. I needed to get out β€” to warn the others β€” but as I reached the exit, the hum stopped.

Silence fell.

I stood there, waiting for something β€” anything β€” to happen. The seconds stretched on, each one more agonizing than the last. Then, slowly, the monitors flickered back to life.

But they weren’t showing data anymore.

They were showing stars.

My blood ran cold as I stared at the screens. A field of stars, glittering brightly against the backdrop of deep space. And there, at the center of the image, was a cluster of stars formerly neighboring HD 1284, tiny pinpricks of light suspended in an inky void.

But something was wrong. The lights were flickering, as if something was distorting themβ€” something between us and the stars. I squinted, leaning closer, and then I saw it.

A shadow, vast and serpentine, obstructing the faint glow of the distant suns.

And it was moving.

β€œOh, God,” I cried. It was impossible β€” it was just light-years away. There was no way it could have traversed such a vast expanse so quickly. But there it was, twisting and writhing, its form swelling and swelling until it blotted out the entire screen. It felt as if the darkness itself were reaching for me, extending its tendrils through the monitors, through the cables and wires, right intoβ€”

My mind.

The darkness seemed to pulse, a ripple of shadow that echoed through my skull. This wasn’t real β€” it couldn’t be real. I was looking at a screen, and yet… I felt it. Inside me, smothering my very consciousness. It was like a dream, a half-formed nightmare, but sharper. More vivid.

And then, suddenly, I was falling.

The observatory seemed to blur, the walls warping and shifting. I gasped, clutching the desk, but it was like trying to grasp smoke. The floor beneath me buckled, and I stumbled forward, the darkness swallowing everything.

No, no, no, I cried.

The Feeder’s shadow engulfed me, enveloping my thoughts, squeezing tighter. Sharp, searing pain lanced through me. I screamed, the sound swallowed by the void.

YOU LOOKED.

The words penetrated my skull, soft and mocking, no longer confined to a screen. The Feeder wasn’t here β€” not physically. Not yet, at least–it didn’t need to be. It was in my head, projecting itself through the signal, hijacking my inner monologue. I was trapped, lost in the dark, a prisoner in my own mind.

NOW I FEED.

The pain erupted, a white-hot flash that tore through my central nervous system. I thrashed in protest, but the darkness pressed tighter, suffocating. It was tearing me apart, unraveling my sanity, my identity.

And then, abruptly, it released me.

I collapsed to the floor, my head spinning. Slowly the darkness receded, the world blurring back into focus. I peered at the nearby screens; they were still blank.

But the hunger remained.

I was back in the observatory β€” the real, physical observatory β€” but my body and mind felt wrong, violated. As if the boundaries between what was real and what was imagined had begun to fray.

Somewhere in the core of my being, a nagging, incessant sensation persisted. My thoughts were jumbled, fragmented. The Feeder had been inside me–that I was sure of–but it had done more than just explore. It had tasted me.

And it wasn’t finished yet.

Before I had a chance to so much as consider the implications, I was interrupted.

β€œTimothy?” a voice whispered.

I looked up, blinking through the haze of pain. Sarah was standing in the doorway, her face ashen and haggard. Cautiously, she took a step forward, her eyes first darting to the screens, then to me, and back again. I saw her lips move, but the words were muffled, as if I were hearing them through a layer of thick glass.

β€œWhat… what happened?” she asked.

β€œI—” My voice was hoarse, barely more than a rasp. I struggled to my feet, clutching the edge of the desk for support. β€œIt’s… it’s inside the signal. Itβ€” It found a way to—” I broke off, shaking my head violently. None of it made sense. How could I explain what I’d just experienced? How could I make her understand that I wasn’t going insane, that the entity wasn’t just something out there in the depths of space?

It was here. And it was feeding on us now, using the same signal I had obsessed over for days.

β€œWe have to shut it down,” I said finally, my voice trembling. β€œAll of it. The observatory, the servers β€” everything. It’s using the equipment as a gateway. We’re making it stronger.”

Sarah’s face tightened, a flicker of anger sparking in her eyes. β€œYou did this,” she whispered, taking a step back. β€œYou kept pushing, kept digging. I told you to stop, but you wouldn’t listen. And now…”

β€œI’m sorry,” I choked out. β€œPlease, Sarah, Iβ€” I didn’t know.”

But even as I spoke, I realized that wasn’t entirely true. I had known. On some level, I had wanted this β€” wanted to make contact, to pierce the veil between observer and observed. I had ignored the warnings and dismissed the fear, because the hunger for knowledge had been stronger.

And now we were paying the price.

β€œWe have to go,” I insisted, pushing past the pain and the lingering sensation of the Feeder’s presence in my mind. β€œWe have to get out of here, before—”

A loud crack echoed through the observatory, cutting me off. The floor shuddered, the walls vibrating. I stood, paralyzed, as the monitors flickered back to life. The same image appeared on every screen: the former location of HD 1284, now engulfed by the vast, coiling darkness of the Feeder.

But the entity’s form was different now.

Its shape was warping, rippling like a mirage. Tendrils of shadow stretched outward, twisting and curling in impossible patterns. It wasn’t just reacting to the telescope’s gaze anymore. It was… mirroring something.

Mirroring me.

β€œWhat the hell is it doing?!” Sarah cried, taking another step back.

β€œI don’t know,” I whispered, staring in horrified fascination as the entity continued to shift and writhe. It was mimicking my movements, echoing every twitch of my hands, every shift of my weight. And then, as I watched, it began to solidify, coalescing into a darker, denser shape.

A humanoid shape.

β€œOh God,” I blurted out, stumbling backward. It couldn’t be real β€” it was just an image on a screen, a trick of light and shadow. But as I stared, I felt the presence in my mind pulse, a sharp, invasive pressure that made my skull throb. It wasn’t just copying me. It was trying to become me.

β€œWhat are you?” I whispered, not even sure who I was speaking to β€” the Feeder, the shadow on the screen, or the echo of its voice still whispering in the corners of my mind.

The response came–a soft, mocking murmur that seemed to vibrate through the air itself.

YOU KNOW.

I recoiled. It wasn’t a voice, not really β€” more like an impression, a sense of meaning that bypassed language entirely. And in that moment, I understood.

The Feeder wasn’t just a predator. It consumed not just matter and energy, but the very essence of those it encountered. It had fed on innumerable stars, countless worlds, and now it was feeding on me. Using the signal as a conduit, it was attempting to mimic, overwrite, and replace me, the same way it had consumed the light and mass of HD 1284.

And if it succeeded, it wouldn’t stop with me.

β€œWhatβ€”what does it want?” Sarah asked, her voice thin and strained. β€œWhat is it doing?”

β€œIt’s trying to come through,” I whispered. β€œIt’sβ€” It’s using the signal, the telescopeβ€” It’s—”

The words died in my throat as the image on the screen moved. The shadowy form of the Feeder twistedβ€” and then, impossibly, one of its tendrils pressed against the inside of the monitor’s glass.

β€œNo,” I cried, taking a step back. β€œNo, it can’t—”

The glass began to bulge, the surface warping outward as if something were pressing against it from the other side. A faint crack appeared at the edge of the monitor, spreading in a jagged line across the screen. I stumbled backward, shaking my head violently.

β€œIt’s not real!” I whispered frantically. β€œIt’s just a projection! Just a—”

The glass shattered.

I screamed, the sound swallowed by the deafening roar of static that filled the room. Darkness erupted from the broken monitor, a writhing mass of shadow and smoke. It swirled around me, cold and suffocating, coiling around my arms, legs, and throat.

LET ME IN.

The voice was everywhere, a desperate, ravenous whisper that clawed at my mind. I thrashed wildly, but it was like being smothered in frigid ash. Tighter still it pressed, the pressure building in my skullβ€”

And then, suddenly, it stopped.

I blinked, gasping, and realized I was on the floor again, the monitors dark and lifeless. The broken glass had vanished without a trace. The darkness was gone.

Beside me, Sarah stared, wide-eyed, a look of pure horror on her face.

β€œTimothy,” she whispered, her voice shaking. β€œWhat… what just happened?”

I looked down at my hands β€” at the faint, dark tendrils that still lingered around my fingertips, fading like wisps of smoke.

The Feeder hadn’t broken through.

But it had left a part of itself inside me.

β€œI—” I began, but the words caught in my throat. What could I even say? It all seemed futile, pointless.

Across from me, the monitors lit up once more. I cast a glance at them, and nearly choked.

The distant stars were still blinking out. All of them, one by one, with increasing rapidity.

And I knew, with a sickening certainty, that it wasn’t just the Feeder anymore. There were others. Untold others, drifting through the void, drawn to the beacon I had unwittingly activated.

They were coming.

And they were all hungry.

Part V

The observatory was silent except for the hum, that deep, rhythmic vibration that pulsed in the walls, the floor, my chest. It wasn’t merely mechanical; it was alive. Like the heartbeat of a vast, unknowable predator, it thrummed with a life all its own.

I stood frozen, staring at the monitors, at Sarah’s wide, terrified eyes, and at the void where the stars had been. My mind churned with anxiety. We had to do something β€” but every instinct told me that it was already too late. The Feeder itself had told me as much. What position was I in to question something so vast and powerful?

β€œTimothy,” Sarah whispered, clutching my arm. Her voice was trembling, her nails digging into my skin. β€œThey’re coming, aren’t they?”

β€œNo,” I said, my voice hollow. β€œThey’re already here.” I didn’t need to look back at the screens to know it. The Feeder and its kind had crossed whatever incomprehensible distance separated us, drawn by the signal I had foolishly amplified. I had lured them, beckoned them with my obsession, and now we were being hunted.

My thoughts spiraled. Every possible action felt useless. They weren’t creatures that could be fought or reasoned with. They weren’t even bound by the same rules of existence. They were a heartless, calculating force of nature.

And yet, some desperate part of me refused to give in.

β€œWe have to sever the signal,” I said suddenly, turning toward the central console. My voice was sharp now, a forced steadiness cutting through the rising panic. β€œIf we can break the connection, maybe—”

β€œMaybe what?!” Sarah snapped, her fear giving way to anger. β€œMaybe they’ll leave? Maybe they’ll just forget about us? You don’t even know if that’s possible!”

β€œNo, I don’t,” I admitted, meeting her gaze. β€œBut I have to try. You saw what they did to the star. If they make it here—” I swallowed hard. β€œIt’s not just us, Sarah. It’s everyone. Everything.”

She hesitated, her anger fading as the weight of my words sank in. Then, reluctantly, she nodded.

We worked quickly, moving through the observatory with an urgency that bordered on hysteria. Every monitor showed the same terrible image: the void, vast and all-consuming, coiling and writhing as the Feeder’s shadow spread. It was no longer just one entity; faint outlines in the darkness hinted at others, distant but closing in.

The hum grew louder as we shut down systems one by one, each click of a switch a small victory against the mounting dread. But the deeper we went, the more the Feeder pushed back. The monitors flickered and flared, the images distorting into grotesque shapes that seemed to writhe and twist in mockery of human forms. The hum became a roar, vibrating through my skull, and I felt the presence in my mind again.

YOU CANNOT HIDE.

The words weren’t spoken; they were felt, a resonant force pulsing through my being. I staggered, clutching the console for support, my vision swimming. Sarah shouted something, but her voice was drowned out by the roar. The darkness on the monitors swelled, the tendrils approaching the edges of the screens, and I realized with dawning horror that it wasn’t just an image.

It was here.

β€œTimothy!” Sarah’s voice cut through the din, sharp and panicked. β€œWe’ve lost control of the main system. The signal’s still broadcasting!”

β€œNo!” I gasped, stumbling toward the central terminal. My hands shook as I typed, but the commands were ignored. The console’s lights flickered wildly, the hum growing deeper, louder. The Feeder was in the system, entwined with the signal itself, and no matter how many systems we shut down, the connection remained.

β€œTimothy, we have to leave!” Sarah grabbed my arm, trying to pull me away, but I shook her off.

β€œThere’s one more thing we can try!” I said, my voice a desperate rasp. β€œThe antenna array. If we can destroy the transmitter—”

β€œDestroy it?” she interrupted, her eyes wide. β€œYou can’t be serious. That’s millions of dollars in—”

β€œSarah, listen to me!” I shouted, rounding on her. β€œIt doesn’t matter anymore! If we don’t stop the signal, they’ll keep coming. You’ve seen what they are, what they do! Do you think money means anything to them?”

She hesitated, her expression torn between fear and determination. Then, finally, she nodded.

The wind howled as we stepped out onto the observatory’s rooftop, the cold biting through my jacket. Above us, the sky was black β€” not the soft, star-dappled black of a normal night, but an impenetrable void. The stars were gone, eclipsed by the approaching shadows. I couldn’t see them, but I could feel them.

The antenna tower loomed ahead, its skeletal frame silhouetted against the darkness. It was the heart of the observatory’s transmission system, the link between Earth and the cosmos. If we could destroy it, we might sever the signal. It was a long shot, but it was all we had.

β€œHurry!” Sarah urged, her voice tight. She was carrying the toolbox we’d grabbed on our way up, her hands trembling as she fumbled for the cutters. β€œWe don’t have much time.”

I didn’t respond. My focus was on the antenna, on the cables that snaked down its length. Each one was a lifeline to the telescope, a thread that needed to be cut. I reached for the first cable, but my hands were shaking so badly that I could barely grip it.

β€œLet me,” Sarah said, stepping in. She worked quickly, cutting through the thick insulation with a precision that belied her fear. One by one, the cables fell away, the hum from the observatory fading with each severed connection.

But it wasn’t enough.

As Sarah reached for the final cable, the roar returned, louder than ever. The air around us seemed to vibrate, the darkness above swirling furiously. I staggered back, clutching my head as the Feeder’s presence surged through me.

THERE IS NO ESCAPE.

The voice was deafening, a cacophony of whispers and screams that filled my mind. My vision blurred, the world tilting as the Feeder’s shadow pressed nearer. Dark tendrils coiled toward us, reaching down from the void, and I realized with sickening clarity that it wasn’t just here for the signal.

It was here for me.

β€œSarah!” I shouted, forcing myself to stand. β€œCut it! Cut the last cable!”

She hesitated, looking at me with wide, terrified eyes. β€œWhat about you?”

β€œJust do it!” I screamed.

She nodded, tears streaming down her face, and swung the cutters. The final cable snapped with a sharp crack, and the hum stopped. The roar faded, the air stilling as the transmission was silenced.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

And then the darkness exploded.

Shadowy tendrils surged in my direction, enveloping me in an instant, cutting off my air and blinding me. I screamed, the pressure crushing me. I felt the Feeder’s presence inside me again, tearing through my thoughts and unraveling my identity. Piece by piece it consumed me, and I couldn’t stop it.

But I could feel something else, too β€” the connection weakening, the Feeder’s grip faltering. The severed signal had disrupted its hold, breaking the link that had allowed it to reach us. I clung to that thought, to the faint hope that I might still escape.

With a final, desperate scream, I tore myself free.

The tendrils recoiled, the darkness retreating. I collapsed onto the rooftop, struggling to breathe, my body trembling. The sky above was still black, but the hum was gone, and the presence in my mind had faded.

β€œTimothy!” Sarah’s voice was distant. She knelt beside me, panic-stricken, her hands on my shoulders, and shook me. β€œAre you okay? Say something!”

β€œI… I think it worked,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. β€œThe signal’s gone. We stopped it.”

But as I looked up at the sky, at the impenetrable void where the stars had been, I felt no relief. The Feeder was still out there, and it wasn’t alone. I could feel them, faint and distant, watching, waiting.

Part VI

We sat in the wreckage of the observatory, surrounded by the silence we had fought so hard to reclaim. The droning sounds were gone, and the oppressive presence of the Feeder had retreated β€” but the stars above remained conspicuously absent.

The rooftop was littered with severed cables and shards of broken equipment. The antenna tower stood silent, its purpose rendered obsolete by our sabotage. Sarah sat beside me, her face streaked with tears. Neither of us spoke.

It wasn’t over. I could feel it.

The Feeder’s shadow had left a mark β€” not just on the observatory, but on me. My mind felt fractured, haunted by its intrusions. When I closed my eyes, I could still see the tendrils, and feel the horrifying extent of its hunger. It hadn’t fully consumed me, but it had taken something. Something invaluable I couldn’t quite name–and which I might never get back.

β€œTimothy,” Sarah said softly, breaking the silence. Her voice was raw, hoarse from screaming. β€œDo you think… do you think it’s really gone?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but no words came. I didn’t know. The Feeder wasn’t like anything we had ever encountered. It wasn’t bound by the same rules or logic. It didn’t need the signal to reach us. The signal had been a convenience, a draw. Now that it knew we existed, what would stop it from returning?

β€œI don’t know,” I admitted finally, my voice hollow. β€œBut… I don’t think it matters.”

She turned to me, her brow furrowed. β€œWhat do you mean?”

I gestured to the sky, to the emptiness where the stars should have been. β€œLook at it. It’s not just the Feeder. There are others out there. We saw them. They’re coming.”

She followed my gaze, her face pale in the dim light. The endless expanse of space seemed sinister now, as if the absence of stars were a harbinger of something far worse.

β€œHow do you know?” she whispered.

β€œI can feel them,” I said, my voice trembling. β€œEver since the Feeder… got inside me. It’s like they left a door open. And now—” I broke off, struggling to find the words. β€œThey’re watching us. Biding their time.”

Sarah shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. β€œThen what was the point?” she asked bitterly. β€œIf they’re still coming, if we’re all just… just prey to them, then why did we even fight?”

β€œBecause we had to,” I said, though the words felt hollow even as I spoke them. β€œBecause… because maybe we bought ourselves time. Maybe that’s all we can do.”

She didn’t respond, and for a long while we did nothing but sit in silence. I wanted to comfort her, to tell her that everything would be okay, but I couldn’t bring myself to lie. Not after what we had witnessed.

* * * * * *

By morning, the authorities had arrived. The observatory was swarmed with technicians, scientists, and government agents, their faces grim as they surveyed the damage. I watched from the sidelines as they examined the severed cables, the destroyed equipment, the shattered monitors. Sarah stood beside me, her expression unreadable.

β€œWhat do we tell them?” she asked quietly.

β€œThe truth,” I said, though the words felt like a lead weight in my mouth. β€œWe tell them what we saw. What we did.”

She glanced at me, her eyes searching. β€œAnd you think they’ll believe us?”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. We both knew the truth: they wouldn’t believe us. Not really. They’d write it off as a technical malfunction, a breakdown in protocol. The idea of something like the Feeder β€” something vast, predatory, and intelligent β€” was too terrifying to accept. They’d bury it, just like they’d buried every other unexplainable event in human history.

But it wouldn’t matter. Not in the end.

I gave my report to a man in a dark suit with a face that betrayed nothing. He asked questions, taking notes in a black leather-bound book, his pen scratching softly against the paper. I told him everything: the discovery of the anomaly, the signals, the Feeder’s presence. I described the way it had invaded my mind, the way it had reached through the signal to make contact. I told him about the other shadows we had seen, the countless shapes moving in the void.

When I finished, he closed the notebook and stared at me for a long moment. His expression was unreadable, his eyes cold.

β€œAnd you’re certain of this?” he asked finally.

β€œYes,” I said, though my voice wavered. β€œI know how it sounds, but… but you have to believe me. They’re coming. They’re—”

β€œThat will be all, Dr. Cole,” he interrupted, his tone flat. β€œWe’ll take it from here.”

I wanted to argue, to plead, but I knew it wouldn’t make a difference. They didn’t want to understand what we were facing. And in the end, it didn’t matter. The Feeder and its kind would come, whether humanity was ready or not.

Sarah and I left the observatory together, walking down the winding road that led into the valley below. The air was crisp and cold, the sky above still empty. I stared at the horizon, my mind heavy with thoughts of what lay beyond it. The stars were still gone. Would they ever return? Or had we already lost the night sky to the shadows that lurked beyond it?

I realized it wouldn’t be long before everyone else noticed. They had to.

Then, there would be global panic. Questions and no answers. Lies and cover-ups, official explanations.Β  Then there would be unrest, violence, and terror, and finally, perhaps–as reality reared its ugly head, cold and stark–acceptance of humanity’s true position in the Universe.

β€œTimothy,” Sarah said softly, breaking the silence. β€œDo you think they’ll come for us?”

β€œYes,” I said, not looking at her. β€œMaybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But they’ll come.”

She didn’t respond, and for a long time, we walked in silence. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it a faint, distant hum that sent a shiver down my spine. I knew it wasn’t real. It was a product of my mind, forever haunted by what I’d experienced. But that didn’t make it any less terrifying.

The Feeder had left its mark, and I would carry it with me for the rest of my life.

That night, I stood outside my home, doing my best to process everything that had transpired.

Somewhere out there, in the vast, infinite expanse of our galaxy, a predator, ravenous beyond measure, lied in wait, indifferent to the desires of man.

I did the only thing I could think of in that moment.

Staring at the empty, starless sky, I mourned the loss of everything I had held dear, and everyone I had ever loved, and I wept.

Rating: 10.00/10. From 1 vote.
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Written by Craig Groshek
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

πŸ”” More stories from author: Craig Groshek


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