I Work at a Gas Station in Alaska_ We have STRANGE Rules to Survive _ Creepypasta

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:05):
I should have known something was wrong the moment I
saw the job posting buried deep in an obscure Alaskan
employment website, minimal customer interaction, double pay for remote location,
self reliant individuals only. But after three years of soul
crushing marketing meetings in downtown LA, those red flags looked

(00:27):
like promises of salvation. The breaking point had come on
a Tuesday morning in March, sitting in another sterile conference
room overlooking the smog choked four to five freeway. My boss,
a hollow eyed man named Peterson who spoke exclusively in
corporate buzzwords, was explaining our paradigm shifting brand synergy initiative

(00:49):
while I stared at the gridlocked traffic below and felt
my soul slowly dying. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like
dying insects, and the recite air tasted of desperation and
burnt coffee.

Speaker 2 (01:04):
That's when I'd.

Speaker 1 (01:04):
Realized, with crystal clarity, that if I spent one more
day in that corporate tomb, I'd lose whatever was left
of myself. I'd walked out during Peterson's presentation on leveraging
customer touch points for maximum engagement. Optimization, just stood up,
gathered my things and left. The shocked silence that followed

(01:26):
me down the hallway felt like the first honest moment
I'd experienced in years. That night, fueled by whisky and desperation,
I'd started searching for jobs as far from Los Angeles
as possible. Alaska kept coming up. Vast, empty, quiet Alaska,
where a man could disappear into the wilderness and remember

(01:48):
what silence sounded like. The Aurora Philip posting had been perfect, remote, isolated,
requiring someone who could handle solitude. I'd applied without reading
the fine print, driven by a desperate need to escape.
Now three weeks later, I was questioning that decision. The

(02:09):
drive north from Fairbanks had taken four hours on the
Dalton Highway, each mile stretching further into a wilderness that
seemed to swallow civilization whole. My rented pickup truck, a
red Chevy that felt increasingly toy like against the landscape,
had been the only vehicle I'd seen for the last
hundred miles. The GPS had given up somewhere around mile

(02:33):
mark or two hundred, leaving me with nothing but handwritten
directions scrawled on the back of a gas receipt, and
the vague promise from my new employer that I'd know
it when I saw it. The road itself was a
testament to human stubbornness against nature's indifference. Gravel and patches
of cracked asphalt wound through endless black spruce and birch,

(02:55):
the trees standing like ancient sentinels guarding secrets older than memory.
The air grew colder with each mile north, carrying scents
of pine resin wet earth and something wild that no
city dweller ever experiences. Ravens circled overhead, their harsh cries
the only sound besides my engine's steady rumble. I knew

(03:17):
it when I saw it. The Aurora phillips squatted beside
the highway like a forgotten artifact from another era. Two
gas pumps stood sentinel in front of a low slung
building that had seen better decades, its corrugated metal siding
stained with rust and patches of green lichen that seemed
to be slowly consuming the structure. A neon sign flickered

(03:39):
weakly in the driver's side window, open twenty four hours,
though several letters had burned out, leaving gaps that made
it look like a coated message from some distant civilization.
Behind the station, the boreal forest pressed close, an impenetrable
wall of black spruce and birch that seemed to lean
inwards with predatory patients. The trees were ancient, their trunks

(04:04):
thick and scarred, branches reaching toward the building like gnarled fingers.
Somewhere in that green darkness, I could hear the distant
sound of running water, probably a creek, though it sounded
almost like whispers carried on the wind. It was perfect,
exactly the kind of isolation I'd been craving. The June

(04:25):
air bit at my lungs as I stepped out of
the truck, my breath misting. Despite the calendar insisting it
was summer up here, eighty miles north of Fairbanks, summer
meant perpetual twilight, a strange orange glow that hung over
the landscape like the world's slowest sunset. According to my phone,
it was six thirty PM, but the light could have

(04:47):
belonged to dawn or dusk, or some liminal hour that
existed only in Alaska. The sun traced its lazy arc
across the sky, never quite committing to setting. Creating a
landscape abe trapped in eternal transition. My phone showed no
signal bars, perfect The weight of silence enveloped me as

(05:09):
I surveyed the station, and for the first time in years,
I felt my shoulders relax. No hum of engines, no
distant sirens, no helicopter traffic reports, no constant buzz of
humanity grinding against itself, just the profound stillness of this
forgotten spot where time seemed to stretch and distort like taffy.

(05:31):
I took a deep breath, savoring the cold, clean air
that tasted of pine resin permafrost and something indefinably wild.
The first thing I noticed was Harlan's truck. It sat
behind the station, with its driver's door hanging open, like
someone had fled mid sentence. A green Ford pickup from
the eighties, rust eating through the wheel wells like a

(05:53):
slow cancer. The engine was cold had been for some time,
judging by the layer of pine needles that had accumulated
on the hood and the spider webs stretching across the
wheel spokes. A half eaten sandwich sat on the dashboard,
the bread now sporting a fine coat of green mold.
And a thermos of coffee had tipped over, leaving a

(06:14):
brown stain across the cracked vinyl bench seat that had
long since dried to a rusty color. Personal items were
scattered across the cab, a pair of reading glasses with
one lens cracked, a worn paperback copy of Into the
Wild with dozens of handwritten notes in the margins, and
a photograph tucked into the sun visor showing a younger

(06:36):
man with a graying beard standing next to this very
gas station Arlon, presumably in better times. Whatever had caused
him to abandon his truck, It had happened quickly, but
not recently. I called out a greeting, my voice swallowed
by the vast emptiness of the tiger. Hello, Arlin. No

(06:59):
response came from the station, just the echo of my
own voice, bouncing off the trees and fading into nothing.
The station's front door was unlocked, the handle turning easily
under my touch. A brass bell chimed as I pushed inside,
the sound echoing in the cramped space before being swallowed
by the profound quiet that seemed to be Alaska's default setting.

(07:23):
The interior was a study in frontier isolation. Shelves lined
with motor oil cans bearing brands I'd never heard of,
dusty bags of coffee that probably predated my arrival by months,
and rows of snacks with expiration dates I didn't want
to examine too closely. Dust motes danced in the weak,
slanting light, filtering through grime smeared windows. The place smelled

(07:46):
like diesel fuel, old wood, and something else, something organic
and faintly sweet that I couldn't quite identify, but that
made my stomach turn slightly. It was the smell of neglect,
of a place where human presence had become tenuous and temporary.
The layout was simple but functional, two narrow aisles packed

(08:07):
with automotive supplies, camping gear, and enough canned food to
last a month. A coffee machine that had seen better
decades gurgled in one corner, its glass pot stained brown
with decades of use. A rotating grill held a few
hot dogs that looked mummified, their casings split and dried.
Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust, as

(08:30):
if the station had been holding its breath waiting for
someone to return. I spent time examining the shelves, running
my fingers over items that told the story of isolation.
A cracked jar of pickles with a handwritten price tag,
A faded map of the Dalton Highway with distances marked
in pencil. A stack of yellowed newspapers from three years

(08:52):
ago with headlines about missing persons in the interior. Each
item felt like an artifact from a life. Interrupting behind
the counter, next to a cash register that looked like
it had been purchased during the Carter administration, a handwritten
note was taped to the wall. The paper was yellowed
at the edges, and the tape had started to curl,

(09:15):
suggesting it had been there for some time. The words
were written in black ink from what looked like a
fountain pen, the kind of urgent scrawl someone might produce
in a moment of desperate clarity. The ten rules, Follow
them or die. I chuckled softly at first, shaking my
head at the melodrama Backwood's humor. I figured some grizzled

(09:37):
old timer with a twisted sense of humor giving the
new city boy a proper Alaskan welcome. I could already
picture Harlan, probably a man in his sixties, with a
mountain man beard and eyes like chips of ice. The
kind of guy who'd lived alone so long he'd forgotten
how to interact normally with people. But as I read
through the list that followed, my laughter died in my

(09:59):
throat like a cann in a sudden wind. First generator
above eighty percent diesel generator must never dip below eighty percent.

Speaker 2 (10:07):
Fuel lights deter them.

Speaker 1 (10:10):
Two radio silence and one six two zero must play
continuously at volume. Seven Static gaps attract them. Three no
outside lights. Never use flashlight headlights outside after eleven pm.
They mimic light sources. Ignore knocking. If something knocks rhythmically

(10:30):
on windows, doors for exactly three minutes, hold your breath
until it stops. Fifth skin check. Inspect all delivered goods.
Reject any crate with red ice inside the packaging. Six
mirrors covered reflective surfaces monitors, phone screens must be taped

(10:51):
over by midnight. They use reflections to cross thresholds. Seven
do not acknowledge figures. If you see silhouettes between pumps,
look only at your feet until the motion censor bell chimes.
Eight Blood smell lockdown. If you smell copper tin blood,

(11:12):
retreat to the panic room. Reinforced freezer for one hour exactly.

Speaker 2 (11:17):
Nine.

Speaker 1 (11:19):
Trust Ripley, the one eared stray husky knows their movements.
If he hides, you have ninety seconds to secure the store.

Speaker 2 (11:27):
Ten.

Speaker 1 (11:28):
If you see Harlan he's dead, do not speak to him.
Pour diesel on the threshold and ignite it. I reread
the last rule three times, each reading, making it seem
more ominous. If you see Harlan, he's dead. There was
something utterly final about those words, as if death here
wasn't the end, but the beginning of something far worse.

(11:51):
The capital t in them throughout the rules suggested entities
that Harlan considered significant enough to warrant proper nouns. Not animals,
not weather phenomena, but something else entirely. The specificity bothered
me almost as much as the content. These weren't vague
warnings about bears or harsh weather. They were precise instructions

(12:15):
written by someone who had clearly encountered whatever they were
multiple times and lived to document the experience. The detail
about holding your breath for exactly three minutes, the specific
volume setting for the radio, the precise fuel percentage for
the generator. These were the kind of hard won survival
tactics that came from trial and error, probably deadly error.

(12:39):
Next to the note sat a battered military surplus box,
the kind of olive green container I'd seen in war movies.
The metal was scratched and dented, suggesting it had seen
considerable use. Inside meticulously arranged with the precision of someone
who understood that preparation might mean the difference between life
and death. Death was a survival kit that seemed excessive

(13:03):
for running a gas station bare spray with the safety
clip already removed for quick deployment, half a dozen road
flares with the rappers partially torn for immediate access, a
bone handled hunting knife that looked hand made, its blade
maintained to razor sharpness and its leather sheath worn smooth
from regular use. And most puzzling of all, an old

(13:26):
cassette player rigged with external speakers, and an unusually robust
AM radio antenna that looked like it had been modified
by someone with serious electronics knowledge. On top of everything
sat a note written on torn cardboard in the same
urgent handwriting for the new guy. Sorry you ended up here.

(13:47):
May God have mercy on your soul. H The religious
reference caught me off guard. Harlan hadn't struck me as
the praying type based on his truck and belongings, but
something of about this place had apparently driven him to seek
divine intervention. The sorry bothered me more than the rules themselves.

(14:09):
It suggested regret, maybe even guilt, as if Harlan knew
he was abandoning me to something terrible and had wrestled
with his conscience before finally fleeing. I switched on the
cassette player with fingers that trembled slightly. A M sixteen
twenty crackled to life, playing what sounded like elevator music

(14:30):
from the seventies, mixed with intermittent bursts of static that
seemed to follow no discernible pattern. The sound was oddly
comforting in the empty station, a reminder that somewhere out there,
radio waves still carried human voices across the wilderness, connecting
this isolated outpost to the larger world. I adjusted the

(14:52):
volume dial to exactly seven, as specified in the rules.
The generator's hum became more noticeable as I stood se still,
a steady, mechanical heartbeat that seemed to pulse through the
building's frame. I found the fuel gage mounted on the
wall near the back door eighty nine percent, well above
the required eighty percent, but the specificity of that threshold

(15:15):
suggested it wasn't arbitrary. Someone had learned through experience that
letting the fuel drop below that level was dangerous. Outside
I could see the generator sitting in what looked like
a reinforced concrete bunker behind the building. The structure was
squat and utilitarian, built more like a military fortification than

(15:35):
a simple equipment shelter. The diesel tanks were massive, easily
large enough to keep the lights burning for weeks or
even months. Whoever had designed this setup had planned for
extended isolation, the kind of siege mentality that suggested ongoing
threat rather than occasional danger. I walked the perimeter of
the station, noting details that painted a picture of careful

(15:59):
preparation and growing paranoia. Motion sensors were mounted at each corner,
their red lights blinking steadily. The windows were reinforced with
metal mesh on the inside, and I found what looked
like steel shutters that could be lowered to cover them completely.
This wasn't just a gas station, it was a fortress.

(16:20):
Hours passed as I explored my new domain, each discovery
adding another layer to the growing sense that I'd stumbled
into something far more complex than a simple gas station job.
The endless twilight shifted slowly from golden to amber, then
to the deep rust color that seemed to be Alaska's

(16:40):
version of evening. The light had a strange quality to it,
simultaneously warm and cold, inviting and ominous. I kept checking
my watch, amazed by how much time could pass without
any sense of urgency or deadline. In La, every minute
had been scheduled, monetized, optimized for maximum productivity. Here, time

(17:05):
moved like honey, thick and unhurried, allowing thoughts to develop
naturally instead of being constantly interrupted by phones and e
mails and the relentless pressure of artificial deadlines. Near the
employee door, I discovered a crumpled photograph tucked behind a
stack of inventory sheets. It showed a younger Harlan grinning broadly,

(17:26):
his beard thick and untamed, one arm slung around a
large husky with one ear that folded oddly. The dog's
deep brown eyes seemed to gleam with intelligence, as if
it was guarding secrets. I wasn't privy to yet a
handwritten note on the back read simply, Ripley best friend
A man could ask for the weight of responsibility settled

(17:49):
on my shoulders like a heavy coat. According to the rules,
this dog, this Ripley, would be my early warning system,
my lifeline to survival in whatever trials lay ahead. I
wondered where he was now and whether he'd accept me
as Harlan's replacement. I was settling into the threadbare chair
behind the counter, a three year old copy of Alaska

(18:12):
Magazine in my lap, when I heard the first scratch
at the front door. It was soft, almost tentative, the
sound of fingernails dragging across wood in a deliberate pattern.
Three quick scrapes, pause, three more scrapes. I looked up
from an article about subsistence hunting, my heart rate picking
up slightly, despite my rational mind insisting it was probably

(18:34):
just a tree branch, or maybe some curious wild life. Hello,
I called out, my voice, sounding unnaturally loud in the
quiet station. The scratching stopped immediately, leaving only the generator's
distant rumble and the soft static from the radio. The
silence that followed felt expectant, as if something was listening,

(18:55):
waiting for me to make the next move. I waited,
straining my ears for any sound, but heard nothing more.
After a few minutes, I dismissed it as wind, or
maybe a curious animal investigating the strange sense of human habitation.
But when I looked toward the front window, I noticed
something that made my skin prickle with unease. Frost was

(19:17):
forming on the inside of the glass. Not the random
crystalline patterns you'd expect from temperature differences, but deliberate shapes.
Hand prints, long, impossibly thin impressions that looked like they'd
been pressed against the window from outside, but the frost
was forming on the interior surface. The prints were larger

(19:39):
than any human hand I'd ever seen, with fingers that
seemed to have more joints than should have been anatomically possible.
I approached the window slowly, the bone handled knife somehow
finding its way into my grip without any conscious decision
on my part. The hand prints were already beginning to
fade as the glass warmed, but I could still make

(20:01):
out their unnatural geometry. Whatever had made them possessed a
fundamentally different anatomy than any creature. I knew something that
bent and articulated in ways that human hands simply couldn't match.
The radio crackled, and for a moment that seemed to
stretch into eternity, the music cut to pure static. In

(20:23):
that brief silence, I heard something that made my blood
freeze in my veins, A low, humming sound, almost below
the threshold of hearing, that seemed to vibrate through the
building's frame itself. It was rhythmic, almost like breathing, but
with a harmonic complexity that no animal could produce. Multiple
tones wove together in patterns that hurt to listen to,

(20:46):
as if my brain wasn't equipped to process whatever was
creating the sound. Then the music returned as abruptly as
it had cut out, and the humming stopped, leaving me
wondering if I'd imagined the whole thing. I glanced at
the generator gauge eighty seven percent, still well above the
critical eighty percent, but the steady decline bothered me more

(21:07):
than I wanted to admit. In LA, a two percent
drop in anything would have been within normal parameters, barely
worth noting here. It felt significant, ominous, like watching a
countdown timer tick towards zero as Alaska's peculiar twilight deepened
into something approaching true evening, I found myself taking Harlan's

(21:28):
rules more seriously with each passing minute. Maybe it was
the isolation getting to me, the way silence could amplify
every small sound until it became threatening. Or maybe it
was the impossible hand prints slowly fading from the window,
evidence of something that shouldn't exist but clearly did. The
forest pressed closer in the dimming light, its shadows reaching

(21:50):
toward the station like grasping fingers. Every tree seemed to
lean inward, and I caught myself checking the windows repeatedly,
looking for moves that never quite materialized, but always seemed
just at the edge of perception. I turned the radio
volume back to exactly seven, checked that the knife was

(22:10):
within easy reach, and settled in to wait for my
first real night at the Aurora Phillip. Outside the generator
hummed its mechanical lullaby, a sound that should have been comforting,
but somehow felt like the only thing standing between me
and something unspeakably vast and hungry. Somewhere in the back
of my mind, a small voice wondered if I'd finally

(22:33):
found the isolation I'd been seeking, or if isolation had
found me. The first real night at Aurora, Fillip settled
around me like a living shroud. The perpetual twilight had
finally given way to something approaching genuine darkness, though the
sky never turned fully black. Instead, it became a deep
purple gray that seemed to absorb light while refusing to

(22:57):
release it. The fluorescent lights inside the steation buzzed with
a nervous energy, casting harsh shadows that danced and shifted
with each flicker. I'd positioned myself behind the counter, with
Harlan's survival kit within arm's reach, the bone handled knife
lying across my lap like a talisman against the unknown.

(23:17):
The radio continued its steady stream of elevator music, punctuated
by bursts of static, the sound both comforting and unnerving
in the profound silence that pressed against the building from
all sides. Every few minutes, I found myself checking the
generator gage. The needle had crept steadily downward from the
eighty seven percent I'd noted earlier, and now it hovered

(23:40):
dangerously close to the eighty percent threshold that Harlan's first
rule had established as critical At eighty one percent, then
eighty point eight percent, then eighty point five percent. Each
fraction of a percent felt like a step closer to
some invisible precipice. The generator's steady rumble was the heart
of this place, and I'd grown hypersensitive to every variation

(24:03):
in its rhythm. When the fuel gage dropped to exactly
eighty point two percent, I felt my chest tighten with anxiety.
The needle seemed to quiver there, balanced on the edge
of the forbidden zone. Then the lights flickered. It was
subtle at first, just a brief dimming that lasted perhaps
half a second. But in that moment of reduced illumination,

(24:26):
something changed in the world outside. The shadows between the
gas pumps shifted in ways that had nothing to do
with the movement of tree branches or passing clouds. They
flowed like liquid coalescing into shapes that suggested human forms,
but moved with an unnatural fluidity. I gripped the knife
handle tighter and forced myself to remember rule number seven.

(24:50):
Do not acknowledge figures. If you see silhouettes between pumps,
look only at your feet until the motion censor bell chimes.
The temptation to look was overwhelming. My peripheral vision caught
glimpses of movement, pale elongated shapes that seemed to glide
rather than walk. They moved in perfect synchronization, like a

(25:14):
school of fish or a flock of starlings. But there
was something profoundly wrong about their coordination. It was too precise,
too deliberate, as if they shared a single consciousness. I
fixed my eyes on the scuffed leather of my boots,
counting the scratches and stains, to keep my mind occupied.
The floorboards beneath my feet vibrated slightly with each step

(25:37):
the figures took, though they made no sound that I
could hear. The silence was complete except for the generator's
hum and the soft static from the radio. Seconds stretched
into minutes. My neck ached from keeping my head down,
and sweat beaded on my forehead. Despite the cold air,
the urge to look up to see what was happening

(25:59):
just beyond them windows became almost unbearable, but I held
my position, trusting in Harlan's hard won wisdom. Finally, the
motion censor bell at the front door chimed once, a
soft electronic note that seemed to cut through the tension
like a blade. I raised my head cautiously and saw
that the shadows had returned to their normal positions. The figures,

(26:22):
whatever they had been, were gone. The generator gage read
eighty point one percent. I made my way to the
back door, stepping carefully to avoid the loose floorboards that
creaked under my weight. The diesel fuel tank sat in
its concrete bunker like a sleeping giant, and I could
hear the generator's mechanical breathing change slightly as I approached refueling.

(26:46):
It seemed like the most important task in the world.
The process was straightforward, but nerve racking. I had to
turn off the generator momentarily to safely add fuel, which
meant the lights would go out completely in the fuse
seconds of darkness. I worked by feel alone, the diesel
smell sharp in my nostrils, my hands shaking as I

(27:07):
operated the manual pump. When I restarted the generator and
the lights blazed back to life, I felt a wave
of relief so intense it left me dizzy. The gauge
needle swung back up to a comfortable ninety two percent.
I returned to my post behind the counter but the
encounter with the shadows had left me shaken. These weren't

(27:28):
bears or wolves, or any natural predator that might threaten
an isolated gas station. These were something else, entirely, something
that operated according to rules I didn't understand, but that
Harlan clearly had learned to navigate. The radio's music shifted
to a different tune, something that might have been a
waltz played on a pipe organ. The melody was haunting

(27:50):
and repetitive, and I found myself unconsciously tapping my finger
to the rhythm. Time moved strangely in this place, minutes
feeling like hours, while hours seemed to pass in moments.
At exactly midnight, I knew because I'd been checking my
watch obsessively, the knocking began, tap, tap, tap. The sound

(28:12):
came from the front window, slow and deliberate, and impossibly patient.
It was the sound of fingernails on glass, but with
a resonance that suggested the fingers were longer and stronger
than any human hand could produce. Rule number four flashed
through my mind. Ignore knocking. If something knocks rhythmically on

(28:32):
windows doors for exactly three minutes, hold your breath until
it stops. I drew in the deepest breath I could
manage and held it, my cheeks puffing out with the effort.
My lungs were already burning by the time the second
set of knocks came, and I had nearly three minutes
to endure. Tap, tap, tap. The knocking continued with metronomic

(28:55):
precision as I watched in fascination and horror. Frost began
forming on the interior surface of the window, not the
random crystal patterns you'd expect from condensation, but deliberate shapes
hand prints, long, spindly impressions that suggested fingers with far
too many joints. My vision began to blur as oxygen

(29:16):
deprivation set in the world took on a dreamlike quality,
edges softening and colors shifting. The knocking seemed to grow louder,
more insistent, and I could see more hand prints forming
on other windows as whatever was outside moved around the
perimeter of the building. My chest ached, my heart hammered

(29:37):
against my ribs. Black spots danced at the edges of
my vision, and I found myself swaying slightly on the stool,
but I held my breath, counting the seconds on my
watch as they crawled by with agonizing slowness. Two minutes
two and a half the knocking continued without pause, never

(29:59):
varying in rhythm or intensity. The frost patterns grew thicker
and more complex, creating a gallery of impossible anatomy pressed
against the glass. At exactly three minutes, the knocking stopped.
I exhaled explosively, gasping and coughing as oxygen flooded back
into my system. The hand prints began to fade immediately,

(30:23):
leaving only the faintest traces of moisture on the glass,
but the memory of their unnatural geometry remained burned into
my retinas. Before I could fully recover, the front door
rattled on its hinges. A shape burst through the door
so quickly I barely had time to register it was
an animal before it was under the counter, whimpering and trembling.

(30:46):
The dog riply it had to be. Was larger than
I'd expected from the photograph, a husky with one ear
that flopped at an odd angle and eyes that held
an intelligence I'd rarely seen in animals. The fur was
matted with something dark and wet, and he pressed himself
against my legs. As if seeking warmth and protection. The

(31:08):
terror in his brown eyes was unmistakable, and when I
reached down to touch him, he flinched, but didn't pull away.
That's when the smell hit me. Copper and iron, sharp
and metallic, the unmistakable scent of fresh blood. It filled
the air so quickly and completely that I could taste
it on my tongue, and my stomach lurched with revulsion.

(31:31):
Rule number eight blood smell equals lockdown. If you smell
copper tin blood, retreat to the panic room reinforced freezer
for one hour exactly. I didn't hesitate, Grabbing Ripley under
one arm and the survival kit with the other, I
rushed to the back room where Harlan had constructed his
last line of defense. The panic room was exactly what

(31:53):
he'd called it, a reinforced walk in freezer with steel
walls and a door that locked from the inside with
multiple dead bolts. The cold hit me like a physical
blow as we squeezed inside. The space was cramped maybe
six feet by four feet, with shelves of emergency supplies
lining the walls. I sealed the door behind us and

(32:15):
checked my watch. One hour That's what the rule specified,
and I had learned to trust Harlan's precision. Ripley pressed
close to me, his body heat a welcome comfort in
the frigid air. I could feel him shaking, and occasionally
he would let out a low whine that seemed to
express more than ordinary animal fear. This dog had seen things,

(32:36):
survived things that would have broken a human mind. Outside
the freezer, I could hear sounds that made my skin crawl,
Wet scraping noises as if something was dragging itself across
the floor, the occasional thump of something heavy hitting the walls,
and underneath it all that same low humming i'd heard earlier,

(32:58):
multiple voices harmonizing in patterns that hurt to listen to.
I tried not to think about what might be happening outside. Instead,
I focused on examining the supplies Harlan had stockpiled. Canned food,
bottled water, a battery powered radio, medical supplies, ammunition for
a rifle. I hadn't found yet, everything organized with the

(33:20):
methodical precision of someone who understood that preparation was survival.
Buried beneath a box of ammunition, I found something that
made me catch my Breath, a leather bound journal, its
pages yellowed with age and filled with Harlan's handwriting. Even
in the dim light of the freezer's single bulb, I

(33:40):
could make out the urgency in his scrawled entries. The
journal was a chronicle of gradual realization and growing terror,
documenting his encounters with what he called the drifters. Day
one strange sounds at night, probably just animals. Day fifteen

(34:00):
found tracks around the station, not like anything I know.
Too many toes. Day forty three saw them between the pumps,
tall pale, move wrong. Generator must stay above eighty percent
or they come closer. Day one hundred twenty seven. They
can mimic voices. Heard my dead brother calling my name.

(34:22):
Didn't answer. Rule never respond to familiar voices after dark.
Day two hundred and three. Radio Static attracts them. Constant
music keeps them confused. Volume seven seems to be the threshold.
Day three hundred fifty six, the knocking ritual. They test
my resolve three minutes exactly, hold breath or they know

(34:46):
you're listening. Day five hundred. They're learning, getting smarter. Found
Ripley half dead, but he knows when they're coming. Trust
the dog day eight hundred forty seven. They learned my name.
Not my voice, or my brother's voice, or my mother's voice.

Speaker 2 (35:04):
My name.

Speaker 1 (35:06):
I can hear them whispering it outside. The old Inupiate
stories were right. The drifters wear the gold miners like
ill fitting coats. I won't let them wear me. Ripley
won't leave the freezer. They know my name now. The
final entry was barely legible, written in what looked like blood,
Day eight hundred fifty. If someone finds this, follow the rules,

(35:30):
all of them. The drifters are patient. They've been here
since before the mining camps, before the highway, before men
thought they could tame this place. They're hungry for warmth,
for life, for the spark that makes us human. Don't
let them take it. Don't let them learn your name.
I closed the journal with shaking hands, understanding finally washing

(35:53):
over me like ice water. This wasn't a job, it
was a sentence. Harlan hadn't abandoned the station. He'd been
driven out by creatures that existed in the spaces between
human understanding and nightmare. The hour passed with agonizing slowness.
Ripley had stopped shaking and now lay pressed against my side,

(36:14):
his breathing steady and warm. Occasionally I would hear scratching
at the freezer door, testing the strength of the seal,
but the sounds never lasted long. When my watch finally
showed that sixty minutes had elapsed, I waited an additional
five minutes just to be safe. Then, moving as quietly
as possible, I unlocked the dead bolts and cracked the

(36:37):
door open. The station looked normal, but the air still
carried a faint trace of that metallic smell. Dark stains
streaked across the floor, not blood, but something that left
similar marks. The windows were fogged with moisture, and I
could see the ghostly remnants of those impossible hand prints

(36:58):
still etched in the condensation. Ripley stayed close to me
as we emerged, his nose working constantly to sample the
air for threats. He moved like a soldier, alert and careful,
checking corners and shadows with the thoroughness of experience. The
generator was still running smoothly, the fuel gauge reading eighty

(37:18):
eight percent. The radio played its endless stream of innocuous music,
but something had changed in the station's atmosphere. The very
air seemed thinner, more fragile, as if the barriers between
the world I knew and something else had been worn
down by the night's encounters. I settled back behind the counter,
with Ripley at my feet and Harlan's journal in my lap.

(37:41):
The dog's presence was reassuring. He was living proof that
survival was possible, that the rules worked if followed precisely.
But I also understood now that I was no longer
just running a gas station. I was maintaining a fortress,
holding a line against something ancient and hungry. Dawn was
still hours away, and I had the distinct feeling that

(38:03):
the Knight's trials had only just begun. The drifters knew
the station was occupied again. They would test me, probe
for weaknesses, search for any deviation from the rules that
had kept Harlan alive for over two years. But I
had advantages Harlan hadn't possessed in his final days. I
had his journal, his hard won knowledge, and most importantly,

(38:26):
I had Ripley. The one eared husky had become my
early warning system, my connection to understanding that existed beyond
human senses. I reached down and scratched behind his good ear,
feeling the solid warmth of living flesh and blood. We'll
make it through this, I whispered to him, though I

(38:47):
wasn't sure if I was trying to convince the dog
or myself. Outside the forest, pressed close to the windows
and in its depths, patient things waited for their next
opportunity to test the rules that held them at bay.
The night was far from over. The second night at Aurora,
Philip descended like a predator stalking its prey. Where the

(39:09):
first night had been a series of tests, tonight felt different, heavier,
more purposeful. The drifters knew I was here now, and
they were no longer content to simply probe the station's defenses.
Ripley had barely left my side since emerging from the freezer.
The one eared Husky positioned himself strategically near the counter,

(39:30):
his good ear constantly swiveling to catch sounds I couldn't hear.
His brown eyes held a wariness that spoke of hard
earned survival instincts, and I found myself checking his body
language as often as I checked the generator gauge. The
fuel level had climbed back to ninety two percent after
my midnight refueling, But I knew from Harlan's journal that

(39:51):
the drifters would test me more aggressively tonight. They were learning, adapting,
searching for weaknesses in both my resolve and my understanding
of the rule. I'd spent the early evening hours studying
every page of Harlan's journal, committing his observations to memory.
The entries painted a picture of escalating encounters each night,

(40:11):
bringing new challenges that required precise adherence to the rules
he'd developed through trial and terror. His handwriting grew more
frantic as the days progressed, documenting close calls and narrow
escapes that had ultimately failed.

Speaker 2 (40:26):
To save him.

Speaker 1 (40:27):
The radio played its endless stream of elevator music, the
volume dial carefully set to seven. I'd become hypersensitive to
every variation in the signal, every burst of static that
might herald an attack. The music was my lifeline, a
barrier of sound that kept the drifters confused and at bay.
Around eight thirty p m. I heard the distant rumble

(40:49):
of an engine on the Dalton Highway. My pulse quickened
as headlights appeared through the trees, growing steadily brighter as
they approached the station. Delivery trucks were rare this far north,
especially at night, and Harlan's journal had mentioned several encounters
with vehicles that weren't what they seemed. The truck rolled
to a stop with a hydraulic hiss of air brakes.

(41:11):
Through the window, I could see the driver sitting motionless
in the cab, a dark silhouette against the dim light
of the dashboard. Something about his stillness made my skin crawl,
but I forced myself to step outside to meet him.
The June air bit at my lungs, carrying scents of
pine and permafrost, mixed with something else, something organic and

(41:32):
wrong that made my stomach clench. The driver emerged, slowly,
moving with an odd, disjointed gait that reminded me of
a marionette operated by an inexperienced puppeteer. He was bundled
in a heavy parka. Despite the relatively mild temperature, the
hood pulled up to cast deep shadows across his face.

(41:53):
When he turned toward me, I caught a glimpse of
pale skin and what looked like crude stitching along his jawline,
as if someone had sown pieces of flesh together with
black thread Fairbank's provisions, he said, his voice a rasping
whisper that seemed to come from somewhere other than his throat.

Speaker 2 (42:13):
Got a delivery for you.

Speaker 1 (42:15):
He gestured toward the back of the truck with movements
that were too fluid, too boneless. My hand instinctively moved
to the bone handled knife at my belt as he
lowered the tail gate and pulled out a wooden crate
stamped with military style lettering. The crate was smaller than
I'd expected, roughly the size of a case of beer,
but it radiated cold in a way that had nothing

(42:37):
to do with refrigeration. As the driver set it down
near the pumps, I could see frost forming on its
wooden sides despite the warm evening air.

Speaker 2 (42:46):
I'll need to.

Speaker 1 (42:47):
Inspect it first, I said, remembering rule number five skin check.
Inspect all delivered goods, reject any crate with red ice
inside the packaging. The driver's head tilted at an unnatural angle,
the stitched skin along his jaw pulling tight. Of course,
he whispered company policy. I approached the crate cautiously, noting

(43:12):
how the frost patterns seemed to writhe and shift across
its surface. The wood was old and scarred, with iron
bands that had rusted to the color of dried blood.
When I pried open the lid with my knife, the
smell that emerged made me gag. Inside, wrapped in brown
butcher paper, lay what appeared to be cuts of meat.

(43:33):
But as I peeled back the paper, I saw something
that made my blood freeze. The meat was leaking a thick,
dark substance that wasn't quite liquid, red ice that pulsed
with its own internal light, like a beating heart made
of crystallized blood. The substance spread across the meat's surface
in patterns that hurt to look at, geometric shapes that

(43:55):
seemed to shift and change when I wasn't looking directly
at them. Where the red ice touched the butcher paper,
it left stains that looked disturbingly like hand prints. Rule
number five was crystal clear. Without hesitation. I slammed the
lid shut and pushed the crate back toward the driver.
Not interested, I said, firmly, backing away from both the

(44:18):
crate and the figure in the parka. The driver's head
tilted further, and for a moment I thought I heard
something moving inside his hood. A wet, sliding sound like
snakes in a bag. You sure about that, he asked,
And when he smiled, I saw that his teeth were
too white, too perfect, and arranged in patterns that no

(44:40):
human mouth could accommodate. I'm sure, I said, my hand
tightening on the knife handle. He shrugged with movements that
involved too many joints, loaded the crate back into his truck,
and drove away without another word. But as his tail
lights disappeared into the forest, I noticed something that made
my skin crawl. His truck left no tire tracks in

(45:03):
the gravel, as if it had been floating inches above
the ground. I hurried back inside, double checking that the
door was locked and the security system was armed. Ripley
whined softly and pressed closer to my legs, his fur
standing on end. The encounter with the fake delivery driver
had rattled me more than I wanted to admit, But

(45:24):
I'd followed the rules and survived. That had to count
for something. The hours crawled by with agonizing slowness. I
found myself checking my watch, constantly marking the passage of time,
like a prisoner counting days. The radio continued its steady
stream of music, occasionally interrupted by bursts of static that

(45:46):
made me flinch every time they occurred. At ten forty
five PM, I began preparing for the challenges I knew
were coming. I checked the generator fuel level, still at
ninety percent, and tested the panic room's lock one more time.
The road flares were arranged within easy reach, and I'd
positioned myself where I could access both the survival kit

(46:08):
and the radio controls without leaving my defensive position behind
the counter. At exactly eleven seventeen p m, the music stopped.
The silence was so sudden and complete that it felt
like a physical blow. The radio emitted nothing but harsh static,
a biding electronic scream that seemed to strip warmth from

(46:29):
the air. I reached for the tuning dial, trying to
bring back the signal, but the static only grew louder
and more aggressive. The generator shuddered and the lights dimmed dangerously.
Outside I could hear the low, vibrating hum that had
haunted my first night, but this time it was louder,
more insistent, coming from multiple directions at once. The building's

(46:53):
frame began to resonate with the sound, creating harmonics that
made my teeth ache. That's when I realized my mistake.
The security monitor, a small CRT screen that showed the
pump area, was still uncovered. In my focus on the
radio and generator. I'd forgotten rule number six mirrors covered

(47:14):
reflective surfaces monitors phone screens must be taped over by midnight.
They used reflections to cross thresholds. The screen flickered to
life with an image that shouldn't have been possible. Instead
of showing the empty pump area, it displayed the interior
of the station, but from an impossible angle, as if
the camera was floating somewhere inside the building. And in

(47:37):
that impossible view, I could see them pale elongated figures
moving through the aisles with the fluid grace of deep
sea creatures. They were inside the station, materializing through the
reflection in the monitor screen, like ghosts stepping through a
dimensional gateway. Their skin was translucent, revealing networks of dark

(47:59):
veins beneath, and their faces were barely human, stretched and distorted,
as if some one had tried to reshape clay into
a human likeness and failed. I lunged for the roll
of duct tape on the counter, but it was too late.
The figures had already begun to solidify, their forms, becoming
more substantial with each passing second. The humming grew so

(48:20):
loud that the windows began to vibrate in their frames,
and the air itself seemed to thicken with malevolent presence.
Ripley shot out from under the counter with a bark
that was half warning, half battle cry. His instincts were
screaming danger, and I trusted them completely. Rule number nine.
Trust Ripley. The one eared stray Husky knows their movements.

(48:44):
If he hides, you have ninety seconds to secure the store.
But Ripley wasn't hiding. He was preparing to fight. That
meant the situation had moved beyond the normal protocols. I
slammed the security shutters down over the windows and through
every lock I could find, but I knew it was futile.

(49:04):
The drifters were already inside, having used the uncovered monitor
as their entry point. The station had been breached, and
I was trapped inside with them. The lights failed, completely,
plunging the station into absolute darkness. The only illumination came
from the faint glow of the drifters themselves, their translucent

(49:24):
skin pulsing with bioluminescent patterns that hurt to look at directly.
They moved through the aisles like sharks through water, their
elongated limbs reaching out to touch shelves and products with
curious predatory interest. I fumbled for the road flares, my
hands shaking as I tried to ignite the first one.

(49:45):
The striker scraped against the cap once, twice, three times
before finally producing a spark. The flare burst to life
with a brilliant red flame that cast dancing shadows across
the station's interior. The drifters recoiled from the light with
hisses that sounded like steam escaping from a broken pipe.
Their forms became less solid, more ethereal, as if the

(50:08):
fire was somehow disrupting their ability to maintain physical coherence.
But they didn't disappear. Instead, they began to circle the
edges of the light, testing its boundaries, like wild animals
stalking prey around a campfire. I lit a second flare,
then a third, creating a barrier of flame around my
position behind the counter. The red light revealed details I

(50:32):
wished I couldn't see the way the drifter's skin rippled
and shifted like liquid, the impossible number of joints in
their elongated fingers, the dark pits where their eyes should
have been. That's when I saw him through the front window, Harlan,
or rather something wearing Harlan's face like an ill fitting mask.

(50:54):
The figure stood just outside the circle of firelight, beckoning
to me with gestures that were almost human, but wrong
in ways that made my mind recoil. His skin was
gray and mottled with frostbite, and his eyes were the
empty black pits I'd seen in the other drifters. Rule
number ten burned in my memory. If you see Harlan,

(51:18):
he's dead, Do not speak to him. Pour diesel on
the threshold and ignite it. I grabbed the can of
diesel fuel from the emergency supplies, my hands steady despite
the chaos around me. The fake Harlan continued to beckon
his frozen lips, moving in what might have been my name,
but I refused to listen. Instead, I doused the threshold

(51:42):
with diesel and struck a match. The flames irrupted, instantly,
creating a wall of fire between the station and the
thing wearing Harlan's face. The figure shrieked a sound like
metal tearing and old leather burning, before dissolving into ash
that scattered on the wind. But my victory was short lived.

(52:03):
The generator gave one final shudder and died, taking the
last of the station's electric power with it. The drifters
pressed closer, their bioluminescent patterns growing brighter as they sensed weakness.
Ripley launched himself at the nearest drifter with a snarl
of pure fury. His teeth found purchase in what passed
for the creature's throat, and both animal and monster went

(52:26):
down in a writhing tangle of fur and pale flesh.
The drifter's skin began to tear away like wet paper,
revealing the churning darkness beneath, not flesh or bone, but
something that moved with its own malevolent life.

Speaker 2 (52:41):
I used the.

Speaker 1 (52:42):
Distraction to grab the remaining flares and the bone handled knife.

Speaker 2 (52:46):
The station was lost.

Speaker 1 (52:48):
My only chance was to reach my truck and try
to outrun whatever was left of the pack. But as
I moved toward the back door, more drifters materialized from
the shadows, their forms coalescing from the darkness like nightmares
given substance. The exit was blocked. The front entrance was
still burning from the diesel fire. My options were running

(53:09):
out faster than my flares. That's when Ripley appeared at
my side, his muzzle bloody but his eyes bright with determination.
The drifter he'd attacked was gone, not dead, but somehow unmade.
Its essence scattered back to whatever realm had spawned it.
The dog looked up at me with an expression that
was almost human in its intelligence, then darted toward the

(53:32):
service door that led to the generator bunker. I followed him,
understanding his plan instinctively. The bunker was reinforced concrete, and
its small size would prevent the drifters from surrounding us.
More importantly, it had a separate exit that led directly
to the parking area, where my truck waited. We burst

(53:52):
through the service door together, the concrete walls of the
bunker closing around us like the walls of a fortress.
But the drifters were right behind us, their forms flowing
through the doorway like smoke. Given malicious purpose, I lit
my last flare and held it high, creating a circle
of red light in the cramped space. The creatures pressed

(54:14):
against the edges of the illumination, their forms shifting between
solid and ethereal as they tested the barrier. But concrete
and fire could only hold them for so long. Ripley
was already at the exit, scratching at the heavy steel
door with desperate intensity. I fumbled with the locks, my
hands shaking as the flare burned lower and lower. The

(54:37):
drifters were getting bolder, reaching tendrils of shadow into the
firelight to probe for weaknesses. The door finally gave way,
revealing the blessed darkness of the parking area beyond. My
truck sat twenty yards away, its red paint gleaming in
the fading light of my flare, but twenty yards might
as well have been twenty miles. With the drifters pressing

(54:58):
close behind, Ripley shot out of the bunker like a missile,
racing toward the truck with his ears flat against his skull.
I followed the dying flare, casting wild shadows as we
ran behind us. The drifters poured out of the bunker
in a tide of pale flesh and reaching claws. I

(55:18):
reached the truck just as the flare gutted out, plunging
the world into darkness. My hands found the door handle
by touch alone, and I threw myself into the driver's
seat as Ripley leaped through the passenger window in a
single fluid motion. The engine turned over on the first try,
a small miracle that probably saved our lives. I threw

(55:39):
the truck into drive and floored the accelerator, gravel spraying
behind us as we shot out of the parking area
and onto the Dalton Highway. In accordance with rule number three,
I kept the headlights off despite the darkness. The highway
was a black ribbon threading through an even blacker forest,
visible only as a slightly less dark path between the trees.

(56:01):
But I'd rather drive blind than give the drifters a
light source to mimic and follow.

Speaker 2 (56:06):
The rear view mirror.

Speaker 1 (56:07):
Was taped over, as per rule number six, but I
didn't need it to know we were being pursued. I
could feel them out there in the darkness, pacing us
through the forest with that unnatural silence that seemed to
absorb all sound. Occasionally I caught glimpses of pale forms
moving between the trees, keeping pace with the truck. Despite

(56:28):
our speed. Ripley pressed close to me, his body warm
against my side. His presence was reassuring, living proof that
survival was possible, that the rules could be followed even
under the most extreme circumstances. But I also knew that
our escape was only temporary. The drifters were patient, and

(56:48):
they would follow us as far as necessary to reclaim
what they saw as rightfully theirs. The truck's engine labored
as we climbed into the hills north of the station,
the darkness pressing against the windows like a living thing.
Behind us, the Aurora Fillip burned in the distance, not
with normal fire, but with the same bioluminescent glow I'd

(57:10):
seen in the drifter's skin. We drove through the night
in desperate silence. The only sounds the rumble of the
engine and Ripley's steady breathing. The highway stretched endlessly ahead,
a thin line of salvation, cutting through a wilderness that
no longer felt empty. It felt hungry, and somewhere in

(57:32):
that hunger, patient things waited for their next opportunity to
test the rules that had saved us tonight, but might
not be enough to save us tomorrow. The night was
far from over, but for now we were free. The
pale light of dawn struggled through the windshield as I
pushed the battered rental truck along the twisting curves of

(57:53):
the Dalton Highway, my hands ached from gripping the steering wheel,
knuckles white with tensions had been building since the moment
i'd fled Aurora Philip. The passenger seat beside me was empty,
a constant reminder of what I'd lost in the chaos
of our final escape. Ripley hadn't made it out. The
one eared Husky had been my lifeline, my early warning system,

(58:17):
my only ally against the drifter's relentless hunt. But in
the station's final moments, as the generator died and the
creatures swarmed through the building, I'd lost sight of him
in the smoke and darkness. The last glimpse I'd caught
was of his brave form disappearing into the shadows, buying
me precious seconds to reach the truck. I'd called for

(58:39):
him as I ran, screaming his name over the inhuman
sounds of the drifters, but there had been no response,
no familiar bark, no padding of four legged pursuit. When
I'd reached the truck and looked back through the smoke
filled doorway. The station had been consumed by writhing darkness
and those terrible pale forms. I'd waited as long as

(59:02):
I dared, perhaps thirty seconds that felt like hours, before
survival instinct overrode loyalty, and I'd driven away into the night.
The guilt of that abandonment sat heavy in my chest,
a weight that no amount of rationalization could lift. Ripley
had saved my life multiple times, and in the end, I'd.

Speaker 2 (59:22):
Left him behind.

Speaker 1 (59:24):
The forest stretched endlessly on both sides of the narrow road,
a living wall of black spruce and birch that seemed
to press closer with each passing mile. Somewhere in those depths,
I knew they were still out there, the drifters, moving
through the wilderness with that unnatural silence that made my
skin crawl. I couldn't see them anymore, but their presence

(59:48):
haunted the edges of my vision, like shadows that disappeared
when I tried to look directly at them. The truck
bore the scars of our escape like battle wounds. Deep
sk scratches scored the red paint in patterns that looked
disturbingly deliberate, as if clawed fingers had tried to pry
their way through the metal. The passenger side mirror hung

(01:00:10):
at an odd angle, and spiderweb cracks spread across the
windshield from impacts I couldn't remember sustaining. Frost clung stubbornly
to the windows despite the warming air, forming crystalline patterns
that reminded me too much of the impossible hand prints
I'd seen at the station. I'd been driving for hours
without head lights, navigating by the faint glow of the

(01:00:32):
instrument panel and whatever ambient light filtered through the perpetual
twilight of the Alaskan summer. Rule number three had been
burned into my consciousness. No outside lights after eleven p
m because they mimic light sources. Even now, with dawn approaching,
I didn't dare risk it. The drifters had learned too

(01:00:53):
much about me already, and without Ripley's early warning system,
I was more vulnerable than ever. My phone had been
dead since the second night at Aurora, Phillip. The screen
cracked and dark. I'd taped over it anyway, following rule
number six, even when it seemed pointless. The reflective surface's

(01:01:14):
rule had nearly cost us everything when I'd forgotten about
the security monitor. Without Ripley there to warn me of
impending danger, I couldn't afford to make another mistake like that.
The miles crawled by with agonizing slowness. Every turn in
the road brought the possibility of more drifters. Every shadow
between the trees could hide pale figures waiting to resume

(01:01:37):
their patient hunt. But gradually, almost imperceptibly, the landscape began
to change. The forest thinned slightly, and I caught glimpses
of power lines threading between the trees, like lifelines connecting
me to the civilized world I'd almost forgotten existed. When
the first road sign appeared, Fairbanks, fifteen miles, I felt

(01:02:01):
a surge of emotion so intense it nearly brought tears
to my eyes. Civilization safety, a place where the rules
that governed Aurora Phillip might not apply, where the drifter's
ancient hunger couldn't reach. But even as hope flickered to
life in my chest, a darker part of my mind

(01:02:22):
whispered warnings about what I might have led into the world.
The outskirts of Fairbanks materialized through the morning mist like
a mirage. Strip malls, gas stations, fast food restaurants, all
the mundane landmarks of modern American life that had once
seemed so ordinary and now felt like monuments to a

(01:02:44):
world i'd almost lost. Traffic began to appear on the highway,
other vehicles whose drivers had no idea what lurked in
the wilderness behind me. I pulled into the parking lot
of Fairbanks Memorial Hospital as the sun finally crested the horizon,
casting long shadows across the asphalt. The building was a

(01:03:04):
beacon of sterile modernity, all glass and concrete and artificial light,
the complete opposite of the organic darkness i'd fled. Walking
across the parking lot alone, I felt Ripley's absence like
a phantom limb. My instincts kept expecting to see him
at my side, scanning for threats with those intelligent brown eyes.

(01:03:25):
The emergency room smelled of disinfectant and fresh linens, sharp
and clean after the diesel fumes and organic decay of
Aurora Philip. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with a sound
that should have been comforting, but somehow reminded me of
the generator's mechanical breathing. I approached the reception desk, suddenly
aware of how I must look, wild eyed and disheveled,

(01:03:48):
reeking of smoke and fear, talking about a dog that
wasn't there anymore. The intake process was a blur of
questions I couldn't fully answer. How do you explain frostbite
in June. How do you describe injuries sustained while fighting
creatures that shouldn't exist. How do you explain the guilt
of leaving behind the one companion who'd kept you alive?

(01:04:11):
I stuck to a carefully edited version of the truth.
An accident at my job, exposure to extreme cold, a
harrowing drive to safety through the night. The examining physician
was a middle aged woman with kind eyes and gentle hands,
who didn't ask too many questions about the inconsistencies in
my story. She documented the frostbite, damage to my finger tips,

(01:04:34):
second degree burns from holding my breath in sub freezing
temperatures for exactly three minutes. She noted the exhaustion, the dehydration,
the stress fractures in my voice when I tried to
speak about events that defied rational explanation. Your hair she
observed with clinical curiosity, running her fingers through strands that

(01:04:57):
had turned stark white during my ordeal. This type of
pigment loss usually occurs over months or years, not days.
Extreme psychological trauma can sometimes accelerate the process. But I've
never seen anything quite this dramatic. But it was when
she examined my boots that things got truly interesting. There's

(01:05:18):
something embedded in the soul, she said, frowning as she
probed at my left boot with a pair of tweezers,
some kind of crystalline material, very unusual. She worked carefully
extracting a sliver of what looked like red ice from
the rubber soul. The fragment was no bigger than a splinter,
but it seemed to pulse with its own internal light,

(01:05:41):
casting crimson reflections on the examination table. Where it touched
the metal instruments, frost began to form despite the room's
warm temperature. I've never seen anything like this, the doctor murmured,
holding the sliver up to the light. The molecular structure
appears to be impossible. Ice doesn't behave this way under

(01:06:03):
normal circumstances. It's almost as if it's alive. She placed
the fragment in a specimen container, but even through the
plastic I could see it continuing to pulse like a
tiny heart. The sight of it made my stomach clench
with recognition and dread. The red ice from the delivery
truck crate somehow embedded in my boot during our escape

(01:06:24):
from the station, a peace of their world following me
into mine. I'd like to send this to our lab
for analysis, the doctor said, But something in my expression
must have warned her off. Or perhaps it would be
better if we simply disposed of it. Sometimes it's best
not to ask too many questions about unusual phenomena. I

(01:06:47):
nodded gratefully, watching as she sealed the container in a
hazardous materials bag. But I knew that destroying one fragment
wouldn't make any real difference. The drifters had already marked me.
The red ice was just a symptom of a much
larger problem. They kept me for observation for six hours,

(01:07:08):
monitoring my vital signs and pumping warm fluids into my
system to combat the effects of exposure. Through the window,
I could see the parking lot where my truck sat,
scarred and empty. No loyal husky, waiting patiently for my return.
The absence felt like a constant ache, a reminder of

(01:07:28):
the price I'd paid for survival. When they finally discharged me,
the sun was high overhead and Fairbanks was bustling with
normal daytime activity, people going about their lives, completely unaware
that somewhere to the north, an ancient horror had stirred
in the ruins of a gas station. The normalcy felt
surreal after everything I'd experienced, like stepping into a parallel

(01:07:52):
universe where the rules of reality were slightly different. I
found a motel on the edge of town. Nothing fancy,
just to clean bed and a door that locked. The
room felt enormous after the cramped confines of Aurora fill up,
but also empty in ways that had nothing to do
with furniture. I kept expecting to hear the soft pad

(01:08:12):
of four legged footsteps, the gentle whine of a dog
seeking comfort and offering companionship. Instead, there was only silence.
The television played softly in the corner, and after an
hour of mindless programming, a local news story caught my
attention that made my blood run cold. Mysterious fires at

(01:08:33):
a remote gas station on the Dalton Highway have baffled investigators.
The anchor was saying, her professional demeanor unable to hide
the uneasiness in her eyes. The Aurora fill up, located
approximately eighty miles north of Fairbanks, was completely destroyed in
what authorities are calling an unexplained blaze that burned for
three days without any identifiable fuel source. The camera cut

(01:08:58):
to aerial footage of the station remains. Where the building
had stood, there was nothing but a circular patch of
scorched earth that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
The concrete generator bunker had been reduced to twisted metal
and ash, and even the gas pumps had melted into
unrecognizable sculptures of fused steel and rubber. No human or

(01:09:22):
animal remains were found at the scene, the reporter continued,
and I felt a stab of pain at the words.
No animal remains, no trace of Ripley, as if he
never existed at all. The cause of the fire remains
under investigation. Local residents report seeing strange lights in the

(01:09:42):
area for several nights following the incident, though no official
explanation has been provided. The story ended with a warning
for travelers to avoid the area. Until the investigation was complete.
I switched off the television with shaking hands, the reality
of what I'd escaped hitting me like a physical blow.
Whatever had happened at Aurora, filip after my flight, it

(01:10:06):
had been thorough and final. The drifters had cleansed the
sight of all evidence, leaving nothing but questions and burned earth.
And somewhere in that destruction, Ripley's brave spirit had been
consumed along with everything else. Exhaustion finally claimed me as
evening approached, and I dozed fitfully in the uncomfortable motel chair.

(01:10:28):
But even in sleep I found no peace. My dreams
were filled with the sound of scratching at doors, the
sight of impossible hand prints forming on frosted glass, and
always always the memory of intelligent brown eyes disappearing into
smoke and shadow. I woke to complete darkness and the

(01:10:49):
sound of running water from the bathroom. Confused and disoriented,
I stumbled toward the noise, thinking perhaps a pipe had
burst or the faucet had been left running. But when
I pushed open the bathroom door, I found something that made.

Speaker 2 (01:11:03):
My knees go weak with terror.

Speaker 1 (01:11:05):
Steam rose from the sink, fogging the mirror above it
in thick white clouds. But as I watched, words began
to appear in the condensation, scratched into the glass by
an invisible hand with methodical precision. You forgot rule nine.
I stared at the message, my mind reeling Rule number nine.

(01:11:28):
Trust Ripley. The one eared stray husky knows their movements.
If he hides, you have ninety seconds to secure the store.
But Ripley wasn't here. Ripley was gone, consumed by the
fire that had destroyed Aurora. Philip lost in the chaos
of my desperate escape. How could I have forgotten a
rule about trusting a dog who no longer existed. That's

(01:11:51):
when I heard it, a low growl from somewhere behind me,
followed by the soft whimper of an animal in distress.
My blood turned to ice water in my veins as
I slowly turned around. There, sitting in the doorway between
the bathroom and the main room was Ripley. The one
eared husky looked exactly as I remembered him, the familiar

(01:12:13):
folded ear, the intelligent brown eyes, the scarred muzzle that
spoke of survival against impossible odds. But something was wrong.
His form seemed slightly translucent, as if he were made
of moonlight and shadow rather than flesh and bone. And
when he moved, he made no sound at all. No
click of claws on linoleum, no soft panting, no rustle

(01:12:37):
of fur. You left me, he said, and his voice
was a whisper of wind through autumn leaves.

Speaker 2 (01:12:43):
You left me to burn.

Speaker 1 (01:12:46):
I opened my mouth to explain, to apologize, to beg forgiveness,
but no words came, because this wasn't Ripley.

Speaker 2 (01:12:54):
It couldn't be.

Speaker 1 (01:12:56):
Ripley was dead, consumed by whatever final conflagration had destroyed
Aurora Philip. This was something else, wearing his beloved form,
just as the fake Harlan had worn his dead master's face.
The thing that looked like Ripley tilted its head with
a motion that was almost but not quite Canine rule

(01:13:17):
number nine. It whispered, trust Ripley, But you forgot, didn't you?
You forgot to trust me when it mattered most. The
mirror began to fog again, new words appearing with glacial slowness.
Ripley died at the station. Who are you trusting now?

(01:13:38):
The creature's form began to shift and blur its familiar
features melting like wax in a flame. The one folded
ear elongated into something more Antennai like. The brown eyes
deepened to black pits that seemed to contain their own gravity,
and the scarred muzzle stretched into something that had too
many teeth arranged in patterns no earthly creature possessed. I

(01:14:02):
backed away from the bathroom, my heart hammering against my ribs,
but the thing that had been wearing Ripley's form followed,
moving with that liquid grace I'd come to associate with
the drifters. It had been with me all along, I realized,
not physically, but in my memory, in my guilt, in
my desperate need to believe that something good had survived

(01:14:25):
the nightmare at Aurora Philip. They'd used my love for
the brave Husky against me, turned my strongest emotional attachment
into a weapon. They'd learned that I could be manipulated
through grief and guilt, that my need for companionship made
me vulnerable to deception. The rhythmic knocking began, tap, tap,

(01:14:48):
It came from every surface at once, the walls, the ceiling,
the floor beneath my feet, Slow and deliberate, exactly three
minutes of patient repetition, and just as it had been
at Aurora fill Up, but this time I understood the truth.
The drifters hadn't followed me to Fairbanks. They'd never left.

(01:15:11):
Tap tap tap. I held my breath and closed my eyes,
following rule number four one last time. As the thing
wearing Ripley's face began to shed its disguise completely. The
sound it made as it transformed was wet and organic,
like leather being torn and flesh being reshaped by hands
that understood anatomy, but not the spark that made it

(01:15:33):
truly alive. Tap tap three minutes. That's what the rule promised.
Three minutes of knocking, then silence. All I had to
do was hold my breath and wait for it to end,
just as I had at the station. But as the
seconds crawled by and my lungs began to burn, I
realized the terrible truth about my situation. The rules had

(01:15:57):
been designed for Aurora Fillip, a specific place where the
drifters were bound by ancient restrictions and territorial limitations. Here,
in this anonymous motel room, hundreds of miles from their
hunting ground, the rules might not apply at all, or worse,
they might have evolved, adapted, learned new ways to circumvent

(01:16:19):
the protections that had once kept me safe. The knocking stopped.
I exhaled, slowly, opened my eyes and saw my reflection
in the darkened television screen, pale and haggard, with hair
that had turned stark white during my ordeal at the station.
But in the reflection, I wasn't alone. Behind me, the

(01:16:41):
creature that had once pretended to be Ripley watched me
with eyes that held the patience of geological time. It
no longer bothered to maintain the familiar form I'd loved. Instead,
it stood revealed in its true shape, pale and elongated,
with too many joints in all the wrong places, where
ring tatters of skin that might once have belonged to

(01:17:02):
other victims. You sought isolation, it whispered, in a voice
like grinding bone. You wanted to escape from the world
of men, to find silence and solitude in the wilderness.
We have given you what you asked for. I tried
to speak to deny its words, but my voice had
abandoned me because deep down I knew it was right.

(01:17:24):
I had sought isolation, driven by a desperate need to
escape the crushing weight of modern life. I had fled
to Aurora Philip seeking solitude, never understanding that some forms
of a loneness were not empty, but full, full of
things that had been waiting in the darkness for someone
foolish enough to invite them in.

Speaker 2 (01:17:44):
You are alone now.

Speaker 1 (01:17:46):
The creature continued its form, beginning to multiply, splitting into
dozens of pale figures that filled the small motel room.

Speaker 2 (01:17:54):
Truly alone.

Speaker 1 (01:17:56):
No dog to warn you of danger, no rules to
protect you, no station to contain us. Just you and
us and the endless hunger that has waited so long
to be fed. Outside Fairbanks slept peacefully, eight hundred miles
from Aurora Fillip and the wilderness that had spawned humanity's

(01:18:16):
oldest nightmare. Inside this small room, at the edge of civilization,
surrounded by the comforting lies of electric lights and locked
doors and rules that no longer applied, I finally understood
the true cost of the solitude I'd sought. I had
wanted to disappear from the world, and my wish had

(01:18:36):
been granted. But disappearing from the world didn't mean the
world would disappear from me. It meant becoming part of
something else, something ancient and patient and eternally hungry. The
drifters closed in from all sides, their pale forms flowing
like water, like smoke, like the spaces between thoughts where

(01:18:57):
Nightmare lived. And as they reached for me with fingers
that had too many joints, I realized that my journey
had come full circle. I had sought isolation and found it,
but I was no longer alone, and I never would
be again