CHAPTER 1
Hope, British Columbia, was the kind of town where time felt like it moved a little slower. Nestled between towering mountain ranges, cut through by rivers that glowed steel-gray in the winter and glittered green in the summer, it was the last stop before nowhere. Population: 3,600. A place where everyone knew your name, your family, and the skeletons in your closet. Where the same families had owned the same stores for generations—Field’s department store, Cheyenne Sporting Goods, Bud Gardner’s car dealership, the Pop Shoppe on the edge of town with its faded sign and half-lit neon. David hated it. Not the mountains, not the rivers, not even the town itself, but the feeling of being stuck. His family had lived in the same run-down mobile home on the outskirts of town for as long as he could remember. It wasn’t a trailer park; it was just their trailer, on their piece of land, a home that felt too small for the seven kids it had housed over the years. By the time David came along—the last and the youngest—most of his siblings had already scattered, leaving him alone in the cramped space with his chain-smoking parents and his older brother Alan, who, despite being in his late thirties, still lived at home due to his mental disability.
Life moved in predictable cycles. Wake up, go to school, dodge bullies like Russ and his headbanger crew, play video games in the computer lab, survive Air Cadets in the evening, go home, avoid whatever argument his parents were having, and then retreat to his room. Repeat. But then, they came. The first night was easy to dismiss. David had been lying in bed, half-asleep, when he felt something… off. It was that sensation of being watched, like when you know someone’s staring at you in a crowded room. The trailer was silent, save for the occasional creaks as it settled on its foundation. Kelly, his dog, was curled up in the corner, her ears twitching in dream-filled sleep. Then Kelly’s ears perked. She was awake. And growling. David sat up, heart pounding. The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlight outside filtering through his curtains. He turned his head toward the window. Something was there.
A shape—tall and impossibly thin, standing just beyond the glass. David’s breath hitched. For a moment, he convinced himself it was a trick of the light, but then it moved. A smooth, featureless head. Large, black, almond-shaped eyes that reflected the dim light. Skin the color of damp ash. It was watching him. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. His muscles locked as if his body had forgotten how to function. The figure tilted its head, slow and deliberate. And then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone. Kelly barked—a sharp, alarmed yelp as she leapt up, her hackles raised. David scrambled out of bed, heart slamming against his ribs as he rushed to the window and yanked the curtain back. Nothing. Just the backyard. The treeline of the endless, black forest beyond. No footprints in the dirt. No movement. Just the soft sway of the trees in the night breeze. He didn’t sleep that night.
The second night was worse. It started the same way. That feeling of being watched, of something standing at the edge of his perception, just outside his understanding. Kelly was already awake this time, standing stiff-legged at the foot of his bed, ears back, a low whimper caught in her throat. David turned over slowly, it was inside the room. Standing at the foot of his bed, inches away from Kelly. His lungs locked. His brain screamed at his body to move, but nothing obeyed. He was frozen, paralyzed, only able to watch as the thing loomed over him, its massive black eyes locked onto his. The air around him felt thick. Like static. A low hum filled his ears, vibrating through his bones. It wasn’t coming from the thing itself—it was in his head. Then, as if someone flipped a switch, everything stopped. The humming. The pressure. The paralysis. And the being was gone.
David gasped, rolling out of bed, chest heaving. Kelly whined, pacing in frantic circles. The room was empty, the only sound was his own ragged breathing. Was he going insane? Has it even happened? He pulled open his dresser drawer, grabbed his flashlight, and ran outside in his socks. He scanned the treeline, the trailer’s roof, the dirt road leading up to the property. Nothing. Then he saw it. A soft glow in the sky, moving too fast for a plane. No blinking lights like a satellite. It hovered for a few seconds, then shot off in an impossible arc, disappearing into the night. He stumbled back inside, locking the door behind him. That night, he told himself he wouldn’t sleep. But exhaustion won. When he woke up, he didn’t remember falling asleep at all.
The third night, everything changed. David never made it to bed. One moment, he was sitting on the couch, flipping through an old comic book, the TV droning in the background. Next, he was standing outside. Barefoot. In the middle of the yard. His skin was cold, but he wasn’t shivering. His mind was awake, but his body felt like it had just snapped out of autopilot. The sky above him was wrong. The stars seemed brighter. Closer. The air felt charged, like before a thunderstorm. He turned his head slowly, heart hammering against his ribs. It was there. A ship. Not just lights this time. A massive, disc-shaped object hovered in absolute silence just above the treetops. Smooth, metallic, reflecting the moonlight in unnatural ways. It rotated slowly, as if studying him. His vision blurred. A sharp pain shot through his skull. Then everything went black. When he woke up, he was in bed. His alarm clock read 6:47 AM. He had school in an hour. Had he dreamed it?
His sheets were damp with sweat. Kelly was lying beside him, whining softly. David sat up, rubbing his forehead. He felt off. Then he noticed something on his nightstand. His flashlight. Covered in dirt. His hands shook as he picked it up. The weight of what had happened settled over him. This wasn’t a dream. Something was happening to him. And he had no idea what it meant.
