Narrator

Hesitantly, I brushed away the moss and stared at the faded words stamped into the metal. Subdrain 4B, biological isolation zone, do not disturb. My blood froze. Biological isolation. Isolation from what? From whom? My mind flashed back to the warm, twitching mass we'd crawled over. Whatever it was, someone had known about it.

Hesitantly, I brushed away the moss and stared at the faded words stamped into the metal. Subdrain 4B, biological isolation zone, do not disturb. My blood froze. Biological isolation. Isolation from what? From whom? My mind flashed back to the warm, twitching mass we'd crawled over. Whatever it was, someone had known about it.

Someone who'd buried the secret deep underground decades ago, hoping it would never surface. I stepped back, feeling a deep chill sink into my bones. As I turned to leave, something stirred behind the pipe opening, a faint, wet rustle. I didn't dare look back. Panic surged through me, and I hurried away, faster and faster, driven by a primal instinct to flee from whatever still lingered there.

Someone who'd buried the secret deep underground decades ago, hoping it would never surface. I stepped back, feeling a deep chill sink into my bones. As I turned to leave, something stirred behind the pipe opening, a faint, wet rustle. I didn't dare look back. Panic surged through me, and I hurried away, faster and faster, driven by a primal instinct to flee from whatever still lingered there.

When I reached my car, breath ragged, I knew with absolute certainty I'd never return. Some things were never meant to be disturbed, never meant to see daylight. Wildcat Hollow had shown me the cost of curiosity, the horrifying truth that some secrets were buried for a reason. As a glaciologist, my fieldwork often took me to the most isolated and harsh landscapes Iceland had to offer.

When I reached my car, breath ragged, I knew with absolute certainty I'd never return. Some things were never meant to be disturbed, never meant to see daylight. Wildcat Hollow had shown me the cost of curiosity, the horrifying truth that some secrets were buried for a reason. As a glaciologist, my fieldwork often took me to the most isolated and harsh landscapes Iceland had to offer.

That September, my assignment brought me to Langanise, a remote, windswept peninsula stretching into the Arctic Ocean like a weathered finger pointing to nowhere. The nearest paved road was 10 kilometers away, civilization even farther. My home for weeks had been a modified Land Rover Defender, crammed with field equipment, dried meals, and topographical maps.

That September, my assignment brought me to Langanise, a remote, windswept peninsula stretching into the Arctic Ocean like a weathered finger pointing to nowhere. The nearest paved road was 10 kilometers away, civilization even farther. My home for weeks had been a modified Land Rover Defender, crammed with field equipment, dried meals, and topographical maps.

Most of my days were consumed with trudging through cold, sodden terrain, taking measurements, and documenting erosion patterns along the coastline. One particularly gray afternoon, while referencing an outdated survey map, I spotted something unusual, a tiny rectangular marker labeled simply Farm. Curious and mildly bored, I decided to investigate.

Most of my days were consumed with trudging through cold, sodden terrain, taking measurements, and documenting erosion patterns along the coastline. One particularly gray afternoon, while referencing an outdated survey map, I spotted something unusual, a tiny rectangular marker labeled simply Farm. Curious and mildly bored, I decided to investigate.

After nearly an hour's hike through misty bogland and brittle moss, the farmhouse appeared, small and stark, perched atop a bluff overlooking the lead-colored sea. The wooden exterior had weathered to a dull gray, paint long since peeled away by relentless northern winds.

After nearly an hour's hike through misty bogland and brittle moss, the farmhouse appeared, small and stark, perched atop a bluff overlooking the lead-colored sea. The wooden exterior had weathered to a dull gray, paint long since peeled away by relentless northern winds.

the structure looked abandoned forgotten by time but despite its obvious age it was strangely intact without the typical signs of vandalism or graffiti that often marred remote buildings i approached cautiously my boots crunching through coarse grass and sheep bones bleached white by years in the sun The farmhouse's silence seemed absolute.

the structure looked abandoned forgotten by time but despite its obvious age it was strangely intact without the typical signs of vandalism or graffiti that often marred remote buildings i approached cautiously my boots crunching through coarse grass and sheep bones bleached white by years in the sun The farmhouse's silence seemed absolute.

As I reached the front door, a mild unease settled in my gut, a familiar sense of vulnerability that comes from being utterly alone in the wilderness. Inside, the air felt heavy, cold, and stale. The interior was sparse, old wooden furniture, dusty floors, and pale walls bare save for a faded homemade poster taped above a rusty stove. Squinting in the dimness, I read the text.

As I reached the front door, a mild unease settled in my gut, a familiar sense of vulnerability that comes from being utterly alone in the wilderness. Inside, the air felt heavy, cold, and stale. The interior was sparse, old wooden furniture, dusty floors, and pale walls bare save for a faded homemade poster taped above a rusty stove. Squinting in the dimness, I read the text.

Family Gathering, 1982. Beside the stove lay a pile of sheep ear tags, yellowed and brittle, relics of a forgotten past. The kitchen smelled faintly of mold and sea coal. Intrigued by the peculiar preservation, I began taking photographs, documenting the strange assortment of household items left behind. A kettle, a chair with a broken leg, and a framed family photo.

Family Gathering, 1982. Beside the stove lay a pile of sheep ear tags, yellowed and brittle, relics of a forgotten past. The kitchen smelled faintly of mold and sea coal. Intrigued by the peculiar preservation, I began taking photographs, documenting the strange assortment of household items left behind. A kettle, a chair with a broken leg, and a framed family photo.

In the stillness, each camera click echoed softly, breaking the quiet like stones thrown into still water. I eventually turned toward the narrow staircase tucked into the corner of the main room. Dust covered the steps thickly, undisturbed for decades. As I placed my foot on the first step, the wood groaned beneath me startlingly loud against the house's deep silence.

In the stillness, each camera click echoed softly, breaking the quiet like stones thrown into still water. I eventually turned toward the narrow staircase tucked into the corner of the main room. Dust covered the steps thickly, undisturbed for decades. As I placed my foot on the first step, the wood groaned beneath me startlingly loud against the house's deep silence.