In the silent deserts of Veyra IV, Dr. Halloway discovers a song no human was meant to hear… and a doorway that leads somewhere far worse than death.
The sand sang at dusk. A thin, trembling hum rolled across the dunes, soft enough to be mistaken for the blood rushing in one’s ears. Dr. Halloway froze where he stood, boots sinking into the ash-colored ground. According to every report, the desert of Veyra IV was lifeless. It was not supposed to sing. He had been walking for hours, following the faint idea of “east,” though directions meant little on a planet with two suns. One sank green behind him while another rose violet ahead, stretching his shadow in both directions. The horizon swelled and contracted like a lung. His visor showed no wind, no movement, no seismic activity. Yet the desert quivered with sound, as though the dunes themselves were alive.
Off to his right, a herd grazed.
At first glance they looked like cattle, bulky and four-legged, moving slowly across the flats. But their hides gleamed like poured mercury, catching the suns in waves of liquid silver. Sometimes their bodies seemed hollow, as if they were glass filled with burning embers. They dipped their heads to the ground, and the pitch of the desert’s song changed—as if they were drinking it.
Halloway forced himself to look away. They acted like livestock, chewing and pacing, but there was no grass here, no water, no reason they should exist. They were background animals in a place that shouldn’t have any.
Three nights earlier, there had been other people. The expedition had pitched camp on a ridge overlooking the dunes. There had been laughter, complaints about the food packs, muttered jokes about deserts being the same no matter what planet you put them on.
Then the storm came.
Not a storm of sand or wind. A wall of red light had moved across the land, faster than lightning. It swallowed the camp whole. When it passed, there was nothing left—no tents, no surveyors, not even the gear. Just flat ground and singing sand.
Halloway had not seen another human since.
The desert stretched on, each mile identical, each mile stranger. His body said it was hot, his skin slick with sweat, but his suit monitor registered freezing temperatures. His breath fogged the inside of his visor.
The singing grew louder.
Shapes shimmered on the horizon. Towers. Bones. Ruins, maybe. Every time he thought he was close, they pulled farther away. He told himself it was a mirage, a trick of the light. But the air was cold, not hot, and mirages didn’t move with intention.
He squinted against the violet sun.
And then he saw it.
A figure.
Standing upright at the crest of a dune, waiting. For one hopeful second he thought it was one of his crew. He lifted a hand, shouted, but the comm returned only static. The figure didn’t respond. It didn’t move at all.
Halloway trudged forward, sand crunching under his boots. The figure remained the same size, as if the distance between them refused to close.
Behind him, the silver beasts raised their heads. Their eyes were black, wide, and empty—like windows into dark rooms. The song of the sand climbed in pitch, rattling in his teeth, humming words that weren’t words.
The figure lifted an arm. A beckoning gesture.
Halloway hesitated, then kept walking.
The closer he came, the less human the figure looked.
It was tall, faceless, wrapped in strips of silver hide that fluttered without wind. The creatures in the herd wore the same hide. It raised its hand again—long fingers, too many of them—and pointed toward the dunes.
There, in the open air, was a doorway.
Not a doorway cut into stone or metal. Just an empty rectangle, edges sharp and perfect, standing upright in the sand.
Halloway’s visor blinked red, his suit display scrambled. The chronometer spun, then froze at 00:00. Time itself had stopped.
The sentinel—if that’s what it was—tilted its head.
The beasts groaned in unison, a deep, hollow sound like a church organ collapsing. The desert sang louder, filling every space in Halloway’s skull. The doorway widened.
And inside, he saw them.
His crew.
All of them, alive.
They sat around a fire, mugs in hand, smiling, talking, like the storm had never happened. Their faces were younger, healthier, untouched by exhaustion.
One of them raised a hand, waving. He saw lips move, though no sound came through.
Halloway’s chest tightened. He almost ran toward them, but something held him back. The air between him and the doorway felt heavy, like wading through deep water.
The fire burned, but the flames made no sound. Their shadows stretched toward the fire instead of away.
He blinked. His stomach turned cold.
The faces of his crew were smooth. Featureless. Blank as masks.
The sentinel stepped aside.
The choice was his.
Behind him, the desert moaned. The dunes shifted like something rolling beneath them. The beasts stamped their hooves in rhythm, a single heartbeat pounding across the flats.
Above, the violet sky folded into black.
The doorway shimmered. The crew waited.
Halloway swallowed. His throat burned. He whispered, “I want to go home.”
The sentinel tilted its head again.
He stepped forward.
The sand’s song rose into a shriek, so sharp it drilled through bone. His whole body shook with it. His blood felt hollow, his chest vibrated until his ribs threatened to crack.
He opened his mouth to scream, or to join the song—but the desert swallowed the sound.
When the green sun rose again, the dunes were empty.
No footprints.
No camp.
No man named Halloway.
The beasts grazed silently, their heads dipping into the sand. The desert sang, low and endless.
And the faceless figure waited, its arm raised, ready to beckon again.
