A story of the unknown
What happens when the unknown finally arrives? They Are Here plunges readers into the heart of an alien invasion unlike any before—one that defies expectations and shatters reality itself. Blending suspense, cosmic terror, and eerie intrigue, this gripping tale explores humanity’s deepest fears and greatest curiosities. Are these visitors harbingers of doom or the key to an unimaginable future? As their presence rewrites the rules of existence, the only certainty is that nothing will ever be the same.
It started with a shadow. Not the kind cast by clouds or the slow drift of satellites, but something deeper, something wrong.
On the morning of October 14th, the sky darkened over the Pacific, as if the sun had been blotted out by an invisible hand. Satellites went blind. Radars screamed with data that made no sense. Then, the ships arrived.
They did not descend in unison. There was no formation, no order. They simply were, emerging from nothingness—one by one—above cities, mountains, oceans. Each was different, as if designed by minds that had never spoken to one another.
Over Tokyo, a ship hung like a cathedral made of shifting black glass, its surface rippling like water in slow motion.
In the Arizona desert, a massive sphere, dull and pitted like an ancient moon, hovered just above the sand, pulling dust and stone upward in a silent vortex.
But the one that haunted the world the most appeared in the mist-laden forests of Norway. It did not move. It did not hum. It simply was—a smooth, black, egg-like structure, hovering just above a still body of water. A thin band of light encircled its middle, pulsing softly, as though breathing. The water beneath it reflected the glow in perfect symmetry, as if the object were not merely floating, but dividing two worlds.
Some who stared too long at it swore they heard whispers—not sounds, but thoughts pressing into their minds, cold and alien. Others suffered nightmares of vast, impossible landscapes where things moved without moving.
And yet, the ships did nothing.
No beams of light, no weapons, no messages. They simply loomed, waiting.
Humanity erupted into chaos. Governments scrambled, militaries locked onto targets they dared not fire upon. Scientists worked without sleep, desperate for meaning. Cults sprang up overnight, worshiping the visitors as gods or heralds of the end.
Days passed. Then a week. The ships remained.
Then, on the fifteenth day, the first disappearance occurred.
A man in Buenos Aires walked toward the towering structure above his city and simply vanished, as if reality had turned him to smoke. Others followed. In Beijing, a crowd gathered beneath the spiraling monolith in their sky, drawn forward in a silent trance. One by one, they stepped into the void.
Then, in the Norwegian forest, something changed.
The egg-shaped craft, still and silent for so long, flickered. Its band of light flared, illuminating the mist. The water beneath it rippled outward in concentric waves. A single figure—a woman, barefoot and expressionless—walked toward it.
She did not hesitate.
She placed her hand against the smooth surface, and for the first time, the ship reacted. The band of light pulsed violently, the reflection in the water distorting as if space itself had bent.
Then, she was gone.
And just as inexplicably as they had come, the ships began to depart.
One by one, they folded into themselves, twisting out of sight.
And when the last one disappeared, Earth was quieter. Millions were gone.
No answers.
No signs of struggle.
Just a lingering presence in the sky, as if something—somewhere—was still watching.
Waiting.
And perhaps, one day, calling again.
The Luminous Harbinger – A crystalline vessel suspended in the cold desert air, its translucent shell pulsing with an unnatural pink glow. The beams beneath it sweep across the barren land like searching fingers, scanning for something—or someone. It hums with an energy that doesn’t just vibrate through the air, but through the mind.
A perfect geometric enigma, hovering just beyond the reach of human understanding. Its layered, glass-like exterior reflects the void itself, bending light in ways that should not be possible. When it moves, it does so without sound, as if reality itself parts to make way for its passage.
Neither solid nor entirely immaterial, this prismatic ship shimmers like a mirage, its glowing underbelly spilling ribbons of light onto the cracked ground below. Some say looking at it for too long reveals glimpses of other places—places where the stars are wrong, and the sky is hungry.
A ship that does not land, does not speak, does not acknowledge. It merely lingers at the edge of the world, casting its neon-pink radiance over a dead landscape. Those who have stood beneath it claim to hear voices in the static, whispering secrets too vast for human comprehension.
