In 1977, A Soviet Crew Abandoned Its Desert Camp In One Night. Something Under The Sand Hunted Them
Galactic HorrorsShow Notes
In 1977, a Soviet water crew abandoned its drilling camp in the Uzbek desert, and the men who never came home were written off as deserters. One of them left a four-year-old son who grew up hearing that his father had walked away. Forty-six years later, that son is a Texas well driller who has never walked off a rig, and he joins a government survey sent to reopen the same capped bore, telling no one whose son he is.
The camp still sits in its hollow among the dunes, and the ground there keeps its own rules. The rig runs only while the noon sun burns the sand, nobody leaves the trucks after dark, and cool sand goes soft beneath anything that walks, because something vast lives below. Each day the hammer pounds deeper down his father's old hole, toward the buried lake and whatever has been waiting in it.
Every yard the bit gains brings him closer to the answer he crossed the world for, and to the reason the crew fled in a single night. The truth about what his father did may ask something of the son that he never imagined he would have to give.
🔗 Official Links:
The only place to get daily and bonus Galactic Horrors stories with no ads or interruptions is Patreon:
📡 Join Patreon: https://patreon.com/GalacticHorrors
Galactic Horrors stories are also available as eBooks on Amazon, with new releases every week:
📚 eBooks: https://www.amazon.com/stores/author/B0H2F5M2B3/allbooks
📖 Written by Galactic Horrors
⚠️ Content Ownership Notice
All stories, artwork, thumbnails, and animations featured on this channel are original creations of Galactic Horrors. I do not accept or feature submissions from other creators. Unauthorized reproduction, redistribution, or re-uploading of any content from this channel, in any form, is strictly prohibited and constitutes a violation of copyright. Legal action may be taken against any parties found infringing these rights.
📜 Fictional Work Disclaimer
This story is a work of fiction created for entertainment purposes only. The events, characters, and organizations portrayed are entirely fictional, and any references to governmental bodies, entities, or individuals are not intended to represent reality. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real-life events or organizations is purely coincidental.
#scifi #scifihorror #creepypasta
Disclosure: This episode includes AI-generated elements. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.
More from Galactic Horrors
In the spring of 1959, an autoworker out of work for eleven months takes the only job anyone will give him: driving the truck that hauls a traveling carnival's sideshow Martian through the farm towns of the Midwest. The lot boss asks him a single question, how many children he has, then parks his wife and two young sons in a trailer at the far edge of the lot, nearest the open fields.
For twenty winters he has built the ice at the hockey arena in his Minnesota hometown, and he can tell by sound which ice will carry a man. That is why, when the war stalls on a frozen marsh nearby, the army hands him a ring of keys and the job of walking thirty convicts half a mile out onto the ice each dusk, chaining them by the neck to iron posts, and unlocking whoever is left at dawn.
Every October, after the season's last storm, a lineman cuts the power to an entire Cajun shrimping town on the Louisiana coast for three nights. Behind drawn blinds, families sit in silence while pale, eyeless creatures crawl out of the bay and carry people from their homes. The town believes the creatures hunt the light; he has known for eleven years that they hunt the current in the wires, and he has never told a soul.
In 1968, an Air Force loadmaster has spent three years flying the war dead home from Vietnam, and his career rests on never asking what is inside a box. Moved to a night route whose cargo no crewman may see, he keeps the habit until a stopover in the middle of the Pacific, when he turns on the hold lights. The seats are filled with dead American soldiers in dress greens, embalmed, made up to smile, and wired to battery packs that let them walk.
When the reactor at the heart of a West Virginia mill city explodes, its night engineer runs for twenty minutes without warning anyone and reaches a fence he has never seen. Outside it, eleven years have passed. The blast has bent time around the plant, so the nearer anyone stands to it, the slower their clock runs, and the city inside is still living its worst night while the towns along the fence watch through telescopes.