The Moonlight

The last transmission from Lunar Station Eos was a scream.

Elias Voss stared at the blinking distress beacon on his wrist monitor. It pulsed a cold, rhythmic blue against the darkness of his shattered helmet visor. The crack ran diagonally across his faceplate, delicate as a spider’s web—one sharp movement away from total failure.

He sucked in a shallow breath, aware of the limited oxygen in his suit’s reserves. Above him, the Moon’s sky was a star-flecked abyss. Below, the wreckage of Lunar Station Eos stretched in jagged ruins, illuminated by the pale, merciless glow of Earthlight.

He was alone.

The explosion had torn through Eos’s main habitat module without warning. One moment, the crew had been sharing a meal—laughing, trading stories of home—and the next, the world had ruptured around them. He had no idea if anyone else had survived. The comms were dead, the emergency pods were gone, and the oxygen generator was buried under tons of collapsed metal.

Elias assessed his situation. His left leg was twisted awkwardly, but not broken. The life support system in his suit was damaged, barely keeping him alive. A fine mist of coolant leaked from a punctured tube in his side.

He had minutes. Maybe an hour.

The only chance was the backup module—an old supply bunker located half a kilometer away, near the edge of a crater. If he could make it there, he might find oxygen, power, and a working transmitter.

He started crawling.



Every movement sent fire through his ribs. His gloved hands dug into the Moon’s regolith, the fine dust clinging to the fabric, dulling the white of his suit to a ghostly gray. With each painful push forward, he felt the weight of silence pressing against him.

The Moon was never truly silent—not to those who lived there. There was the soft crunch of boots on dust, the hum of suit servos, the rhythmic hiss of air systems. But now, all of that was gone. Now, there was only the sound of his own ragged breathing inside his helmet.

A shadow passed over him.

Elias froze.

At first, he thought it was his failing vision—his oxygen deprivation playing tricks on him. But then he saw it again, a shape shifting against the stars, moving just beyond the reach of his helmet lights.

Someone else was out here.

He forced himself upright, bracing against a fallen strut. "Hello?" His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper over the static in his ears.

No answer.

The figure moved, slow and deliberate. It was humanoid, clad in an old, mismatched lunar suit, its visor dark. It stood at the ridge of a small rise, watching him.

Elias’ heart pounded. "Who are you?" he rasped.

Still, no response.

And then, it stepped forward.

Panic seized him. He pushed himself backward, dragging his injured leg, ignoring the pain. The figure didn’t run—it walked with an eerie patience, closing the distance between them.

Elias fumbled for the emergency flare strapped to his belt. His fingers were numb inside his gloves, but he found it, yanked it free, and struck it against his knee. A brilliant red light flared to life, casting wild shadows across the lunar surface.

The figure stopped.

For the first time, Elias saw the suit clearly. The patches. The markings. The old mission insignia on the chest plate.

Apollo 18.

Elias’ breath caught. That wasn’t possible. Apollo 18 had never returned. The mission was scrubbed. The crew—

The figure raised a hand.

Not in greeting.

In warning.

Behind it, at the edge of the crater, something moved. A shifting mass of shadows, coiling and stretching, defying the stark brightness of the Moon’s surface. It pulsed, slow and deliberate, like something breathing.

Elias felt an unnatural cold grip his chest. The thing at the crater’s edge wasn’t human.

The figure in the Apollo suit took a step back, retreating into the darkness. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, filtered through static and time, it spoke.

"Don’t let the light go out."

Then it was gone.

Elias turned back toward the backup module. His flare flickered, the red glow weak against the endless night.

He had to move.

Had to survive.

Because whatever was in the dark?

It was coming.



Elias pushed himself harder, ignoring the fire in his lungs. Each step kicked up a fine mist of dust, the Moon’s low gravity making every movement slow, surreal. The crater’s edge loomed closer, and with it, the supply bunker—a squat, reinforced structure half-buried in the regolith.

He reached the airlock, fingers shaking as he overrode the manual controls. The outer door hissed open, revealing the darkened interior. He staggered inside, slamming the emergency pressurization button. The door sealed shut behind him, the hiss of air filling the chamber.

His knees buckled. He collapsed, gasping, his visor fogging from his own ragged breath.

A minute passed.

Then another.

Slowly, he lifted his head.

The room was dimly lit, the emergency power barely operational. Rows of oxygen tanks lined one wall. He lurched forward, ripping off his cracked helmet, gulping in the stale but breathable air.

Relief flooded him. He was alive.

Then the lights flickered.

A cold dread seeped into his bones.

Through the reinforced window of the airlock, the lunar surface stretched in eerie stillness. The stars remained unchanged, the wreckage of Eos distant and silent.

But the shadows had moved.

They pressed against the glass, writhing, shifting. Testing the boundaries of the light.

Elias tightened his grip on the flare, the red glow his only shield.

"Don’t let the light go out."

His hands trembled.

The lights flickered again.

And then, with a final, dying hiss, they went out.

Darkness swallowed the room.

A whisper, deep and resonant, crawled through the chamber.

"You should not have survived."

Elias struck another flare, its crimson glow pushing back the blackness just enough to reveal the things emerging from the shadows—twisted figures, their bodies shifting like liquid, their eyes hollow voids.

There was no time to think. He lunged for the oxygen tanks, yanking a hose free. If he could ignite it—

A shriek tore through the air as the creatures lunged.

Elias twisted the valve, flooding the room with pure oxygen. His flare sparked against the metal floor.

A flash.

Fire roared through the bunker, consuming the shadows in an instant. The force of the explosion threw Elias backward, pain lancing through his body as he slammed against the bulkhead.

Darkness.

Then—light.

Elias gasped, coughing as he blinked against the harsh glow of a rescue shuttle’s floodlights. Voices shouted over the comms. Hands pulled him from the wreckage.

He was alive.

As they lifted him into the shuttle, he turned his head. Through the swirling dust, he saw the crater—silent, empty.

But he knew the truth.

They were still there.

Waiting for the light to go out again.