Flash Fiction

By the time we had studied and translated the languages, they were broadcasting video as well as audio.

Their world was not unlike ours; a small blue planet orbiting a yellow star halfway across the galaxy. They themselves were much like us; two arms, two legs, standing upright. There were minor differences of course–skin pigmentation, facial features, hair.

They caught our imagination. What were they like? Did they worry about the same things we did? Did they share our hopes, our fears? We soon found out.

Our television networks began to show translations of their programs. They really were just like us.

Then the broadcasts stopped.

We were stunned. What had happened? All our telescopes were pointed at the little yellow star.

The signal was weak. We almost missed it among the background noise of the universe.

“Hello?” it said. “Is anybody out there?”

We wanted to answer. We wanted to reach out, but the distance meant the owner of this voice was already dead. We listened.

“I’m broadcasting from a radio station just outside San Francisco. Please, if anyone is still alive out there, let me know I’m not alone. I don’t know how much longer I’ll have power, but–”

The signal went dead.

You’ll only see it at the edge of your vision. It will look like a man, but something will seem… off. It’s a little too skinny. A little too tall. Its elbows and knees aren’t quite jointed in the right place, like someone had seen a drawing of a man once and tried to make one. It stays on the periphery; sensed, felt, but never clearly seen. Not unless it has chosen you as its prey.

You’ll smell it before you see it. A sickly sweet smell; dead flowers, rotting in the sun. You’ll hear it breathing. An oddly musical, whistling rhythm, blowing warm air on the back of your neck. You’ll feel the firm, ice-cold grip of long slender fingers.

And then you’ll be gone.

No one talks about the disappearances, but everyone who grows up around here knows about them. It takes people, and they’re never found. No one knows what it does with them, or why, we just know not to walk alone in the rain.

It comes in the storms.