A little story I wrote and will be expanding on 👹
Mandatory bestie tag: @abelsdove
TOP SECRET - FILE 1923/B-17
DOCUMENT TITLE: Recovered Field Note - Ypres Trenches, 1917
CLASSIFICATION LEVEL: CONFIDENTIAL
DATE OF RECOVERY: 04 February 1918
RECOVERED BY: Royal Engineers, 4th Division, Trench Clearance Unit
LOCATION: Western Front, Sector 8B
The following document was recovered from the collapsed remains of an isolated trench system near Ypres during post-battle trench reclamation. It appears to be the final written account of an unidentified soldier, penned during the night of his presumed death. The contents suggest mental deterioration and paranoia, potentially induced by extreme combat stress and environmental conditions.
However, field investigators reported unexplainable circumstances surrounding the site: a total absence of bodies or personal effects, anomalous damage to trench structures, and reports from nearby units of “unearthly” sounds during the nights preceding the trench’s abandonment.
The testimony contained herein has been sealed under government order. No official explanation has been provided for the events described.
WARNING: Unauthorized access to this document is punishable under the War Office Secrecy Act.
Recovered Note (Unedited):
The rain poured down in relentless sheets, soaking everything to the bone. Mud clung to my boots like a curse, each step sucking me further into the earth’s cold embrace. The trenches were no longer walls of safety but wet, stinking graves waiting for their occupants. The sky above was a roiling mass of black clouds that seemed to bear witness to the horrors below, silent and uncaring.
I was the last one awake. Or at least, I thought I was.
Corporal Lyle had been the first to vanish. No one saw it happen, only heard his scream—short, clipped, and final—before silence swallowed the night. When we found his rifle the next morning, it was bent in half like a child’s toy, streaked with a sickly, iridescent slime.
We told ourselves it was shellfire, or maybe a stray artillery round, though we all knew no bomb could leave such marks. The day had passed in grim silence, and when night fell again, I began to understand the truth.
The first to disappear that night was Private Malloy. He had been on watch, pacing back and forth at the trench’s edge, muttering about his wife back home. One moment he was there; the next, the shadows seemed to swallow him whole. I saw it with my own eyes—something moved in the darkness, its outline almost human but wrong. Too tall. Too thin. Its limbs jerked as though they were being puppeted, the movements awkward and stuttering. It dragged Malloy into the abyss, ignoring his kicking and screaming.
When we ran to his post, all we found was his helmet, crushed into the mud.
The others tried to stay brave. They clutched their rifles like rosaries, whispering prayers into the storm. By the third night, there were only six of us left. The storm had grown worse, and the rain felt alive as it lashed at our faces, cold and unyielding. That was when the creatures came closer.
I didn’t dare sleep. Those who did never woke up. I stayed in the corner of the trench, clutching my rifle, the metal slick with rain and sweat. I could hear them out there, just beyond the walls of mud and wood. They whispered in voices that almost sounded human, calling us by name. Sometimes, they imitated the voices of the men who had vanished, begging for help.
“Help me! It’s Malloy! I’m stuck out here!”
But when I peered through the slats of the trench, I saw only shapes. Lurching, shambling shadows that moved with a grotesque rhythm. I told myself not to listen. That wasn’t Malloy. It couldn’t be.
By midnight, Sergeant Owens broke. He clambered over the trench wall, shouting curses at the storm, firing his rifle into the darkness. We all screamed for him to come back, but then the night swallowed him whole. His screams echoed for what felt like hours, distant and horrible.
“It’s eating me!” his voice howled, before it was cut off with a wet, choking gurgle.
The others fell apart after that. One by one, they tried to flee or to hide. It made no difference. By dawn, I was alone.
The trench was silent now, save for the constant patter of rain and the distant rumble of artillery. I clutched my rifle and stared at the pale, gray light creeping over the horizon. The ground around me was littered with remnants of my comrades—shreds of uniforms, broken weapons, and strange, slimy footprints leading back into the dark.
I thought I might make it. The creatures didn’t come during the day, or so it seemed. But as the hours dragged on, the sky grew darker once more, the sun suffocated by thick clouds.
I tried to think of a plan. Climb out of the trench? Run until I collapsed? Every option seemed like a death sentence. The shadows were already lengthening, the unnatural quiet settling in
A voice, just behind me. Familiar.
“Help me, mate. It’s Lyle. I found a way out.”
I froze. My fingers tightened around the rifle. I didn’t turn around.
“Don’t you want to go home?” the voice continued. It was wrong, too perfect, like someone mimicking his voice from memory.
The mud squelched behind me as something moved closer. My breath caught in my throat. Slowly, I turned.
What stood before me wasn’t Lyle. It wore his face, but the eyes were empty pits, the mouth stretched too wide, the limbs too long and wrong. It tilted its head, as if trying to remember how humans moved.
I raised my rifle and fired.
The thing didn’t fall. It lunged.
I ran, my boots slipping in the mud, the storm howling around me. The trench seemed endless, the walls closing in. Behind me, I could hear the thing’s laughter—high-pitched and stuttering, like a broken phonograph.
I don’t know if I’ll make it through this night. But if anyone finds this, know that the war isn’t the only horror in these trenches. There are things here that don’t belong, things that wear our faces and whisper in the dark.
And when the sun sets, they will come for you too.
I don’t want to die here, but the sun is gone, and they’re coming. God help me, they’re com—
