The Bunker That Shouldn’t Exist

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It began as a routine mission. Boredom seemed the greatest threat. The squad entered a dense forest, nameless and Eastern European. Our maps, outdated, didn’t hint at surprises. Intel declared no hostiles—a standard patrol.

The forest grew silent. No birds. No rustling. Just boots crunching and radio static. Soon, we found it: a rusted steel door. It lay hidden in a hillside, moss-covered and vine-wrapped. Though decades old, its hinges shone, freshly oiled.

“On the map?” Danner asked. He knew the answer.

“Negative,” Cole replied, unease showing. “Stay sharp. We’re going in.”

The door groaned open. A staircase descended into darkness. The air chilled, metallic and damp. Danner switched his flashlight on, the beam cutting blackness.

“Smells like death,” he muttered.

“Old Soviet site, maybe,” Cole suggested. His tone doubted the words. “Stay close. Radios on.”

The stairs led to steel-walled halls. Symbols, jagged and uneven, marred the metal. They weren’t Cyrillic or familiar.

“Gibberish,” Torres whispered.

“Keep moving,” Cole ordered, voice shaky.

Deeper, the air pressed heavier. Footsteps echoed wrong, swallowed by the halls. Then, we found the first room.

Equipment filled it: radios, computers, and monitors. Decades old, pristine, untouched. A notebook stack sat on a central table. Danner opened one.

“What is this?” He stared at frantic writing, diagrams, and coordinates. Ink, we hoped, smeared some pages.

“Useful?” Cole asked.

“Not if crazy counts,” Danner replied. He tossed it, and we moved on.

Further exploration brought unease. Corridors looped illogically. Rooms shifted places. Walls pulsed if stared at too long. Then, whispers began. Footsteps, unmatched to ours, followed.

“Acoustics,” Cole insisted. No one believed him.

Torres disappeared, and pretense stopped.

He had been rear guard. One moment present, the next gone. His flashlight clattered. The radio crackled. His breathing sounded ragged, panicked.

“Torres, report!” Cole demanded.

No reply. Just breathing, then a guttural whisper: “Help… me.”

It mimicked Torres, distorted like underwater sounds. It echoed from radios, then walls.

Panic rose. Retracing steps failed. Corridors led nowhere. Symbols writhed under our gaze, forming shapes inducing headaches. Then, Danner screamed—a distant, muffled cry, fading. His flashlight flickered ahead, then died. His voice joined Torres’, pleading from walls.

Only Cole and I remained. We silenced ourselves. Every sound provoked the bunker, now alive. Walls pulsed, air buzzed.

“Out. Now,” Cole urged, pale and trembling.

“Which way?” I asked. Cole froze, staring past me, terror wide in his eyes.

I turned. A figure stood at the corridor’s end, dimly lit. It wore our uniform. Its head was wrong, too angular. Eyes glowed like embers. It raised a hand, pointing.

We ran. Corridors twisted, walls closing in. My flashlight flickered. The air froze. Cole led, boots pounding. Then he stopped.

“Cole, move!” I shouted. He faced me, eyes blank, face slack.

“It wants us to stay,” he said, monotone.

I grabbed his arm, pulling him forward. He stumbled, snapping out of his trance. We ran, found stairs. Daylight poured through the open door. We bolted.

Emerging, air lightened, clean. I turned. The door had vanished. Moss covered the hillside. The bunker ceased existing.

Command dismissed us. Stress. Disorientation. Gas leaks. Yet, the radio recordings stayed—Torres and Danner’s voices crying for help.

Late at night, I still hear them, echoing. Sometimes, alone, walls feel like they’re watching.

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