Redwood Falls looked like any other quiet Oregon town on a cold autumn night in 1989—until you noticed how still the trees were. The pines stood stiff, unmoving, like they were listening to something far away. A thin fog drifted through the dense forest north of town, swallowing the narrow road that led to the long-abandoned AURORA Research Facility.
Inside the building, a single basement bulb flickered to life.
Dr. Howard Reeves stood hunched over an old computer terminal, the green-tinted screen reflecting off his glasses. He was fifty-five, tall and scarecrow-thin, with graying hair that stuck out at the sides and a posture shaped by years bent over instruments. His lab coat was gone—he now wore a wool sweater and patched slacks—but the nervous energy of a scientist still lived in his hands.
"This shouldn't be possible…" he whispered.
The machine whirred weakly. Dust drifted through the beam of his light. The facility had been sealed for more than a decade, but tonight, its systems woke like something exhaled in its sleep.
Lines of text blinked on the monitor:
> AURORA ENGINE: INACTIVE
RESIDUAL SIGNAL DETECTED
SOURCE: UNKNOWN
Reeves swallowed. His voice trembled. "Not again…"
He typed rapidly, fingers shaking. The monitor flashed, showing an unstable waveform—jagged peaks, uneven rhythm, static-laced edges.
A cold breath swept across the basement.
The overhead bulb flickered once. Twice.
Then the radio speaker on the console hissed softly.
Not words.
Not even a voice.
Just… static.
But not random.
It pulsed—short, long, long, short—like a heartbeat with a secret.
Reeves backed away, chest tight. "No… no, no, this field should be dead."
The screen glitched violently, brightening, dimming, brightening—like it was trying to speak through light. Then the power cut. Darkness swallowed the basement.
Reeves fumbled for his flashlight.
A faint hum rose behind him—like electricity knitting itself through broken wires.
The machine rebooted on its own.
Static filled the room—soft but heavy.
Reeves whispered, "It's starting again…"
The emergency lights snapped on.
Dr. Howard Reeves was gone.
His flashlight lay on the floor, beam still warm.
A cold draft drifted through the silent room. Then everything went still again, as if nothing had moved at all.
•••
Morning crept slowly into Logan Holliston's basement—golden light slipping through a dusty window, scattering across tools, parts, and scraps of paper. The space smelled of solder, sawdust, and motor oil. A bare bulb swung overhead, casting jittery shadows.
The center of the room held a strange contraption:
a homemade recreation of a 1930s light-speed experiment.
Jamie Ward tightened a brace on a spinning spindle—sixteen, broad shoulders, blond hair messy, varsity jacket sleeves rolled up.
"So remind me," Jamie grunted, "why are we building this museum junk again?"
Aiden Marsh adjusted the mirror across the room—fifteen, slight build, thoughtful blue-gray eyes, brown hair constantly falling into them.
"Because it might prove something about old experiments," Aiden muttered.
Jamie groaned. "Speak English, professor."
Lyra Fletcher crouched beside the stripped-down motor, amber eyes focused like lasers, dark ponytail swaying. Sixteen, thin frame, grease-smudged hands—born for wires.
"And because," Lyra added, tightening screws, "Logan won't shut up until it works."
Logan Holliston—fifteen, tall, hazel eyes bright with stubborn confidence, chestnut hair across his brow—tapped a blueprint.
"We measure light. If Fizeau could do it a century ago, we can do it in a basement."
"With junk," Jamie muttered.
"Stop complaining," Logan said. "You volunteered!"
Jamie pointed at Aiden. "No, Aiden dragged me—"
"Shut up, Jamie," Aiden sighed.
Lyra flicked her eyes toward them. "Both shut up. I need quiet or someone loses eyelashes."
Jamie stepped back instantly.
Lyra smirked. "Thought so."
She flicked the motor switch.
The improvised toothed wheel began turning.
Logan clapped once. "Yes! Okay—Aiden, align the reflector!"
"Already doing it," Aiden said. "Calm down, commander."
Jamie squinted at the beam. "Come on, guys, hurry up—I wanna see if it works."
Aiden straightened the mirror. "Alignment confirmed. Returning dot visible."
Jamie pressed his eye to the viewer. "I see it! It's working!"
"Quiet, Jamie," Lyra muttered. "I need to hear the motor pitch."
Lyra adjusted the rheostat—careful, precise.
The wheel blurred.
The reflected dot dimmed.
"Approaching extinction," Aiden murmured.
"That means—" Jamie started.
"The light's gonna vanish," Logan cut in. "Meaning we did it."
Lyra nudged the dial—
A spark snapped.
The wheel rattled violently, grinding metal against its housing.
"LYRA—" Logan shouted.
"I see it!" she snapped back, reaching—
But it was too late.
The wheel shook loose, one mounting screw snapping from torque.
"Kill it!" Logan barked.
Lyra slammed the cutoff.
The motor sputtered dead.
Smoke trailed upward.
Jamie sprawled backward on the floor. "Well. That sucked."
Aiden stared at the spinning wheel slowing. "We almost got extinction."
Logan grinned wide — exhilarated despite the failure.
"That was awesome."
"Why did it blow up?" Jamie groaned.
Lyra pulled off her gloves, expression analytical rather than upset.
"The torque overloaded because someone mounted the bearing crooked," she explained. "The spindle wasn't perfectly centered, so when RPM rose, the imbalance amplified. The wheel wobbled and friction seized the mount. That caused the spark and meltdown."
Jamie blinked. "English, Lyra."
"You kicked the table," she translated flatly.
"I DID NOT—"
"You breathe too hard," she muttered.
Aiden smirked. "She's right."
Jamie pointed at him. "Shut up, Aiden."
Logan looked at them —
bickering, brilliant, different —
and laughed.
"Idiots with ambition," Jamie declared.
"Idiots with equations," Aiden corrected.
Lyra nodded. "Idiots with tools."
Logan reached into his pocket, unfolding a paper:
Static Seekers
Lost Signal Society
Dead Frequency Club
Jamie pointed. "Dead Frequency Club. Definitely."
Aiden nodded. "Fits."
Lyra met Logan's gaze. "Dead Frequency Club?"
Logan rested a hand on the scorched wheel.
"Dead Frequency Club."
They stacked hands.
A faint hiss crackled through the unplugged motor—
so soft none of them heard it.
Miles away, in the sealed basement of AURORA,
a dead terminal flickered once,
as if it had been listening.
Outside Logan's house,
the pines shivered for the first time since dawn.
And Redwood Falls
leaned closer.