“Congratulations. The day shift at Hollow Creek Airport is a vibrant, fleeting dream. It’s a place of sun-warmed glass and the warm chaos of humanity, a river of stories flowing towards a thousand destinations. But that world is not yours. You are the warden of the silence that comes after.
Your kingdom awakens at 11:07 PM, with the final, distant whine of a jet engine surrendering to the night. Your reign lasts until the first sliver of sun bleeds onto the vacant tarmac at 7 AM. The compensation is absurdly generous—a life-altering sum that whispers of finality, not just employment. It’s a salary that erases past mistakes and buys future possibilities. The single, unspoken condition? You must survive the darkness to claim it.
The dying sun throws long, skeletal shadows from the access road to Hollow Creek Airport. In your grip are two items: the key to the security office and a document called “Protocol for Nocturnal Operations.” The word “protocol” suggests procedure, but every rule on that page feels like a warning. They told you the last person to hold this key “found a better position.” You have a deep, instinctual certainty that this is a lie, and that their “opportunity” was an exit you don’t want to make.
Rule 1: The Ghosts in the Departure Lounge
All personnel at Hollow Creek Airport are advised that any individuals observed waiting in the terminal after midnight are to be disregarded. Operational schedules confirm no departures or arrivals are posted for that period. In the event of being acknowledged by these figures, personnel must conceal their identity until the entities have departed.
Your first patrol at 12:15 AM confirms your worst fears. The central terminal of Hollow Creek Airport, once a river of humanity, is now a cavernous, silent space. The Hollow Creek Airport was supposed to be deserted at this hour. Yet, a silent congregation occupied the sterile plastic chairs, their spines ramrod straight. Frozen in the sickly light of the emergency system, they held onto antiquated travel gear. Their grip was tight on rigid luggage from the 1970s and outdated hatboxes that belonged to a different time.
Your training screams to ask if they need assistance. But you remember the rule.Vision drops. Under the harsh, clinical lights, the floor became a pane of glass, perfectly echoing the wild drumbeat of your heart. Your attention was snatched by a sudden jerk—one of the silhouettes slowly inclined its head. The gesture is staccato, synthetic, a motion born of encoded commands and whirring actuators, utterly alien to the fluid grace of living sinew.
You dive. The newsstand’s metal frame ices your cheek as you slam against it. You don’t just hold your breath; you become breathless, The quiet sound of a sole dragging across linoleum reaches you, and then… an absolute, deafening silence. Gathering your courage for a peek, you find the spot vacant, as if they were never there.They are not lost travelers; they are echoes, impressions left on the fabric of Hollow Creek Airport, forever waiting for a flight that will never board.
Rule 2: The Flickering Gate to the Past
“At exactly 1:00 AM, the departure board will flicker with flights from decades ago. Do not read the names aloud. If you do, the people on that list will appear beside you.”Silence ruled the security office—until 1:00 AM. A dead split-flap display exploded with sound, its mechanical whirring a shock in the quiet. This was no ordinary update. He stared at the board, a monument to forgotten skies. Its flickering display offered passages to another time: a Pan Am jet to Lisbon, a TWA flight to Paris, an Air Afrique journey to Dakar. Each carrier was defunct, each destination a ghost. The board wasn’t listing flights; it was reciting an elegy for journeys that could never be taken again.
Your focus snaps to a manifest now cycling on a small digital screen you’re sure wasn’t there before. Alias-like names—”Eleanor Rigby,” “Arthur Pendragon,” “John Doe”—stream downward. A powerful curiosity grips you, a compelling pull to act as a channel for these lost souls. But you know the consequence. To speak their name is to issue an invitation. It’s a summoning ritual. The air around you would grow cold, and one by one, they would materialize, asking you about the weather, the delay, their final destination—their breath smelling of static and old air. The Hollow Creek Airport departure board is not a source of information; it’s a haunted ledger.
Rule 3: The Voice on the Line
“Never answer the payphones when they ring.Silence is the only language of a dead concourse at night. So when the payphone near Gate C4 shattered that silence, its ring was a physical blow. I ignored it. At 2:17, the summons came again, but now it circumvented the device completely. A voice blossomed directly within my mind—a flawless, sonic phantom of my grandmother. It held the precise cadence that once drew me home for milk and cookies, now twisted into an ethereal demand that coiled deep inside my skull. “Please, pick up. I’m lost.”
The third night, it rings at 3:03 AM. This time, it’s the voice of your best friend from college. “Hey, man, grab the phone! It’s important!” The human instinct to connect is powerful. But the rule is absolute. Don’t answer. Your grip on the flashlight is bone-white. You know what happens. You say “Hello?” The line dies. The silence is then broken by a warm sigh against your neck. The same voice is suddenly there in the dark with you, whispering the rest of its message. The meaning curdles, becoming something old and wicked. Remember: at Hollow Creek Airport, the phones don’t call the living.
Rule 4: The Shadows on the Runway
“Avoid looking out at the runway if you see headlights in the fog. No real flights disturb Hollow Creek after dark. The luminous fog that settles then is a liar, conjuring phantom jets with landing lights that pierce the gloom. Their engine whine is a ghostly, backwards recording. These are not planes, but echoes pretending to be real. Sustained focus dissolves the line between observer and illusion, pulling your consciousness into the construct.
You know Rule 4, but curiosity is a primal force. One night, you peek.A shadow without a source glides into its final descent, a vessel of matte obsidian that drinks the light and emits a profound, unnatural silence. It navigates towards an isolated hangar, a structure known to remain sealed until dusk. The staircase does not deliver a person. It is the shadows that break their moorings, pouring like oil across the wet pavement to pool into shifting, amorphous shapes.
If your resolve is steel and your gaze does not waver, one of these forms will pause. A head without features turns with a slow, deliberate grace. A single, slender appendage rises, its motion an unspoken edict, heavy with implication. It is then that a primal, genetic memory stirs deep in your marrow—a siren’s call to step across the threshold and ascend into the consuming void.
This is the precise instant you must look away. To board that flight is to leave the world you know forever. The runways of Hollow Creek Airport are a stage for a cosmic play you must never join.
The Final Rule: The Point of No Return
“If your name is ever called over the intercom, run outside immediately. Do not wait to hear the message and do not look back. If you stay, you’ll become another passenger trapped in Hollow Creek Airport forever.”
This is the ultimate rule. The fail-safe. It means the management—whoever or whatever they are—has deemed your position compromised. The entities have learned your name.
During your fourth week, the routine was absolute.The silent, pre-dawn hour was broken only by the bitter taste of lukewarm coffee, a gritty ritual ushering in the day. Without warning, the intercom shredded the peace—a sharp, static scream that made you jump, staining your clothes with a spreading, dark blotch. In the Hollow Creek Airport silence that remained, a voice smoothly unfolded. It was a study in dissonance: the surface of spun silk layered over a core of polar ice, its resonance rolling through the terminal’s deserted passageways.It calls your name. Not the nickname your friends use, but your full, legal name, the one on your employment file.
An icy fear instantly paralyzes my body. Yet, a raw, primal urge within fights to respond, yearning to answer the voice that calls out from the unknown.Is it a final exam from your superiors? A desperate call from the director? The memory of the command shatters the hesitation: the rule is absolute. Thought is a luxury you cannot afford. With a final, decisive push, you break away from your post.You hit the exit with your shoulder—hard.The alarm is a fading echo, irrelevant now. Your escape is a blur of pavement and a thunderous beat of your own heart, putting distance between you and the terminal’s shrinking beacon.
The command screams in your mind: Never look back. You surge forward, an unyielding engine of speed, until the complex shrinks into a solitary mark on the horizon’s ledger. Only at this vanishing point does the mechanism shudder into silence, the air exploding back into your lungs like a collapsing star.
Doubled over, you drink in the sharp, cold air, each breath a raw, burning reminder that you are free. You never once glance back at the place known as Hollow Creek Airport.Behind you, you know what you would have seen. The terminal, now bright and busy with the morning rush, would have looked normal to anyone else. But you would have seen the same faces from the midnight lounge, now mingling with the living, their eyes hollow, forever waiting. To stay is to be added to the perpetual passenger list of Hollow Creek Airport.
Conclusion: Would You Take the Job?
The role at Hollow Creek Airport, while financially lucrative, is psychologically demanding.This position acts as an intense crucible for the human spirit, probing one’s competence to prosper in complete detachment. You will face realities that resist all reason and progressively dismantle your conception of existence. A strict protocol demands that you ignore distressing situations, including the pleas of children or insistent communications. You will have to ignore the call of the familiar from the void.
The pay is good. But is it worth your sanity? Is it worth your soul? The key is in your hand. The graveyard shift at Hollow Creek Airport begins in one hour.
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