Orion. Casseopeia. The Plough. I didn’t recognise many of the constellations in the Northern Hemisphere night sky, but I wasn’t out there to look at the stars. This was the peak of the Perseid meteor shower, and I had driven about sixty miles up into the countryside to get away from the unrelenting light pollution of the Midlands. Settling into a cheap folding chair with a blanket over me, dressed for the English autumn, a flask of tea and a bottle of Smirnoff by my side, I finally relaxed and looked up at the sky.
The first meteor I spotted was at the very edge of my peripheral vision, so much so that I doubted whether I had seen anything at all. Slowly, as the sky darkened further and my eyes adjusted, more brief streaks of light punctuated the night. I sipped my drinks in turn and watched, the majesty of the cosmos lulling me into semi-consciousness. Or maybe that was the vodka.
I awoke suddenly, stiff and numb. My watch read 3.17am. Thankfully it was November and not January, when even in England there is a chance of freezing to death on a cold night. I packed up my things and, before going back to the warmth of the car nearby, stood still for a moment, eyes again on the heavens. One speck of light stood out amongst others, and I realised that I had not noticed this before. As I stared, it briefly flared with a greenish hue, and seemed to expand. Although this struck me as a bit odd, it was late and I was tired. The car was a welcome sight. Snuggling into a sleeping bag, I slept.
The following week was just nonstop work, boring, unfulfilling, but easy. I’d forgotten about the odd light in the sky, until the next Saturday when I decided that a night walk would be fun. I hadn’t done that since my teenage years, but in a moment of spirited adventure which have been few and far between since my divorce, I packed up some supplies and equipment and headed off again.
I’m going to shorten the story for you now, since I’ve waffled on a bit so far. I saw the light again, with its green aura now unmistakable. It was growing even as I watched. I looked at some astronomy apps on my phone, but nothing suggested that there should be an object where I could quite clearly see one. News channels reported nothing. Even the crazy ufo sites I found didn’t even mention the green light.
I became obsessed, I admit. I talked to friends, family, colleagues, and none of them had seen this… thing. Yet every weekend, when I went up into the hills, there it was, now clear as the moon itself and half as big. I went to my doctor, fearing that I was hallucinating, and she gave me some tablets, I don’t remember what they were. They didn’t help, though. I called the police one night from my position in the folding chair at 2am, insisting that they do something, but they weren’t interested. They probably thought I was a crackpot, or an attention seeker.
My family live abroad, so they were no use. My sister sounded worried, but that’s all. Friends were busy with their own lives for the most part, but eventually I convinced John to come with me one weekend in May. The darkness came later then, and we whiled away the evening playing cards, drinking, reminiscing over old times when we were younger. By now, I’d got the full camping setup, and it was great. Except for that bloody light.
John said he didn’t see it. He insisted there was nothing there, over and over again, with a concerned expression that one might use for a child who insists their imaginary friend is real. I looked up. This thing was now bigger than the moon, still green, now the brightest celestial object except for the sun itself. John would not listen to me. For the first time, I wondered if it were me who was actually going insane.
I scoured the Internet for any sign of the thing I’d started to call, in my own head, the Green Star. It wasn’t a star, of course, I knew that, but I couldn’t think of a better name that wasn’t religious or fantastical in nature. Green Demon was a possibility, though, because it had haunted my every thought for months on end. I contacted astronomical organisations around the world with either no response or a negative one. Nobody else, no matter how big their telescope, seemed to be able to see the light that was now clearly a spherical body. Every day I looked up, and even in daylight this monstrosity was there, looming over the earth, ever present and terrifying. I quit my job, obviously. I sought out drugs of every type, hoping desperately to shut out the vision that nobody else could see. A few more months passed, and I have no real recollection of this.
Which brings me to today. I stand, in the middle of a city, with ordinary folk going about their business all around me. Yet above me, the Green Star is close. So close. It looks like a planet, or a moon - not a star, yet it still glows its eerie colour like nothing else I’ve seen or read about. And believe me, I’ve read a lot. I’m no scientist, but from my observations, it’s going to hit us soon. Very soon.