I never met my grandfather, but his shadow loomed large over our family. He disappeared before I was born, leaving behind only whispered rumors and a set of sealed files my grandmother forbade us from touching. I always sensed fear behind her stern warnings. After she passed, I inherited the old, creaking house, and with it, the files marked “MJ-12.”
The Majestic 12: a name that conjured images of darkened rooms and secrets so profound they could unseat the understanding of our place in the cosmos. I pored over the files, finding references to Roswell, cryptic messages about a “Cosmic Key,” and unsettling mentions of the “Midnight Men” – beings rumored to be enforcers for Majestic 12, silencing those who knew too much. The descriptions matched those of the Men in Black, but with a far more sinister undertone.
One autumn night, as the wind howled like a chorus of the damned, I found a hidden compartment in the bottom of the chest. Inside was a journal, my grandfather’s handwriting shaky as if he wrote in terror. The last entry, dated the day he vanished, read:
“They’re coming. The Midnight Men. They’ve learned I’ve told the family too much. If you’re reading this, heed my warning: destroy the Cosmic Key. It’s not what they promised. It’s a door, but doors open both ways. They want what’s on the other side. I’ve hidden the Key where only the innocent can find it, where the shadows fear to tread. They cannot get their hands on it. I’ve seen what comes through… the Other Place. It’s not meant for our world.”
I shuddered, the vague memories of my mother’s bedtime stories of “shadow men” who snatched away the curious suddenly crystallizing into a terrifying possibility. I started to hear it – a faint tapping at the window. Tap. Tap. Tap. A rhythm like a heartbeat, growing faster.
Compelled by a mixture of fear and the need for truth, I searched the attic for the Cosmic Key. It was a night of a new moon, and the darkness felt alive, watching, waiting. I found an old toy box, the one my mother said was mine as a child, now covered in dust and cobwebs. Inside, buried under forgotten toys, was an object wrapped in cloth that hummed with an energy that made my hair stand on end.
As I unwrapped it, the room grew cold, and my breath fogged in the air. It was a black, obsidian disk, etched with symbols that made my eyes water if I looked too long. It wasn’t the object itself that was so unnerving, but rather, the absence it presented – a void, as if it was a hole in reality itself.
The tapping at the window grew more insistent. I didn’t dare look; my grandfather’s warnings echoed in my head. I knew, instinctively, that the Midnight Men were outside, their eyes voids in the night, their suits darker than the surrounding dark, waiting for me to acknowledge their presence.
I clutched the Cosmic Key tightly and fled. I drove with no destination, the night swallowing the distance. My only respite was the approaching dawn, but even the sun seemed muted, fearful of what pursued me.
I’ve been on the run since that night. I can’t stay in one place too long, can’t let the darkness catch up. The tapping follows me, a sound not of this world. It’s the sound of the Midnight Men, and they’re relentless.
If you’re reading this, I may no longer be here. I can only hope I’ve hidden the Key well enough. Remember, darkness is their domain, and every shadow could be a doorway. The truth isn’t out there – it’s right here, and it’s far more terrible than we could have ever imagined.