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- [00:02]
Jennifer Taylor
You're listening to a Midnight Mystery production.
- [00:13]
Midnight Mystery Host
Hey everyone, it's the Midnight Mystery here. Just popping in to check if you've ever thought. Wow. I love this show but these ads are slowly destroying my will to live. I well, we have some good news. The Midnight Mystery has officially started a Patreon. By joining, you'll get early access to ad free episodes, exclusive miniseries and behind the scenes extras. Plus you'll be supporting independent creatives who pour everything they've got into making these stories. Every bit of support helps us keep the lights on, the mics recording and the weirdness flowing. The link to the Patreon is in the description below. So thank you so much for being here. We seriously couldn't do this without you. Let's get into the episode.
- [01:05]
Progressive Insurance Announcer
This episode is brought to you by Progressive Insurance. Do you ever think about switching insurance companies to see if you could save some cash? Progressive makes it easy to see if you could save when you bundle your home and auto policies. Try it@progressive.com Progressive Casualty Insurance Company and affiliates. Potential savings will vary. Not available in all states.
- [01:24]
Mind of a Monster Narrator
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- [01:39]
Momentous Supplement Sponsor
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- [03:05]
Jennifer Taylor
Testing, testing. All right, we're recording. Operator log, bunker one. This is Jennifer Taylor, beginning my 30 day rotation. Day one, September 3rd, 2024. Time is 1843 hours, local. Okay, so Atlas requires daily audio logs for this assignment. Which I understand why now. After today, I need to process what happened because I don't think I'm going to sleep tonight. They drugged me at Bunker Zero. A couple days ago. At least I think it was a couple days ago. I'm still a little dopey from whatever they gave me. Signed the consent forms, they gave me an injection and I woke up here. Wherever here is. I don't know where this bunker is located. That was in the briefing documents, the ones I read before they put me under. I will not be told the location of Bunker One. I will be sedated for transport in and sedated for transport out. For security purposes. When I woke up, I was in the monitoring station. Small room, single bed, desk. This recording equipment, and a sealed envelope with my assignment instructions. I have read these instructions maybe 20 times now, trying to make sense of them. Subject contained in primary chamber. Last human being from future timeline. Extreme security classification. If subject achieves visual contact with any surface, or if subject speaks catastrophic timeline incursion will occur. The last human being. They kept using that phrase throughout the documents from a future timeline where everything failed. This person came back somehow. Traveled back to warn us, to try to change things. But they brought something with them. Something dangerous. And if they see or if they speak, Catastrophic consequences. The instructions are clear. Monitor vitals twice daily. Change IV feeding tube every 24 hours. Do not touch beyond necessary maintenance. Do not speak to the subject. Do not remove restraints under any circumstances. Keep them alive, keep them silent. 30 days. Then they sedate me again. Transport me out. And I never speak about this to anyone. The NDA I signed before they put me under was 40 pages long. Confidentiality agreement, liability waiver, psychological assessment, consent. And the payment. The payment was deposited before I even woke up. Here. More money than I've made in the last five years combined. I saw them for the first time this afternoon. After I read through everything. After I put on the containment suit. After I went through the triple lock door into the chamber. They're just sitting there. Bolted to the chair by their hands and feet. The metal bindings over their face are seamless, like they were custom made. You can see their chest Rising and falling. Breathing alive. But when I entered the chamber, they reacted. Their head turned toward the door. Toward me, even though they can't see. And their hands. Their hands gripped the armrests tight, like they knew someone was there. I did my first IV check. Had to hook up the feeding tube to the port in their arm. Standard medical procedure. I've done it a thousand times. But when I touched them, when I adjusted the line, they tensed up. Their whole body went rigid. Their breath caught. They're in pain or scared. Or both. Clinical observations for the record. Respiratory rate elevated when in proximity to operator. Approximately 22 breaths per minute versus baseline 18. Body temperature, 98.4 degrees Fahrenheit. Heart rate, 88 bpm. All vitals within acceptable parameters for long term sedentary containment. God, listen to me. Acceptable parameters for long term sedentary containment. That's what I wrote in the official log. Like this is normal. Like this is just another assignment. This is a person. The last human being, and we have them bolted to a chair with their eyes and mouth sealed shut. I keep telling myself Atlas knows what they're doing. They have protocols, procedures, reasons. This person came back from a future where everything failed. They brought something dangerous. If they see or speak, people die. Maybe everyone dies. I don't know. The money is in my account. I sign the papers, 30 days and I'm done. Then they drug me again. And I wake back up at Bunker Zero with no idea where I've been. But I can't stop thinking about those restraints. About the way they gripped the armrest when I came close. About the metal binding covering their mouth, preventing them from speaking. What did they come back to say? What warning did they try to bring? And why are we keeping them silent? 29 days left. Operator log, bunker one. Jennifer Taylor. Day five. September 7, 2024. Time is 19:20 hours. Routine is settling in. IV change every 24 hours. Vitals check twice daily, morning and evening. Same time every day. The instructions emphasize consistency, keep the subject stable, minimize variables. I'm getting better at it. The movements? Going through the triple lock door. Suiting up. Entering the chamber. Hook up the new IV bag. Check the line. Monitor the drip rate, heart rate, temperature, respiratory count. Record everything. Lock up, return to the monitoring station. Clinical, efficient. The monitoring station is small, maybe 12 by 15ft. Single bed against the far wall. Never really comfortable. Metal desk with this recording equipment. A laptop for logging official reports. And a small stack of containment protocols I'm supposed to review daily. There's a kitchenette, if you can call it that mini fridge, microwave, hot plate. They stock it weekly. Someone comes in while I'm sleeping, leaves supplies by the door. I never see them. Just wake up and there's more food, more water, fresh linens. No windows, no natural light. Just fluorescent bulbs that buzz constantly. I've started leaving one off just to break up the sound. My routine outside the chamber is monotonous. Wake up, check the time. There's a digital clock on the desk. Only way I know if it's day or night. Make coffee, review the protocols. Enter the chamber for morning vitals, Come back, eat something, log the observations, read. Wait. Enter the chamber for IV change, Come back, log, make dinner, read some more. Evening vitals, log, try to sleep. And repeat. I brought three books with me. Finished two already. Five days. And I'm running out of things to do besides think. And that's the problem. Too much time to think. But they know when I'm coming Now. I don't know how, but they know. Every time I enter the chamber, their head turns toward the door. Immediately, before I even say anything. Not that I'm supposed to speak to them, their head just turns, tracking me, even though they can't see. And their hands. God, their hands. Sometimes, when I approach to check the iv, their hands grip the armrests. Not violently, not like they're trying to break free. Just gripping fingers pressing into the metal like they're bracing themselves. Or maybe trying to communicate something. Clinical observations, for the record. Respiratory rate consistently elevated in my presence. 20 to 24 breaths per minute. Body temperature holding steady at 98.3 to 98.5 degrees Fahrenheit. Heart rate ranges from 85 to 92 bpm, depending on proximity. All vitals stable within acceptable parameters. There's that phrase again. Acceptable parameters. I keep reminding myself what the document said, what the instructions keep repeating. This is the last human being from a future timeline where everything failed. They came back and brought something dangerous with them. If they see, if they speak. Catastrophic consequences. People die. Maybe everyone dies. The money helps. I'm not going to lie about that. When I start questioning this, when I start feeling whatever this feeling is. I think about that deposit, about what I can do with it when I get out of here. Pay off my loans, help my sister, maybe finally take that trip I've been planning for years. 30 days. 25 more to go. But I can't stop thinking about those restraints. The metal bolts through their hands and feet, anchoring them to that chair. The bindings over their eyes and mouth, seamless, permanent, like they were never Meant to come off. And the way they react when I come near. The tensing, the gripping, the elevated breathing. They're suffering. I can see it. Feel it. Every time I enter that chamber, I'm watching someone suffer. And today I kept thinking, why? Why are we keeping them alive if they're so dangerous, if what they know or what they brought back is catastrophic, why not just end it? Why keep them bolted to a chair, fed through an iv, conscious and aware and suffering? For how long? Months? Years? Why keep them alive like this? The documents don't say. The instructions don't explain it. Just maintain vitals, keep them stable, keep them silent. But someone made the decision to keep this person alive. To restrain them like this. To seal their eyes and mouth and bolt them down and feed them just enough to keep them breathing. Someone decided this was necessary. I did the evening vitals check an hour ago. When I approached, they turned their head toward me, like always. And then their hands. Their hands gripped the armrest so tight, I could see their knuckles going white through the restraints. And I just stood there, staring, wondering what they're thinking, what they want to say. What warning they came back to deliver. 25 days left. Jennifer Taylor, signing off. Operator log, bunker one. Jennifer Taylor. Day 12, September 14, 2024. Morning log time is 8:47 hours. Standard IV change schedule for this morning routine is becoming familiar now. Almost automatic. Wake up, coffee, review protocols. Suit up, enter chamber. Same movements every day. Subjects? Vitals were stable overnight according to the monitoring Systems. Heart rate 87 bpm to temperature 98.4. Respiratory rate 18 at rest. All within normal parameters. Nothing unusual expected today. Just another IV change. Should take 10, maybe 15 minutes. I'll record again after the procedure. Jennifer Taylor, signing off. Emergency log. Same day. Time is. Fuck, I don't know, maybe nine, 20 hours. I need to record this while it's still fresh. While I can still. Okay. Okay. I was changing the iv. Same routine as yesterday. Same routine as every day. Entered the chamber, approached the chair, disconnected the old line, prepped the new bag. Standard procedure. Got close to adjust the connection point on their arm. And their hand. Their hand shot out. Just shot out and grabbed my wrist. I don't. The restraints must have loosened. Or maybe they were always able to reach this far, I don't know. But they grabbed me tight. Desperate. Their fingers wrapped around my wrist like a vise. And then. And then I saw everything. I saw everything. It wasn't like watching. It wasn't like a video or a dream. It was like being there. Like I was living It. Experiencing it. Feeling every. Ruins. Empty facilities. Hallways I recognized but destroyed. Collapsed. Covered in something organic. Matter, maybe, spreading across the walls. Like everyone was gone. Not dead, just gone. Empty corridors. Silent rooms. Emergency lights still flashing, but no one there to see them. I saw myself. Older, maybe 10, 15 years older. Covered in that same substance. It was on my hands. My arms. Spreading up my neck and my face. I looked broken. Hollow. Like I'd realized something too late. Like I'd understood what we had done wrong. And it was already over. The bunkers, I saw them falling one by one. Containment breaches. Alarms screaming. People running, trying to seal the doors that wouldn't seal. Trying to stop something that couldn't be stopped. I heard screaming. So much screaming. And I saw this person, the one in the chair, the last human being, walking through it all. Through the end of everything. Alone. Completely alone. Buildings collapsed around them. Reality fracturing. Time breaking apart. And they just kept walking. Trying to find a way back. Trying to warn us what they went through to get here. What they sacrificed, what they saw. They let go. After. It felt like hours, but it was probably five seconds, maybe less. My legs gave out. I hit the floor and they just released me. My wrist. There are marks. Not burns, not exactly, but discoloration. Dark lines where their fingers were. It doesn't hurt, but it feels wrong. Like the skin is remembering something it shouldn't. I'm shaking. I can't stop shaking. I don't know what to do. The protocols don't cover this. The instructions don't mention physical contact beyond standard maintenance. Atlas didn't tell me this could happen. That wasn't a hallucination. I know hallucinations. I've studied them. I know what they feel like, how they present. That was real. That was the future they came from. I think it had to be. If not, then what the fuck was it? What did I just experience? The being is different now. When I finally got up, when I looked at them again, they were different. They're sitting perfectly still. But their breathing, it changed. Faster. Not panicked, but expectant. Like they're waiting for something. They know I saw something. They know I understand now. They turned their head toward me before I left the chamber. That same deliberate movement. And their hands were relaxed on the armrests for the first time since I got here. Like they're done waiting. Like they've shown me what I need to see. They're waiting for me to understand. Eighteen days left. Jennifer Taylor signing off.
- [22:19]
Progressive Insurance Announcer
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- [22:38]
BetterHelp Sponsor
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- [22:40]
Progressive Insurance Announcer
Did I talk too much? Did I just let it go?
- [22:49]
BetterHelp Sponsor
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- [23:15]
Jennifer Taylor
Operator log bunker 1 Jennifer Taylor Day 18, September 20, 2024 Time is 2143 hours. I haven't been sleeping six days since the contact, and I still can't close my eyes without seeing it. The ruins, the empty facilities. Containment breaches. People screaming. And my own face, years from now, covered in that scene. Substance broken. Realizing too late that we'd failed. It plays in a loop every time I try to sleep. Every time I blink too long, it's there, waiting. I went through the previous workers logs last night. Every single one stored in the monitoring station database. 12 operators before me dating back almost three years. Standard vitals, routine maintenance, clinical observations. Pages and pages of the same sterile language I've been using. Subjects stable. Parameters acceptable. No incidents to report. Nothing about physical contact. Nothing about visions or. Or marks or anything. Either it never happened to them or they were too afraid to report it. Or maybe. Maybe the subject never tried. Maybe they were waiting for the right person, someone who would understand. The being is completely different with me now. When I entered the chamber this morning, they turned their head toward me immediately. Not the slow tracking movement from before. Deliberate, purposeful. Like they knew exactly where I was and what I was thinking. I actually looked at them today. Really looked. Not just clinical observation, but seeing them during the vitals check. I stood there for maybe five minutes, just watching the way their chest rises and falls. It's labored, difficult. Like breathing takes effort now. Like they've been in that chair for so long, their body is forgetting how. And their jaw, behind the metal binding, I can see slight movements, tiny shifts. Like they're trying to form words, trying to speak even though it's impossible. Are they trying to speak? Have they been trying this whole time? This person survived the end of humanity. Walked through the ruins of everything we built. Found a way to come back, to warn us, to try to stop it from happening. And we bolted them to a chair and sealed their mouth shut. The vision they showed me, it wasn't just destruction. It was purpose. They didn't show me horror to scare me. They showed me what happens if we don't listen. What happens when we keep them silent? They came back for a reason. With information, with a warning that could change everything. And we're suppressing it. Not containing it, suppressing it. The money in my account means nothing now. I thought about it today. What I'd do when I got out, how I'd spend it, the life I'd build. What good is money in the future? I saw. What good is any of it if that's where we're heading? ATLAS protocols, the NDA. I signed the consequences they kept warning about in those briefing documents. All of it feels wrong now. Backwards. They told me this person is dangerous, that if they see or speak, catastrophic consequences will occur. But what if the catastrophe is keeping them silent? What if we're causing the exact future they came back to be prevent? This isn't containment. This is suppression. We're not protecting humanity. We're preventing a warning. I checked the restraints during today's IV change. Deliberately ran my fingers along the bolts, tested the range of motion on their wrists. They're loose enough for limited hand movement. Always have been. The bolts are set to allow maybe 6, 8 inches of reach from the armrests. Which means the Contact on day 12 was intentional. Calculated. They didn't grab me because the restraints failed. They grabbed me because they could. Because they were designed with just enough freedom to allow it. Someone built in that capability. Someone wanted this to be possible. They waited until day 12. Not day one, not day two, day 12. They waited until I was comfortable with the routine. Until I wouldn't panic, wouldn't immediately report it. Until I was close enough, trusting enough to receive what they needed to show me. They showed me exactly what I needed to see. When I left the chamber this evening. They gripped the armrests again. But it wasn't the same as before. It wasn't tension or fear. It was anticipation. They're waiting for something. They've been waiting this whole time. They're waiting for me to do something. But what? What am I supposed to do? I keep thinking, maybe they need to communicate. Maybe they need a way to deliver whatever warning they came back to give. But what if ATLAS is right? What if there's a reason they're restrained like this? What if letting them communicate really does cause something catastrophic? I saw the future where we fail. But maybe. Maybe that's the future. Where someone breaks protocol. Where someone like me decides they know better than Atlas. I don't know what to do. 12 days left. Jennifer Taylor signing off. Operator log bunker one. Jennifer Taylor. Day 30, September 22, 2024. Final rotation. Day time is 6:34 hours. I made a decision last night. Couldn't sleep after been thinking about it for days really. But last night I finally decided. I'm going to give them a way to communicate. I know the protocols. I know the NDA I signed. I know what Atlas said about consequences. Catastrophic timeline incursion, reality breaches. Whatever the hell that means. I don't care anymore. Found a pen and paper in the monitoring station supplies last night. Simple ballpoint pen, standard lined paper. Nothing special. Something they can use with limited hand movement. If they could grab my Wrist on day 12, they can hold a pen. I'm not removing the bindings. Not crossing that line. I'm not going to let them see or speak. But they came back with information. With a warning. And someone needs to hear it. Maybe it ends the world. Maybe Atlas was right to keep them silent. To lock them down like this. But I saw a future where we don't listen. Where we keep them restrained and silent. And let whatever they came back to prevent just happen. That ends the world too. About to go in for the morning IV change. Last one of my rotation pen and paper are in my pocket. My hands are shaking. I can feel them trembling. But I'm doing this. Whatever happens next, at least I gave them a voice. Jennifer Taylor signing off.
- [32:24]
Progressive Insurance Announcer
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- [32:44]
Momentous Supplement Sponsor
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- [34:08]
Jennifer Taylor
Post action Log. Same day. Time is 1512 hours. I did it. Went in for the morning IV change. Same routine. Suited up, entered the chamber, approached the chair, changed out the bag, checked the line, adjusted the flow rate. Standard procedure. And then? I took the paper and pen out of my pocket, placed the paper on their lap, Flat, smooth. Then the pen right next to their right hand, close enough to reach with the limited movement they have. I didn't say anything, didn't explain. They know why I'm doing this. They've known since day 12 what I would eventually do. Their hand moved immediately, the second I stepped back. Their fingers stretched toward the pen. Slowly, deliberately, like they'd been waiting for this exact moment. I walked out, locked the door behind me. Left them alone with it for the first time since. I don't know, however long they've been here. That was eight hours ago. Been sitting in the monitoring station since, Watching the door, waiting. The cameras are still recording. I can see them on the monitor feed, See them holding the pen, moving it across the paper. Slow, labored movements. I don't care anymore about the cameras. About ATLAS seeing this. About the consequences. It's evening now. Almost time for final vitals check. I need to go back in. Evening log, same day. Time is 18:47. 7 hours. The paper is on the floor, fallen from their lap. I. I picked it up with shaking hands. Seven words in shaky, desperate handwriting, like each letter. Took everything they had. Jack must not return to Bunker eight. That's it. That's all they wrote. Jack? Who is Jack? I've been through all the personnel files, all the operator logs, every document in this monitoring station. No one named Jack, no reference to anyone by that name. Bunker 8. I've heard of it. Everyone in Atlas has heard of it. High level containment clearance way above mine. I don't even know what they keep There. Why that bunker? Specifically, why bunker 8 and not any of the others? And why must not return. Return, not go to or enter. Return. Meaning this Jack person has been there before. Meaning they're planning to go back. This is what the last human being chose to communicate with. Their limited movement, their suffering. This single chance to deliver a message that might change everything. They didn't write help me. Didn't write let me go or I'm in pain or any of the things I thought they might say. They wrote a warning about someone named Jack in Bunker eight. When I looked at them, they were still. Completely still for the first time since I arrived. Their hands relaxed on the armrests their breathing steady, calm. Like they've been waiting years to deliver this message. Decades, maybe. However long they've been bolted to that chair. But what do I do with this? Do I report it to Atlas? Tell them what happened? Show them the message? They'll know I broke protocol. They'll void the NDA, take back the payment. Maybe worse. Do I hide it? Keep it secret? Pretend this never happened? My rotation ends today. They'll be here soon. Maybe an hour, maybe less. To sedate me for transport back to Bunker Zero. I made a copy, wrote it down word for word and hid it in the monitoring station behind the loose panel near the kitchenette. If anyone comes after me, if anyone needs to know the original is in my pocket. Right here. The sedation kit is here. Standard protocol. Syringe. Ampule of sedative instruction sheet. I'm supposed to administer it myself before the transport team arrives. Lie down on the bed. Inject the IV port into my arm and wait for unconsciousness. Wake up in Bunker Zero with no memory of where I've been. No idea how to find this place again. I'm looking at the message one more time. Jack must not return to Bunker Eight. Preparing the injection now. Protocol says it takes effect in 30 to 60 seconds. Done. It's in. I can feel it already. Warmth spreading through my arm. My head getting heavy. I still don't know what I'm going to do when I wake up. If I'll report this, if I'll try to find out who Jack is, if I'll. Jack must not return to bunker eight. Who the fuck is Jack?
- [40:14]
Central Command Announcer
This is Central Command. September 23, 2024, 034. Two hours. Incident report, bunker one mountain containment site. Operator Jennifer Taylor. Rotation concluded. Operator Taylor's final rotation logs have been reviewed. Protocol breach confirmed on day 30. Subject was provided unauthorized communication materials in direct violation of containment directives. Operator Taylor successfully delivered written message from primary containment subject prior to scheduled sedation and extraction. Message contents Classified level 9 information exposure assessment critical. Standard debriefing procedures were deemed insufficient given the scope of compromised intelligence. Operator Taylor was exposed to knowledge obtained directly from the subject. Knowledge regarding future timeline events, knowledge that cannot be allowed to spread. Containment protocols were enacted. Operator Taylor will not be returning to Bunker Zero. Secondary subject of interest, Jack, has been located and secured at processing site Gamma. Command is already familiar with this individual. Due to his involvement in the Violet incident and subsequent fatality. Jack has formally requested Transportation to Bunker 8. Request is unusual given the circumstances, but aligns with intelligence recovered from Bunker One. Breach authorization pending review from site director. Transport team has been notified. Estimated departure 1400 hours today. Bunker 1 requires immediate replacement. Operator rotation begins October 1st. Candidate screening in progress. Note for record, all materials related to Operator Taylor's breach, including original written communication from primary subject, have been secured and filed under Level 9 classification. Access Restricted to command personnel only. This is Central Command signing off.
- [42:42]
Progressive Insurance Announcer
This episode is brought to you by Progressive Insurance. Do you ever find yourself playing the budgeting game? Shifting a little money here, a little there, and hoping it all works out well? With the name your price tool from Progressive, you can be a better budgeter and potentially lower your insurance bill too. You tell Progressive what you want to pay for car insurance and they'll help you find options within your budget. Try it today@progressive.com, progressive Casualty Insurance Company and affiliates. Price and coverage match limited by state law. Not available in all states.
- [43:10]
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- [43:43]
Jennifer Taylor
Acast.
- [43:43]
Midnight Mystery Host
Powers the world's best podcasts. Here's a show that we recommend.
- [43:52]
Mind of a Monster Narrator
A master murderer, Israel Keys lives between two worlds.
- [43:56]
Jennifer Taylor
There's the person that everybody knows and loves. And then there's the guy who spends every waking hour planning on how he's going to kill someone.
- [44:03]
Mind of a Monster Narrator
On Mind of a Monster, the Cross Country Killer. We find out how this deadly Predator went unnoticed for so long.
- [44:10]
Midnight Mystery Host
I've had some confessions in my history, but nothing to that detail.
- [44:14]
Jennifer Taylor
I'll give it glow by blow.
- [44:15]
Mind of a Monster Narrator
If you want, listen to Mind of a Monster, the Cross Country Killer Wherever you get your podcasts.
- [44:22]
Central Command Announcer
Acast helps creators.
- [44:24]
Midnight Mystery Host
Launch, grow and monetize their podcasts everywhere. Acast.com thanks for listening to Bunker 8. If you're into the weird slow burn sci fi stories, check out our other show, End of the Loop. It's about a guy who finally escapes a time loop and has to deal with everything that comes after. We're completely independent, so any support, whether it's sharing the show, leaving a review, or just telling a friend, it really means a lot. Here's the trailer. My name is Ethan and I was trapped in a time loop. Not for days or months or even years. For so long I forgot what real time felt like. I stopped counting after a while because. Because what was the point? Nothing changed. Nothing ever changed. Every day the same town, the same people, the same monsters hiding behind familiar faces. I watched. I listened. I learned everything. Every lie they told. Every evil, messed up thing they did when they thought no one was watching. And then one day I was out. I don't know why, I don't know how, but. But I'm free. And now I'm going to use everything I know to take them down. End of the Loop is a midnight mystery production. Search for End of the Loop on your favorite podcast platform.