Conrad Jackson had always been meticulous, a trait that served him well as a mechanic in the Union's outer colonies. But nothing had prepared him for the isolation of being stranded in the void. How long had it been now? Months? Years? Time had a way of slipping through his fingers like the fine Martian sand he once played in as a child.

His ship, the Wayfarer, floated silently through the endless black, a speck of humanity in a vast, indifferent universe. The crew had vanished without a trace, leaving Conrad alone with his thoughts and the cold hum of the ship's life support systems. He'd checked every corner, every hidden compartment, but found no sign of them. They were just... gone.

Conrad's hands were his salvation. He spent hours each day maintaining the ship, ensuring every bolt was tight, every circuit functioning. It kept him busy, kept his mind from drifting to darker places. But no matter how hard he worked, he couldn't shake the feeling of eyes watching him from the shadows.

"Jackson, you old fool," he muttered to himself, his voice echoing through the empty corridors. "Talking to yourself again, are you?" He laughed, a harsh, barking sound that lacked any real humor. It was a laugh he'd grown accustomed to hearing.

He'd taken to conversing with the ship's NHP, a rudimentary program named Athena. She wasn't much of a conversationalist, but her mechanical responses were a comfort, a reminder that he wasn't completely alone.

"Tell me, Athena," he asked one day, his voice hoarse from disuse, "what are the chances of us finding another ship out here?"

"Probability of encountering another vessel in this sector is approximately 0.0003%," Athena replied in her monotone voice.

"Not great odds, huh?" Conrad sighed. "Well, Jackson, looks like it's just you and me." He patted the wall affectionately, as if the ship could feel his touch.

At night, when the ship was at its quietest, Conrad would lie in his bunk and listen. The voices were the worst then, whispering unintelligible things just beyond the edge of hearing. He knew they weren't real, knew they were just figments of his fraying sanity, but that didn't make them any less terrifying.

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

"You're losing it, Jackson," he told himself one night, clutching his blanket tight. "Get a grip, man."

But the void had a way of creeping into the soul, filling the empty spaces with dread and despair. It wasn't long before he started seeing things, shadows flitting just out of sight, shapes forming in the corner of his eye. He'd whip around, wrench in hand, but there was never anything there.

One day, while working on the engine, he heard it clearly: a voice, not his own, calling his name.

"Conrad..."

He froze, heart pounding in his chest. "Who's there?" he demanded, brandishing the wrench like a weapon. "Show yourself!"

But the engine room remained silent, the only sound the steady thrum of the ship's reactor. He laughed again, a broken sound. "You're cracking up, Jackson. Hearing things now. Wonderful."

Despite his bravado, a seed of doubt had been planted. What if there really was something out there, watching him, waiting? The thought gnawed at him, eroding the fragile barrier between sanity and madness.

Days bled into nights, and Conrad's grasp on reality grew increasingly tenuous. He'd catch glimpses of figures in the reflection of the view port, hear snatches of conversation when the ship should have been silent. He couldn't trust his own senses anymore.

In his more lucid moments, he considered sending out a distress signal, but the thought of exposing himself to whatever might be lurking out there paralyzed him with fear. Better to stay hidden, to keep the ship dark and quiet.

One morning, he found himself in the mess hall, staring at the empty seats. "They're gone, Conrad. All gone. You're alone. Always alone."

Athena's voice cut through the fog. "Conrad Jackson, you have a message waiting."

"A message?" He frowned. "From who?"

"Unknown origin. Playback commencing."

The voice that filled the room was one he hadn't heard in a long time: his own. But it was different, colder, with a hint of malice. "Conrad, you can't hide forever. We see you. We know you."

He stumbled back, knocking over a chair. "No, no, no," he whispered, clutching his head. "This isn't real. This can't be real."

But the voice continued, relentless. "The void is watching, Conrad. And it's coming for you."

He screamed, a primal sound of terror and defiance, and the ship's lights flickered in response. When silence fell once more, he was left trembling, sweat pouring down his face.

"Jackson, you've really lost it now," he muttered, rocking back and forth on the floor. "But you're not giving up. Not yet."

He forced himself to his feet, hands shaking but determined. There was work to be done, repairs to be made. As long as he kept busy, he could hold the darkness at bay.

For now, that was enough. But in the quiet moments, when the hum of the ship seemed to whisper secrets, he knew the void was still watching, waiting for the moment when his resolve would finally break.