I Work for the Coast Guard in Alaska. I Follow RULES to Stay Alive.

SPEAKER_1 (0:02)

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SPEAKER_2 (0:30)

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SPEAKER_3 (1:05)

I've been with the United States Coast Guard for 15 years. I'm stationed at remote light station number 47, approximately 32 miles off the coast of Alaska.

It's a desolate outpost that most guardsmen pray they'll never be assigned to. The ones who do get stationed here either transfer out within six months or well. They don't transfer at all.

I've survived here longer than anybody else. Not because I'm overly brave or skilled, but because I stick to a very strict set of rules. Six rules that have kept me breathing when others have vanished into the black waters or worse. Much worse.

Before I share my stories, let me tell you the rules. Memorize them if you have refined yourself at Station 47

One, never respond to distress calls during a new moon. Two, if you see yourself in the water, do not look away until it disappears. Three, count the lighthouse flashes. If it's not four, stay inside.

Four, never follow the singing no matter how familiar the voice. Five, if the fog turns red, seal all windows and doors immediately. Six, when the radio static forms words, unplug it and wait until the morning.

My first encounter with the truth about Station 47 came three weeks into my assignment. I was young, eager, and stupidly confident that my training had prepared me for anything the ocean could throw at me.

It was October 13th, 2009, a new moon night where the darkness was so complete it felt like the world ended at the edge of our spotlights. I was manning the radio when the distress call came through. Mayday, mayday, this is fishing vessel Lucky Strike. Taking on water. Position approximately two miles northeast of remote light 47 Request immediate assistance.

The voice was clear and desperate. I could hear water sloshing in the background, men shouting. I reached for the microphone to respond when my chief grabbed my wrist so hard that it left bruises. Check the moon phase, he said, his weathered pale face and the radio room's dim light. Sir, there's a vessel in distress. Check the moon phase. I glanced at the calendar in the wall. New moon, so what? Ships didn't stop sinking just because the moon was invisible. It's a new moon, sir, but they need help. Protocol states, protocol doesn't apply here. Rule number one, never respond to distress calls during a new moon. That's insane, we can't just... The radio crackled again. Please, anyone, we're going down fast. My son, my son is only twelve. Please. Every instinct screamed at me to help. This is why I joined the Coast Guard, to save lives, to be the difference between a family reunited in empty chairs at Christmas dinner. Sir, with all due respect, I'm going to... Chief released my wrist and stepped back. Fine, but you go alone, and when you don't come back, I'll tell them that you fell overboard.

Chills, but not enough to stop me. I grabbed my gear and headed for the dock where our boat awaited. As I prepped for launch, I noticed none of the other guardsmen would meet my eyes, but I was determined and I continued on anyway.

The water was glass smooth, which should have been my first warning. October in Alaska, it doesn't do calm seas. My spotlight cut through the darkness as I headed northeast, following the coordinates that I had been given. About two miles out, I found something, but it wasn't a sinking fishing vessel. It was another Coast Guard response boat, identical to mine. The registration numbers were worn but visible. RB 4419

I knew that number. It was a boat that had gone missing about three years prior. I should have turned back then, but instead I pulled alongside and I tied off. The boat was pristine, no barnacles, no weather damage. The engine was still warm. That's when I heard it. The same distress call word for word coming from the radio in the boat. But the radio wasn't connected to power. The battery cables hung loose, corroded with age. Mayday, mayday, this is fishing vessel Lucky Strike. I scrambled back to my boat, nearly falling into the water in my haste. As I fumbled with the mooring lines, I saw something that made my blood freeze. There was somebody sitting in my boat pilot seat. Somebody wearing the same uniform that I had on. Someone with my face. It turned to look at me and its eyes were black holes filled with stars that shouldn't exist. It smiled with too many teeth and it reached for the ignition. I don't remember jumping. I don't remember swimming. I only remember the burning in my lungs as I fought to stay afloat in water that had suddenly turned ice cold. My boat with my doppelganger at the helm circled me slowly, playing that distress call over and over. My son is only twelve, please. Each pass it came closer. The water around me began to glow with a sickly shimmer and things moved against my legs. Things that felt like hands but had too many fingers.