Dark Matter – Amaruq by Alex A. Janek

Part of Dark Matter

What if your visions aren’t fiction—and two strangers say you’re not human and the key to stopping a threat that could unmake everything?

He thought they were just stories. He was wrong.

Aaron Larsson’s life is quiet and ordinary. A devoted father and passionate astrophysicist, he spends his nights writing sci-fi stories. Lately, the ideas follow him like whispering visions throughout the day. Then, one rainy day, strangers appear—speaking impossible words only he should know. They ask for his help to stop a cosmic force he can’t begin to comprehend.

Aaron is forced to make an impossible choice: his family or his future—and to question everything he thought he knew in order to prevent the unthinkable.

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Excerpt from Dark Matter – Amaruq © Copyright 2025 Alex A. Janek

How can I possibly know all this?

Places, ideas, and voices follow me like shadows, drifting into my mind at the most unexpected moments, like an uninvited guest who refuses to leave. For years, they have crept into quiet moments—always there, lingering just beneath the surface. Mighty starships, dark-matter melding, Terions, and war; they fill my nights, turn my work into a mere distraction, and intrude upon even the most mundane parts of my day.

On the highway, when the traffic thins and the world blurs, they emerge—flashes of names and faces I shouldn’t recognize. Standing in line at the grocery store, their voices whisper faintly in my ears. During yet another pointless video call with the institute board, I lose track of the conversation, my mind pulled instead to the image of a scorched planet.

How can I know all this?

There it is again.

I want it to stop. And yet . . . I don’t.

Because, as much as the thoughts consume me, they also fill me with a strange bliss. The images, vague and fragmented, are more than just distractions—they’re sparks. They ignite something in me I can’t find anywhere else. They inspire me, push me, pull me into worlds that feel as real as the one I’m standing in.

In those moments, when I let them take over, I feel alive.

At first, I didn’t know what to do with them. They felt like flashes of another life, random and unsettling. Then I started writing. Just for fun. TV had turned into mindless noise, movies felt boring and predictable, and I needed something—anything—to break through the monotony. So, I turned those strange images into stories.

One story became two, then three. Writing became an escape. Every word I typed was a step into something bigger, a way to make sense of the fragments in my mind. I’d lose hours—sometimes entire nights—building characters, worlds, and plotlines. The more I wrote, the more images surfaced. They weren’t just intrusive anymore; they were invigorating.

But now, they demand too much. They’re like a constant hum in the back of my mind, always there, even when I try to focus on something else. I’ve started neglecting everything else—my family, my dog, myself. No matter how much I chase them, the full picture stays out of reach. I only ever get pieces.

I lean against the bathroom sink, staring at the foggy mirror. Water trickles cold down my back where the towel missed a spot. I should feel refreshed after walking the dog, taking a shower, shaking off the late night of writing. Instead, I feel frayed.

Enough already!

I swipe a hand across the mirror, clearing the fog, and rub shaving cream into my palm. My reflection blinks back at me, and for a moment, I freeze.

I don’t recognize the face staring back. It’s me—but not.

Stop it, Aaron. Get it together.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Then another. The feeling isn’t all bad. It’s overwhelming, yes, but there’s still that spark, that strange joy in letting the images flow. They’re not a curse; they’re a gift—one I don’t entirely understand.

Maybe Diane’s right. Maybe I need to talk to someone about this. A shrink, maybe. But I’ve been telling myself that for months. No, years.

I shake the thought away, open my eyes, and meet my reflection with a crooked smile.

“Stupid,” I mutter under my breath, though there’s a touch of fondness in the word.

I finish my morning routine and step out of the bathroom. The smell of coffee and bacon greets me, rich and inviting, pulling me toward the kitchen.

Something’s up.

Diane doesn’t cook breakfast for me anymore, not unless there’s a reason. We’ve fallen into separate morning routines since the boys have almost grown. I tread carefully as I head downstairs, not sure if I should feel hopeful or wary. Whatever it is, I’ll take it. Just like I take the images—chaotic, consuming, and somehow a wonderful thing in my life.

“Morning, Diane,” I say, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “You’re up early—and you made breakfast for me?”

“Yes, honey,” she replies, her tone light, almost too casual.

Something’s definitely up.

“Timeo Danaos et dona ferentis,” I say, narrowing my eyes playfully.

Diane laughs, a bright, genuine laugh, and sets a plate of bacon and eggs in front of me. She turns to the fridge and pulls out a yogurt for herself. “You know me all too well,” she says, with a smirk that makes me wary.

Uff, nothing serious; otherwise, I would be getting it by now.

“I just wanted to talk to you . . .” She pauses dramatically, watching me like she’s savoring the moment.

Here it comes.

“. . . about your birthday.”