I was drawn outside that evening in Sudbury by an otherworldly glow unlike anything I’d seen before. For a good two minutes, an immense yellow-white light hovered—and then twisted slowly—in the low night sky. It moved with an eerie grace, drifting downward, pulsing brighter as it descended, then fading and appearing once more just to the right of where it first danced. It traced a path that defied logic, certainly no airplane’s straight trajectory.
What struck me most was the silence. No hum, no drone, just a vast, pulsating beacon that seemed almost alive. This strange luminescence outshone nearby streetlights, vast in diameter, brighter than any flare I’ve witnessed, yet it traced such subtle, deliberate arcs. It seemed to shift backward, defying earthly expectations, moving as if driven by some silent, hidden intelligence.
That night, the sky over Sudbury became a stage for a silent, spectral ballet—one that left me staring upward, questioning the very nature of what I’d witnessed. This light was not merely a plane, or a distant star; it was something else—something profoundly unsettling and magnificently strange.