I woke before the sun again, the routine becoming automatic. The tower felt familiar now, like an old friend I hadn't seen in years but remembered perfectly. My back ached from the climb yesterday, but the stretch of morning air did enough to loosen the stiffness. I leaned against the window frame with my coffee, staring down at the valleys below. The forest stretched endlessly, shadows long from the early light, and for a moment I felt a rare calm.
Breakfast was the same as yesterday — beans and instant coffee — and I didn't mind. Routine had its comforts. After cleaning up, I went straight to the observation window with binoculars in hand. The forest was still, almost too still, like a painting without motion. I scanned the ridges and valleys, noting points of interest in my journal. A deer grazed along the far ridge, lifting its head frequently, ears twitching. I noted it as Ridge Five again; it was probably the same one I'd seen yesterday. Patterns were easy to spot here, once you paid attention.
The morning passed in the usual rhythm: checking the tower for loose boards, testing the radio, inspecting the propane stove and flashlight batteries, rotating supplies. Nothing was out of place. I even measured the water flow in the nearby stream through a small crevice in the floor. Small, tedious, but these tasks kept me grounded, kept my hands busy, and let my mind stay alert.
Lunch came and went with nothing out of the ordinary. I didn't hear the usual distant sounds I sometimes caught — no birds, no wind, no running water besides the small creek near the base. The forest was quiet again, but that was nothing new. Still, there was a weight to the quiet today. The kind that makes you aware of being watched, even when you're alone. I shrugged it off as the height of my imagination.
It wasn't until mid-afternoon that I noticed something. A faint flicker of orange far in the valley, much like the glow from yesterday. I adjusted the binoculars and focused, expecting the same campers breaking fire regulations — maybe a small group, careless but harmless. But what I saw didn't make sense at first.
Six or seven figures stood around the glow. Motionless. Silent. I counted them twice, tilting the binoculars and squinting. Their arms were by their sides or extended slightly, but they weren't moving in any way that resembled people setting up a fire. They weren't adjusting logs, feeding the flames, or shifting around like campers do. They just… stood. In a perfect circle. Around the fire.
I leaned back, letting the binoculars drop for a moment. I stared at the valley, rubbing my eyes, blinking hard. Maybe it was a trick of the light. Maybe the angle of the sun was playing with shadows. But no. When I raised the binoculars again, they were still there. Motionless. Silent. Watching the fire. Or not watching anything at all.
My first instinct was to call it in. The radio crackled as I keyed the microphone. "Base, this is Holt. I've got… something unusual in the valley. Six or seven individuals around a small fire. Motionless. Not moving. Over."
"Copy, Holt. Can you clarify — are these campers or hikers?" Carter's voice came through, a trace of casual curiosity.
"I can't tell. They're not moving like normal people. No tents, no gear visible. Just standing in a circle. Over."
There was a pause, then Carter's voice came again, quieter this time. "Holt… no permits have been issued in that valley for years. No trails lead there anymore. That area's been closed since the landslide in '94. Over."
I blinked. "You're saying… there shouldn't be anyone there? Over."
"Exactly. Base. That area is off-limits. No one should be in that valley. Holt, are you sure you're seeing what you think you're seeing?"
I chuckled, despite the strange feeling crawling along my spine. "Base, I know what I see. Maybe ghost campers. Over."
There was silence on the radio for a beat. Then Carter's voice returned, flat and without humor. "Holt, this is not a joke. Stay where you are. Observe. Don't engage. Over."
I nodded even though he couldn't see me. "Understood, Base. Over and out."
I set the radio down, the click of the switch sounding louder than usual in the quiet cabin. My heart had picked up a little — just a little. Not fear, exactly. More like alertness. You notice details differently when something is unusual, and these figures were unusual in every sense.
I raised the binoculars again, focusing carefully. The fire between them flickered orange and yellow, small sparks rising. There was no smoke. Or very little. The circle was perfect, six or seven people standing evenly spaced, facing inward. They didn't shift, they didn't talk, and they didn't do anything that made sense. I zoomed in slowly, studying them. They wore long, dark clothes — heavy coats or robes, maybe — and the light from the fire flickered across their faces, but not enough to see details.
I kept watching for almost an hour, making mental notes, comparing positions, noting that no one moved an inch. If they were hikers or campers, they were disciplined, or maybe… not human at all. I tried to rationalize it. Could be a reenactment group, some kind of historical performance. Could be locals practicing a tradition I didn't know about. Anything to explain why six or seven people would stand completely still around a fire miles from any trail.
Eventually, the sun dipped lower, stretching the shadows across the valley. I watched as they remained in their circle, unchanged. I tried not to breathe too loudly, though it was impossible not to notice the rising tension in my chest.
I picked up the camera from the desk — old, bulky, but serviceable. I trained it through the window, carefully focusing on the fire circle. I clicked record. Every tiny movement of the flames, every flicker of orange and shadow, I captured. They didn't seem to notice. Or maybe they did. I didn't know.
Night fell fully. I left the cabin lights low, letting the darkness outside dominate. The fire still glowed, orange against the black forest, and the figures remained perfectly still. I couldn't make out details, but the symmetry of their formation was precise, almost ritualistic in appearance. My stomach tightened. Not fear yet — more a sense of wrongness, a feeling like the forest itself was holding its breath, waiting for something.
I made notes in my journal:
Day Three. Observed six or seven figures around a fire in the valley. Motionless, silent. No tents, no gear visible. Area has been closed since '94 landslide. Unknown purpose. Will continue observation. No interaction. Feeling… unsettled, but not alarmed.
I set the binoculars on the desk, staring at the faint orange glow for a while before lying down on the cot. The tower creaked slightly as the temperature dropped. I could hear the occasional whistle of wind around the edges, faint but steady. Even from this height, I could feel the difference in the air — colder, heavier, like the forest had its own pulse.
Sleep came slowly. I kept imagining the figures, circle around the fire, perfectly still. I tried to convince myself it was harmless — maybe they were reenactors, maybe they were locals, maybe I was overthinking. But the thought lingered like an itch I couldn't scratch.
At some point, the glow faded, as the fire eventually burned lower. The figures remained. Still. Motionless. Silent. I didn't see them leave. I didn't see them move. And that, more than anything else, made the hair on my arms stand up.
I finally closed my journal and set it on the desk. My last thought before sleep was a simple one: two weeks alone was supposed to be quiet, routine, predictable. But something about today, about that fire circle, had made it feel like the forest wasn't mine anymore.
And maybe, I thought as my eyelids finally gave way, it never had been.