I woke again before dawn, the chill creeping through the cabin just like yesterday. The air smelled faintly of pine, and I could hear the tiny hiss of the propane heater settling after cooling overnight. I rubbed my eyes, stretched my shoulders, and climbed to the observation window with my coffee in hand. My routine was as automatic now as brushing my teeth, but I didn't mind. I liked routine; it was comforting. I liked the predictability of two weeks in the tower, knowing exactly what I could see and what I could control.
Morning light filtered across the valley, washing the forest in gold. I scanned the ridges with binoculars, noting the points I'd marked in my journal: Ridge Five where the deer grazed yesterday, the small stream reflecting sunlight like a narrow silver ribbon, a patch of bare earth that might indicate a minor landslide years ago. Everything seemed unchanged. The valley was quiet. Almost too quiet.
Breakfast was beans again, with my usual cup of instant coffee. I stirred the powder into the hot water, letting it dissolve, watching the steam curl upward. Even the simplest things felt more significant up here. Eating became a way to slow time, to take note of the world around me. I ate slowly, savoring the warmth, the taste, the act itself.
I picked up the radio to check in with Base.
"Base, Holt. Morning check-in. Weather clear. Nothing unusual. Over."
"Copy, Holt. All quiet on your end? Any smoke, fire, wildlife? Over."
"Nothing new. Valley looks clean. Deer spotted on Ridge Five. Over."
"Copy. Keep us posted. Over and out."
I put the radio down and scribbled the check-in in my journal. The day ahead was clear. Routine. Predictable. Safe.
But by mid-afternoon, something shifted. I was scanning the valley with binoculars, enjoying the quiet and the view, when I noticed the orange glow again.
It was closer.
I blinked, adjusting the focus, measuring it against the trees along the ridge. It wasn't subtle — the fire that had appeared far in the distance on Day Two and Day Three was now clearly nearer, uphill, maybe a mile closer. My stomach tightened just a little. Not from fear, exactly, but from recognition: someone — or something — had moved it.
I raised the binoculars fully, careful not to let my hands shake. The glow flickered through the forest, small but distinct. And then I saw the figures.
Six or seven of them again. They weren't standing still this time. They were swaying slightly, rhythmically, almost like they were performing some choreographed movement. It wasn't random; every figure moved in sync with the others.
I lowered the binoculars for a moment, pinching the bridge of my nose. My first thought was to call Base immediately, but I hesitated. Something about what I saw didn't feel like a violation of regulations. Not exactly. It felt… deliberate. Too deliberate to be simple campers.
I grabbed my camcorder — old, heavy, but reliable — and trained it on the fire and the figures. I zoomed in slowly, careful not to shake the image. I pressed record and watched for a few minutes. The sway continued, slow, methodical. Each person moved in tandem, not stepping forward, not interacting with the fire in any conventional way.
After several minutes, I leaned back and tried to rationalize it. Maybe it was some sort of performance, an obscure tradition of locals. Maybe someone was filming a small indie project. But the area was closed, no trails reached this valley, and the fire itself had moved closer with no visible path for human activity. It didn't add up.
I stopped recording for a moment and lowered the binoculars. The sway was hypnotic. I felt an almost magnetic pull in my chest, like my gaze was being demanded, held. My fingers itched to touch the camera again, to keep recording, to capture every second.
I decided to play back what I'd recorded. The camcorder whirred as the tape rolled, the screen flickering slightly in the dim cabin light. The first few seconds were exactly what I'd seen: fire flickering, figures swaying. Then I froze.
One figure turned. Slowly, deliberately. Directly toward the tower. Directly toward me.
I leaned back, heart racing. I blinked hard. Surely, it was the angle, the tape glitching. But no. The figure's head, motionless except for the slow, deliberate turn, faced me in a way that felt… intentional.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. My hands were shaking slightly, the camcorder slipping in my grip. I set it down and stared out the window with my own eyes. The figure was still there, facing toward the tower.
The others continued to sway, seemingly unaware. Or maybe they were aware, and just didn't care. I couldn't tell. My stomach churned with a mix of disbelief and unease.
I reached for the radio. My fingers hovered over the button, unsure what to say. Base… there's someone in the valley. They're… moving differently. They turned toward me. I didn't press it. There was no way to explain it over the radio without sounding insane.
I sat back and tried to think. My rational mind kicked in first: it's impossible. There's no one supposed to be there. The valley has been closed for decades. Landslide in '94 — Base said it themselves. No trails, no permits, no reason for anyone to be here.
But my gut was telling me something else. Something small, cold, crawling along my spine.
The sun sank behind the ridges, and the forest faded into a patchwork of shadows and dark shapes. I kept watching through the binoculars. The glow of the fire became sharper in the twilight. The figures' movements grew slower, more deliberate. Their sway continued, synchronized, almost mesmerizing. I could feel my pulse in my ears, loud and steady.
I turned back to the camcorder, pressing record again. The screen showed the fire and figures clearly. I watched, trying to measure distance, to see how much closer the fire had come since yesterday. My rough estimate: about a mile. I marked it in my journal.
Even as I wrote, the figure that had turned toward the tower earlier now swayed back in line with the others. My stomach remained tight. Something about that moment, even though brief, had unsettled me. It wasn't fear yet. It was the creeping realization that I wasn't just observing. I was being observed.
Dinner passed quietly. I had the usual beans, coffee, jerky, nothing more. I kept glancing at the window, binoculars near, camcorder ready. I didn't want to eat fast or finish too soon. I didn't want to break the connection.
By nightfall, the forest was darker, shadows pooling between trees, the valley a blur of black and gray except for the firelight. The figures remained in the circle, swaying. The movement was almost hypnotic. I caught myself leaning forward, squinting, trying to see if anyone carried anything, or if their faces were visible.
Nothing. No faces, no interaction, no signs of life that I could recognize. Just swaying, synchronized, deliberate. The air felt heavier now. The tower creaked slightly, metal flexing with the cool night breeze. I tried to focus on the sound, thinking maybe it would distract me.
I played the video back again. The figure from earlier turned toward the tower again. Not slowly this time — almost a flick, a momentary glance that felt sharper than before. I could almost swear its head tilted slightly, just enough to meet my gaze through the screen.
I leaned back, letting the camcorder rest on the desk. My pulse was high, but my hands were steady now, if only because I forced myself to focus on writing.
Day Four. The fire in the valley is closer tonight — roughly a mile uphill. Six or seven figures observed, swaying slightly, synchronized. Recorded with camcorder. Playback shows one figure turning toward the tower. Not moving like campers. Area remains closed since '94 landslide. Feeling uneasy, but no immediate threat. Observation continues. Will maintain distance.
I left the journal open and walked to the small window. The wind had picked up slightly, rustling the tops of trees, but it was still quieter than usual. I could see the firelight flickering, figures moving in their slow rhythm. I stayed for a while, just watching. Even in the dark, the sway was mesmerizing, impossible to ignore.
Eventually, exhaustion won. I climbed into the cot, leaving the window slightly open. I could hear the distant forest hum — subtle, constant. The firelight flickered one last time in my sight before I closed my eyes.
Sleep didn't come immediately. I kept imagining the figure, turning toward the tower. Even with my eyes shut, I could picture the motion. Not like a person turning. Like a deliberate, knowing gesture, a small acknowledgment.
I didn't know what it meant. I didn't want to know yet. I told myself it was coincidence. Illusion. Nothing more.
But a part of me, the part that couldn't let go of details, knew it wasn't.
The forest wasn't just a backdrop anymore. It was alive, moving, aware. And whatever was in that valley, it had noticed me.