I woke to the sound of static.
At first, I thought it was the wind pushing against the tower, that low hum the structure sometimes made when the metal joints shifted. But the sound was sharper — grainier. I blinked a few times and sat up on the cot, squinting toward the radio. The small red light was flickering on and off, casting a faint pulse across the desk.
I rubbed my eyes and stepped closer. The static grew louder, erratic, like something trying to break through it. I grabbed the microphone, pressing the button.
"Base, this is Holt. You reading me? Over."
Nothing but static.
Then, faintly, Carter's voice bled through. It was hard to make out — distant, crackled, distorted by interference.
"…Holt… listen… stay inside at night… don't… interact…"
The rest dissolved into static again.
I frowned, twisting the frequency knob. "Base, repeat that. What did you say? Over."
Only static answered. I stood there for a full minute, listening, waiting for his voice to return. It didn't. Eventually, the radio settled into a low hum, softer now, the kind that blends into the background if you leave it alone long enough.
I exhaled slowly, leaning back against the wall. "Don't interact," I muttered under my breath. "Interact with what?"
It was early — barely sunrise. The light outside was soft and gray, spreading through the valley like fog. I stepped to the window, trying to see if maybe weather was interfering with the radio signal. Nothing obvious. The sky looked clean. No clouds thick enough to cause trouble. The wind was still, calm.
I poured myself a cup of coffee from the thermos I'd filled last night. It was lukewarm, but it helped steady me. I stared out across the forest, letting my eyes adjust to the light. The valley looked unchanged. For a brief moment, I thought maybe the whole thing — the figures, the movement, the fire — had just been exhaustion. Long hours alone can make anything seem strange.
But then I saw it again.
The firelight.
Closer still.
It wasn't far now — maybe another half mile uphill, between two clusters of pine. The glow flickered faintly, orange and alive, like an ember that refused to die. I reached for the binoculars.
Seven figures this time. Not six, not maybe seven — exactly seven.
They were arranged around the fire, but differently now. One was kneeling, head bowed. Another stood directly across, holding something that caught the light — a glint, sharp and silver. A knife? Or maybe a mirror? The reflection pulsed once, twice, like a flash of sunlight against metal.
The others were still, their formation precise, intentional.
I steadied the binoculars against the window frame, focusing as much as I could. The kneeling figure's movements were slow, deliberate — hands resting on their thighs, head tilted slightly forward. The one holding the glinting object didn't move at all. I couldn't tell if it was facing the kneeling one or facing me.
I lowered the binoculars for a moment. My fingers felt cold.
I tried to reason it out, to push logic back into place. Seven people around a fire. Probably locals. Maybe a group that sneaks in at night to do some ritual thing. Small-town pagan types. They do it for fun, or as some old superstition. Rural people cling to weird traditions. It happens.
I told myself that out loud. "Locals doing some pagan nonsense," I said, half a laugh in my voice that didn't sound real. "Nothing to freak out about."
I tried to get Carter on the radio again, but the static persisted. I adjusted every knob, checked every cable, even banged the side of the unit once out of frustration. Nothing but that faint hum.
The silence up here had changed. It wasn't peaceful anymore. It was aware.
I decided to distract myself with chores — the old tower routine. Check the stairs for loose boards. Test the emergency light. Record temperature and wind speed. All the small, dull things that usually grounded me. I even refolded my clothes just to have something to do. But every time I glanced at the window, the fire was there. Flickering. Waiting.
By noon, the sun was high, and I finally sat down to eat. Cold beans again, this time with jerky and a stale cracker. I chewed without much appetite, watching dust particles dance in the sunlight through the narrow window slit. I tried the radio again mid-bite.
"Holt to Base. You there, Carter? Got a weird situation here. Over."
Static.
"Holt to Base, repeat. If you can hear me, say again what you said this morning. Over."
More static — then a faint sound, like someone exhaling right next to the microphone. Not a word, not a phrase, just breath.
I froze, hand hovering over the button. "Carter?"
Nothing.
I switched the radio off. The silence afterward was worse than the noise.
The rest of the afternoon I spent watching the valley, camera on standby. The fire didn't move during the day — it seemed dormant, as if whatever happened around it only came alive after dusk. The figures were gone by afternoon, the clearing empty. I scanned the area repeatedly, marking landmarks in my notes — large boulders, crooked trees, shadow patterns. Nothing unusual except the emptiness itself.
By late evening, the air had grown colder. The forest darkened faster than usual. I set up the camcorder on the tripod facing the valley, just to catch whatever appeared at night. The tape only lasted about two hours, but I figured it was worth it. I turned the camera on and watched through the viewfinder as dusk bled into night.
The fire came back just before full dark. One moment there was nothing, the next — a glow, sudden and distinct, as if someone had struck a match in the distance.
Seven figures again. The same formation. One kneeling. One holding that glinting thing — the reflection pulsing once, twice. The rest swayed slowly, that same unsettling rhythm, as though guided by a sound too low for me to hear.
I hit record.
Through the lens, the movement felt even more unnatural. The figures' motions weren't random. They followed some internal beat, some invisible cue. I zoomed in, careful not to shake the camera, focusing on the glint. It caught light again — sharp, like a blade edge. But maybe it wasn't metal. Maybe glass, maybe a mirror. I couldn't be sure.
I leaned closer to the screen, watching intently.
The kneeling figure shifted, bowing lower now. The one holding the object raised it higher. The others swayed more noticeably, arms extending slightly outward. The fire flickered brighter, as if responding.
I felt my throat tighten.
I told myself again, "Locals. Pagans. Ritual crap." I even laughed under my breath, but it sounded hollow. "They're not hurting anyone."
Still, my fingers wouldn't stop fidgeting. I rubbed the edge of my notebook, flipping pages for no reason. I wanted to write something down — document the movement, the shape, the pattern — but I couldn't bring myself to look away.
The forest was utterly silent. No crickets, no wind. Even the usual distant rustle of trees was gone. It felt like sound itself had been pulled out of the air.
Through the camera, the figures looked sharper now — taller, elongated somehow by the low firelight. I could make out the folds of their clothing, heavy and dark, maybe robes, maybe coats. The kneeling one leaned lower still, almost prostrate.
The glint flared again — this time longer, brighter. Definitely metal. My pulse quickened.
I whispered to myself, "Knife."
I didn't know why I whispered. There was no one here but me.
The camcorder's battery light began to blink red. I ignored it. My eyes were glued to the screen.
The swaying grew slower, then stopped. The figures froze, motionless again. The one holding the knife — or whatever it was — stood perfectly still, the object still raised.
Then, slowly, it lowered it toward the kneeling figure.
I didn't see impact, no sudden movement, no blood, nothing clear. Just the motion — slow, deliberate — and then the fire flickered brighter again.
The battery light went dead.
The camera shut off.
I stared out the window, trying to catch my breath. The fire was still glowing faintly, smaller now, as though dying out. The figures were still there, silhouettes barely visible in the dim light.
I stood frozen for a long time. I don't know how long.
Eventually, I made myself sit down and open my journal. My handwriting was shaky at first.
Day Five. Woke to static. Heard Carter faintly: "Stay inside at night. Don't interact." Signal lost. Fire appears again, closer by half a mile. Seven figures tonight. One kneeling, one holding reflective or metallic object. Possibly a knife. Recorded footage before battery died. Unsure what I witnessed. Will review tomorrow. Assuming local ritual — pagan or otherwise. Still no sign of approach. No direct threat yet.
I closed the book, sat back, and rubbed my temples. My body felt drained, like I'd hiked ten miles uphill.
Outside, the glow dimmed gradually until only darkness remained. I waited, staring, half-expecting the figures to start moving again, maybe toward the tower. But they didn't. Not yet.
I turned off the light in the cabin and sat in the dark for a long time, listening to nothing. The static from the radio had stopped, replaced by silence that felt even heavier.
Somewhere in the distance, a single tree branch cracked. Loud. Sharp. Then nothing.
I didn't sleep easily. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that flash of metal, that faint bow of the kneeling figure, that moment when Carter's voice had cracked through the static.
Don't interact.
I replayed the words over and over in my head, wondering if he knew something I didn't.
When I finally did drift off, it wasn't rest. It was waiting.