I woke to the usual quiet, but something felt off immediately. The cabin seemed darker, colder, heavier — though the heater was running, the air was still sharp. I rubbed my eyes and reached for the binoculars instinctively, even before my morning coffee. Habit, I told myself. Routine. Observation first, caffeine second.
The forest was calm as always, pale light stretching across the ridges. I counted the tree line, checking familiar landmarks. Nothing unusual yet — birds didn't sing, the creek whispered the same steady, low hum, and the valley looked untouched. For the first time since the fire circles began, I felt a flicker of relief. Maybe tonight, or this morning at least, they weren't around. Maybe the ritual was limited to dusk and night.
Breakfast was quick — beans again, instant coffee, jerky. I didn't bother turning on the radio yet. Carter's static warnings from yesterday still rang in my ears: Don't interact. It made sense in theory, but the delivery had been so faint, so distorted, that it almost sounded like a ghost whispering through the speakers.
I finished eating and climbed to the observation window. The binoculars were cold in my hands, metal pressing against my palms, and I blinked at the valley below.
The fire was there.
Six figures. Not seven.
My pulse skipped. I counted carefully. Left to right, slow sweep with the binoculars. One, two, three… six. Six people, swaying in that same deliberate rhythm, synchronized like clockwork.
One was kneeling. One held the reflective object again. The rest swayed, slower, deliberate. But that seventh figure… missing.
I leaned back, rubbing my eyes. Maybe I miscounted yesterday. Maybe fatigue or imagination was playing tricks on me. I tried to reason it out: it's just one night. They've been here multiple nights. Maybe they split off for some reason, a scout or someone setting up something else. My rational mind spun excuses fast.
Still, I felt that low, creeping tension — the same one I'd felt the first time I saw them move closer on Day Four. The kind that sits in your chest, just behind the sternum, and refuses to let you ignore it.
I adjusted the binoculars and scanned the tree line, widening my search.
Then I saw it.
A faint dark shape, low against the trees, moving toward the tower. Not with the sway or rhythm of the circle. Just moving. Slowly, almost stalking, but deliberate.
My breath caught. I froze.
I leaned closer to the lens. The figure was the missing seventh. Maybe a hundred meters from the tower now, far closer than any of the others. The fire circle six remained untouched, unaware, but this seventh was walking toward me, silent and precise.
I sucked in a breath, and the exhale fogged the binocular lenses. My hand shook as I wiped it off, desperate to keep the view clear. My mind raced — should I move? Should I call Base? The static from yesterday's warning flashed again in my memory: Don't interact.
I tried to calm myself, slow my breathing. I told myself, It's still far. Just observation. Just wait. Nothing has changed yet.
I took a few more careful looks. The figure moved between the trees with almost unnatural stealth. The forest floor was dry, littered with needles and twigs that should have cracked underfoot, but I heard nothing. No snapping branches, no leaves brushing, no sound at all. Just the slow approach.
I backed away from the window, heart hammering. My palms were slick with sweat. I grabbed the curtains and shut them, pressing my body against the wall as if distance could make the world outside safer.
The fire in the valley flickered faintly beyond the blackout of the curtains. The six figures remained in their circle. Nothing else moved there. But I could feel the presence of the seventh, and it wasn't miles away anymore. It was close.
I sank to the floor, resting my back against the desk. My fingers trembled. I tried to reason: Local? Scout? Some wandering camper? None of it made sense. No trail, no path, closed area, no permits, no noise. And the synchronized movements of the others — not humanly plausible for a casual camping group.
I forced myself to focus on small, grounding tasks. Check supplies. Propane level, water, radio batteries, camcorder. Each motion slowed my racing heart, but the thought of that seventh figure outside kept creeping back in. Every window corner, every shadowed tree in the distance seemed a potential hiding place.
I couldn't bring myself to peek again. Not yet. My stomach twisted in knots, but I told myself waiting was better than panic. I sat with my journal, flipping through notes from previous days, trying to capture patterns, trying to find logic.
Day Six. Woke to normal morning. Fire circle present again. Six figures observed — missing seventh. Scanned valley — seventh figure moving toward tower, roughly 100 meters away. Approaching silently. No sound. Curtains closed. Observation halted. Will continue documentation tomorrow. No interaction. Heart rate elevated.
I tried to eat a little, a few bites of cold beans, jerky. My appetite felt gone, replaced by tension that settled low in my stomach. I sipped coffee slowly, deliberately, trying to calm nerves.
As the evening deepened, the cabin felt smaller, tighter, more claustrophobic. Shadows pooled in the corners, and the wind whistled faintly through cracks in the metal siding. I kept glancing at the blinds, half-expecting them to flutter, half-expecting nothing.
Hours passed in the dark. I didn't hear footsteps. I didn't hear a branch snap. I didn't hear a human voice. Only the distant flicker of the valley fire, now smaller, dimmer, fading into night. The six figures were still there, still swaying, but the seventh was nowhere in sight — at least that I could see from inside.
I tried to sleep, lying on the cot with eyes half-open. Every time my lids closed fully, I imagined the figure outside the tower, inching closer in silence. I told myself over and over: Don't look. Don't interact.
Somewhere in the night, I heard a faint scrape — wood against metal? Or maybe the tower shifting. My heart leapt. I didn't move, didn't breathe audibly, didn't do anything but press my back harder against the desk.
The minutes stretched impossibly long. I considered waiting until dawn, but the thought of peering outside again, even cautiously, made my stomach twist. My mind spun with every possibility, none comforting: a person with intent, a local trying to scare me, someone lost, or worse.
By some small miracle, I drifted into a light, restless sleep. Dreams were jagged, shadowed figures swaying in rhythm, a knife flashing in the firelight, silence pressing in from all sides. I woke again briefly, heart racing, thinking I saw a shadow moving along the tower wall, only to realize it was the morning light creeping across the desk.
When the sun finally rose, pale and gray, I forced myself to move, climb to the window, and peer out. The figure from the night — the missing seventh — was gone. Just as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished. No footprints in the dust near the tower. No sign of approach or retreat. The six in the valley were still swaying, still synchronized, still deliberately performing whatever ritual I couldn't understand.
I exhaled slowly, relief and tension mingling in my chest. But the memory of the night's closeness lingered. My hands shook slightly as I wrote my notes:
Day Six. Six figures observed at fire. Seventh figure approached tower overnight. Approx. 100 meters away. Silent. Vanished by morning. No footprints. No other changes. Heart rate elevated. Observation continues. Do not interact.
I stayed by the window for hours after, just scanning the valley, scanning the tree lines, trying to convince myself everything was back to normal. But the thought gnawed at me — someone had been within a hundred meters of the tower. Someone had seen me. Someone had moved with intent.
And the forest felt different now. Not just quiet. Not just calm. Watching. Waiting.
Even as I prepared my cold breakfast, arranged supplies, and checked the radio again, I could feel it. That presence hadn't gone anywhere. It was still out there. Somewhere. Close. Patient.
I didn't know what tomorrow would bring. But I knew it would bring something.