I woke to the pale light of dawn creeping across the tower floor. My body ached in familiar ways — shoulders stiff from climbing, knees sore from standing too long at the window. But my mind was restless, buzzing with tension from the previous night. The memory of the seventh figure so close to the tower lingered like a shadow pressing against my chest.
I brewed coffee first thing. The ritual had become mechanical — beans, coffee, jerky, check supplies, check radio. But I found myself rushing through it today, my movements sharper, less relaxed. Even the familiar sounds of the forest seemed off — quieter, heavier. The wind had picked up slightly overnight, rustling tree needles against the metal siding. Small things, but they mattered.
I climbed the ladder to the observation platform before breakfast, binoculars in hand. The valley looked normal at first glance — six figures in the fire circle, swaying slowly as if nothing had changed. I counted carefully, confirming yesterday's numbers, scanning the perimeter, checking the ridges. Nothing unusual in the valley itself.
But my gaze kept drifting down, to the base of the tower. Something nagged at me, some tiny instinct. I hadn't checked the ground properly in daylight since the tower's first night. Not really.
I climbed down and stepped carefully onto the soft soil surrounding the tower. The ground was damp with morning dew, small puddles where rain from a few days ago had collected. I bent down, scanning every inch with my eyes, careful not to disturb anything.
Then I saw them.
Footprints. Small, barefoot prints, pressed lightly into the earth. Perfectly formed, no debris in them, no drag marks — just clear, deliberate impressions in the soft soil.
I froze, staring. My mind raced. Could they have been made by some local animal? No. Too symmetrical, too human in shape. Too deliberate.
I followed the trail slowly with my eyes. The footprints led from the forest edge — that same dark tree line beyond the valley I'd been observing for days — straight toward the base of the tower. They stopped just a few meters away from the ladder, like someone had come close enough to inspect it but not touch it.
I crouched, tracing the outline in the soil with my finger, careful not to smudge it. Small. Barefoot. Human-sized but not fully adult. Not tiny, but smaller than mine. Maybe a teenager? Maybe smaller adults. Hard to tell exactly from just the prints, but the details were sharp.
I backed away, heart thumping. My stomach twisted. Every rational thought tried to kick in — maybe a lost hiker? Maybe some local prank? But I couldn't shake the memory of the seventh figure from last night. Close. Silent. Precise. Now these footprints. They were connected.
I grabbed the camera and took pictures from different angles, careful not to step on any prints. Documentation mattered — if something happened, I needed proof. I framed the shots, zooming to capture the depth of the impressions in the soil.
I didn't mention it on the radio. I didn't want to sound paranoid. Carter would think I was imagining things, like the last few nights, like the faint voice over static or the glinting knife. No. This was real. Tangible. Barefoot in the dirt outside the tower. And silent.
I spent the rest of the morning inspecting the perimeter, walking slowly around the tower in a wide circle, noting every detail. Branches didn't seem disturbed. No other prints. No discarded items. Just that one set, leading from the forest to the tower and stopping a few meters short of the ladder.
I returned inside, brushing dirt from my pants, and tried to settle at the desk. Coffee tasted bitter in my mouth. I scribbled notes in my journal:
Day Seven. Footprints discovered around tower base. Barefoot. Small. Leading from forest edge, stopping ~3 meters from ladder. No other disturbances. Six figures still in fire circle. Observation continues. No interaction. Do not report on radio — want to avoid sounding paranoid.
I stared at the page for a while, my pen hovering. I kept thinking of the seventh figure, of the precise movements from last night, of the silent approach. Whoever — or whatever — it was, it had been deliberate.
I tried to distract myself with routine. Checked the propane tank. Inspected the emergency flashlight. Rotated canned food and water bottles. All mechanical motions, but my mind kept drifting back to the footprints. The prints seemed… calculated. Careful. Not accidental.
Lunch passed in silence. Cold beans, jerky, crackers. I chewed slowly, sipping coffee, glancing occasionally out the window at the valley. Six figures swaying. Nothing else.
By mid-afternoon, I had climbed to the observation platform again, binoculars at the ready. The valley looked the same, the familiar shadows stretching long and thin under the late sun. The fire was dormant, no glow yet, but I kept the camcorder on the tripod in case the figures appeared again.
As I watched, I thought about the footprints, how close they had come. That hundred meters or less, last night. Silent. No sound. Just movement. My stomach knotted with the realization that the seventh figure had observed me, possibly studying the tower, maybe waiting for something.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to slow down. Observation first. Rational thinking. Evidence collection. No interaction. Don't interact. Carter's voice echoed faintly in my mind, warped by static and fear.
Evening came. I set up the camcorder and pointed it at the valley. The fire appeared again just before dusk, smaller than before, faint flickers illuminating the synchronized six figures. They swayed, deliberate, slow. Nothing changed in formation.
I kept my eyes trained on the forest edge. Half-expecting the seventh figure to appear again. To move toward the tower. To test the ladder.
Hours passed. Twilight deepened into night. The fire dimmed, the figures froze, and the forest fell silent. No wind, no rustling branches, no movement.
I climbed into the cot, journal closed, heart racing but body exhausted. Sleep was shallow. Every small sound — the creak of metal, the shift of the heater, a distant owl — jolted me awake.
I dreamed of footprints in the dirt. Bare feet pressing softly into soil, stopping inches from my ladder. Small, deliberate, precise. A hand reaching out, just above the ground. Silent. Watching.
When morning came, I forced myself to climb down again, to check the prints in daylight. They were still there. Faint now, pressed by dew and the passing wind, but unmistakable. I photographed them again, comparing the images to yesterday's. No change. No new prints.
I didn't tell Base. I didn't need them to doubt me.
Day Seven complete. Footprints observed. Evidence photographed. Observation continues. No interaction. Seven figure missing remains unobserved in forest — possible connection to footprints. All remains under strict monitoring.
I stared at the valley one last time before breakfast, heart still thudding. The six figures swayed as if nothing had changed. The seventh? Somewhere out there, watching, waiting. Silent, deliberate, patient.
And for the first time, I realized the forest itself felt alive — aware of me, my movements, my routines. Not just a backdrop, not just quiet. A presence. Observing. Judging.
I didn't know what would happen tomorrow. I only knew that I had to keep watching.