The morning started with silence again, but it wasn't the peaceful kind anymore. It felt loaded. Thick. The kind that makes your ears ring because you expect something to happen.
I didn't sleep much. Every time the tower creaked, I imagined footsteps below me. The footprints from yesterday stayed clear in my head. Small. Barefoot. Leading from the woods toward the base. Every time I looked at the ladder, I pictured someone standing there last night, staring up at me.
The air was colder. My breath fogged when I opened the door. I stood on the metal platform, scanning the treeline, binoculars ready. The valley looked quiet. The six figures weren't there yet. The ground seemed still, too still.
I climbed down after breakfast to check the soil again. The footprints had faded a little more, dew filling them in. Still visible if you knew where to look. No new prints, no sign of animals. Just that same strange stillness.
The day passed slow. I logged the weather, checked humidity, scanned for smoke — all normal. No radio chatter, no contact from Carter. I turned the dial a few times just to make sure the thing wasn't dead, but only static came through.
By afternoon, I was restless. Every sound drew my attention — a distant crow, branches shifting, even my own footsteps on the tower floor. I tried writing another journal entry but couldn't focus. The thought of the missing seventh figure and those prints sat heavy in the back of my mind.
By sunset, the forest started changing again. That same orange light stretched long across the ridges. The valley below flickered faintly. The fire circle had returned.
I counted them out of habit. One, two, three, four, five, six. All present. All swaying slowly in unison. The same steady, rhythmic motion they always did. But now, I was searching for the seventh. Scanning every shadow beyond the circle. Nothing yet.
I turned on the camcorder, pointed it toward the valley, zoomed in, and let it record. The figures barely moved, swaying slightly in rhythm, like grass in slow wind.
And then I heard it.
At first, I thought it was wind. A faint, low hum that seemed to rise and fall. But the pattern was too steady. Not random. Not like gusts pushing through trees. It had rhythm.
I leaned forward, pressing my ear toward the open window. The hum came and went, a low vibration carrying across the valley. Deep, almost like a throat singing or a chant too distant to make out words.
I held my breath. The hum grew a little louder, just enough to feel it more than hear it. My chest vibrated faintly with each drawn-out note. I couldn't tell where it came from — the valley, the woods, the wind itself.
I muttered to myself, "Probably the wind through the canyons," but I didn't believe it. Not really.
I grabbed my flashlight and aimed it toward the trees below the tower. The beam cut through the darkness, slicing across trunks and brush.
The hum stopped instantly.
Just gone. Like it had never been there.
The silence after was worse.
I stood frozen, flashlight trembling slightly in my hand. My breath came out too fast. I turned off the light, waited. The forest stayed silent.
I whispered, "Okay… it's fine." My voice sounded small, swallowed by the night.
Minutes passed. No sound. The air felt heavier, pressing against me. I finally stepped back inside and closed the door. The hinges groaned faintly, echoing louder than they should have.
I sat at the desk, staring at the radio. I wanted to call Carter, just to say something, to hear a human voice. But I didn't. Not after ignoring the footprints yesterday. I didn't want to explain this hum that stopped when I pointed a flashlight. I didn't want to sound like I was cracking.
Instead, I wrote in my journal:
Day Eight. Low sound heard from valley — rhythmic hum, possibly wind. Sound ceased immediately upon using flashlight. Figures in circle present. Six visible. Seventh unseen. Radio silent. No further disturbances.
I paused, pen hovering over the page, then added another line in smaller writing: Felt like forest was listening.
The words looked ridiculous on the page, but I couldn't shake the feeling. When the hum stopped, it didn't feel like coincidence. It felt intentional. Like something had gone quiet to listen.
I kept the flashlight by the window. Every few minutes, I flicked it on, sweeping across the trees. Nothing moved. Nothing reflected back. The hum didn't return.
By midnight, the valley fire burned lower. The six figures stayed in formation. They didn't move closer tonight, at least not yet. The wind picked up a little, rustling pine needles in slow, dry waves.
I sat awake long after I should've gone to bed, staring at the black line of trees below. Waiting for the hum to come back. Half of me wanted to hear it again — just to know it was real. The other half hoped it never would.
At some point, I realized how cold it had gotten. My breath fogged inside the cabin. I switched on the heater. The hum of the machine almost comforted me, masking the forest sounds.
Then I heard it again.
Faint. Far off. But there.
That same low vibration. Not wind. Not machine. A living tone. A long, slow exhale that rolled through the trees.
I froze in place, hand halfway to the heater dial. My heart picked up speed.
The sound came in waves, deep and steady. Almost hypnotic. I walked slowly to the window, flashlight in hand, but didn't turn it on this time. The hum seemed to breathe with the forest — rising, fading, rising again.
And then, beneath the sound, something else.
A second layer. Softer. Higher. Whisper-like. Maybe human voices carried on the wind — or maybe something mimicking them. The rhythm didn't feel random. It was timed, deliberate.
I swallowed hard, stepping back from the window. Every instinct screamed don't shine the light again. It felt like whatever was making that sound didn't want to be seen.
I sat down, breathing slow, forcing myself to stay calm. Maybe it's the forest wind channeling through old tree trunks. Maybe it's echo. Maybe it's just my nerves. But deep down, I knew better.
The hum went on for several minutes. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped again.
Silence. Heavy and perfect.
The heater clicked softly beside me. I realized my hands were shaking. I laughed under my breath — a quiet, nervous sound — just to remind myself I was still alone, still human.
I didn't sleep. I lay on the cot, eyes fixed on the ceiling, counting my breaths. Every time I closed my eyes, I imagined faces in the dark forest, mouths open, humming that same low tone.
By morning, the valley was quiet again. The fire circle was gone. No smoke, no figures, no trace. Just empty forest.
I climbed down after breakfast to check the base again. The footprints were still there, fainter but visible. Dew had filled them halfway, softening their edges. I crouched, touched the soil lightly, and felt how cold it was.
It hadn't rained. There were no animal tracks. Just the prints.
Back in the tower, I logged it all in detail.
Day Eight. Low frequency hum detected twice between 8:40 p.m. and midnight. Sound rhythmic, non-natural. Ceased instantly upon light exposure. Six figures observed. Forest unusually still afterward. Emotional response: elevated anxiety, insomnia. Hypothesis: unknown natural cause. Observation continues.
I closed the notebook and stared out at the forest again. The trees swayed gently in the morning wind, innocent, almost peaceful.
But now, even that rustling sounded like breathing.