The sun had barely started its descent when I noticed it. Not the fire circle this time, not the swaying figures in the valley — but the seventh figure, perched just inside the treeline, watching. Leaning against a gnarled pine, unmoving, its gaze fixed on the tower.
I froze, binoculars trembling in my hands. Its presence wasn't subtle anymore. Not accidental.
And then it moved — climbing a jagged rock, then another, moving closer to my line-of-sight. Bold, deliberate. Testing distance. Testing height.
I swallowed hard.
This wasn't about ritual tonight. This was about observation. Direct, focused, active.
I set the binoculars down and exhaled slowly. My mind raced through options. The ladder was still barricaded, yes. But they were learning. Every movement, every observation of mine was being recorded in some incomprehensible way. They were adapting.
I paced the narrow platform, eyes darting to the treeline, to the slope, to the base of the tower. My heart thumped, loud enough I feared they might hear it.
I needed a plan. Not just hiding or recording this time — action.
I remembered the spare fuel canister I had stashed behind the generator. Kerosene. Not much, but enough to make a distraction. Enough to lure them away from the tower.
I gathered it quietly, careful not to shake the railing. My hands were slick with sweat, and I could feel my pulse in my fingertips.
The seventh figure tilted its head, noticing my movement. I froze. Its gaze didn't waver. It didn't flinch. Just watched.
I whispered under my breath: "Come on, think."
I moved slowly to the edge of the platform, carrying the canister down the ladder. Each rung creaked under my weight, and I felt like a hammer was pounding inside my chest.
Outside, the others were still swaying in the half-circle at the base of the slope, some moving closer, some standing motionless. The ritual tonight had been shorter, less structured — maybe because their attention was now divided.
I poured fuel onto a small patch of dry leaves I'd cleared earlier. A spark from my lighter, a hiss, and the leaves flared. A small fire bloomed in the darkness. Smoke curled upward, orange and thick.
The reaction was immediate. Two figures broke from the formation, running toward the fire. One of them stopped midway, glancing back at the tower as if questioning, but the lure had worked. At least partially.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my shoulders to relax for the first time in hours. They were distracted. Not all, but some. Enough.
I moved to the ladder, gripping it with sweaty palms. Slowly, carefully, I unwedged the planks. My hands shook violently. Each rung creaked beneath me, a terrible, echoing sound.
The seventh figure's gaze never left me. It didn't move — just climbed silently over rocks to match my height. Watching. Calculating. Waiting.
I tried not to breathe too loud. Tried not to flinch. I moved one rung at a time, careful not to make it obvious I was descending.
Halfway down, a branch snapped somewhere nearby. I froze. My heart leapt.
The figure in the treeline tilted its head slightly, and I could swear I saw it smile. Or maybe that was my imagination.
I kept moving. Slow. Deliberate. Quiet.
The ground drew closer. My boots touched soil. Relief surged, but it was shallow, fleeting. I glanced back toward the tower. Shadows moved faintly along the platform, subtle flickers in the darkness.
I pressed myself against the forest floor, crawling through low shrubs and loose branches. The scent of earth and pine filled my lungs. For a moment, the tension eased.
Then I heard it — a soft, deliberate footstep behind me. Barefoot. Crunching on dead leaves.
I froze again. Heart hammering. The seventh figure had followed me, somehow keeping pace without noise, without hesitation.
I scanned for cover. Dense underbrush, thick enough to hide me if I stayed low. I pressed myself into it, holding my breath.
The figure paused. Tilted its head. Then stepped forward again, slow and deliberate.
I waited. Waited. Waited.
After what felt like an eternity, the figure moved back toward the faint glow of the fire I'd set earlier. Perhaps it had been lured, distracted like the others. Or maybe it was testing me, seeing if I'd panic.
I didn't move. Not until the sound of feet retreating reached the slope and faded.
Then I ran.
The forest swallowed me in shadows. I moved fast, zigzagging through the trees, trying to mask my direction. Every branch that scraped against my arms and face felt like it could reveal my presence. My lungs burned. My legs ached.
I kept checking behind me. Mist swirled low to the ground. Shapes shifted in the haze. I couldn't tell if they were following or if my imagination was turning every tree into a watcher.
The undergrowth thinned as I approached a faint trail I remembered from maps — a service path used years ago for maintenance. I ran along it, chest heaving, branches lashing at my face.
The trail curved sharply. I slowed slightly, trying to catch my breath without pausing too long. My mind replayed the events of the day: the half-circle, the seventh figure, the scratches on the tower, the fire distraction.
I couldn't let them corner me. Not now.
Night had fully fallen. The sky was an inky black, the stars barely visible through the mist and canopy. My footsteps sounded loud in the silence. I twisted, glanced back. Nothing visible. No figures. Just shadows, swaying in the distance.
I took a deep breath, willing my body to keep moving. I had to get far enough that they couldn't reach me tonight. Far enough to plan next moves.
Somewhere ahead, I heard the faint rush of water — a creek from the maps. That would give me direction, cover, and a place to hide if they pursued.
I slowed, crouching low, moving silently now, letting the night's sounds mask me. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig made me tense.
After what felt like hours — though in reality, maybe fifteen minutes — I reached the creek. Water ran fast, silvered faintly by moonlight. I splashed some on my face, gulped deep, and paused to listen.
No chanting. No movement. Nothing.
I allowed myself a small, shivering laugh. Relief mixed with exhaustion. My arms and legs were scratched and bruised, clothes torn from branches, hair matted with sweat and dirt. I didn't care. I was alive.
I slid down to sit by the creek, letting the water run over my hands. My breathing slowed slightly. I scanned the forest again. The tower was a dark silhouette in the distance. The figures were gone — at least for now.
I pulled the camcorder from my pack. I hadn't filmed much during the escape — too risky — but the footage I did capture of the fire distraction might serve as proof later. I checked the screen. Shaky, flickering, but usable.
I leaned against a tree, knees drawn up. Exhaustion weighed heavy on me. Fear lingered like smoke in my chest. My mind raced with possibilities: where to go next, how to survive another night, what the figures would do when they discovered I was gone.
Sleep was impossible. My body wanted it, but my mind refused. I stayed crouched beside the creek, watching, listening, waiting.
The forest felt alive, whispering. Every shadow, every rustle seemed intentional. But at least I had space. Distance. Hope.
By dawn, I planned my next steps carefully. Follow the trail, stay low, move quietly. Avoid any line-of-sight, avoid any chance of being observed again. Survival depended on caution and speed.
And for the first time in fourteen days, I felt a faint spark of control.
They had forced me out of the tower. They had tried to intimidate me, to corner me. But I had escaped.
Barely.
And I intended to stay that way.