The static was the first thing I heard that morning. Not birds, not wind — just a constant hiss, low and steady, coming from the radio. It filled the tower like background noise from a television left on too long.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and reached for the receiver. The signal light blinked faintly, which meant power was fine. I turned the dial to Base frequency.
"Base, this is Tower Seventeen. Morning check-in. Over."
Nothing. Just the same soft static hum.
I adjusted the antenna, tapped the mic twice, waited. "Base, you copy?"
More static.
I tried not to let it bother me. Radios cut out all the time out here. Moisture, interference, signal drift — plenty of explanations. I logged it casually in my morning sheet: 07:12 a.m. — Base unresponsive, possible weather interference.
Still, the silence felt heavier than it should. After the hum from last night, I'd wanted a normal morning. Just routine. Boring weather reports, coffee, canned beans, maybe Carter cracking a dry joke about forest solitude. Anything.
Instead, the tower felt hollow. Every creak of the wood sounded louder.
I turned the dial again. Static filled the room, shifting in tone as I scanned through frequencies. I paused at one point, certain I heard something beneath the static — a faint crackle, like a breath. I leaned closer, but it vanished.
I shook my head, muttering, "Just feedback."
Breakfast didn't taste like much. The coffee was bitter, the beans cold. My stomach was tight anyway.
I stepped outside with binoculars, scanning the valley. The trees swayed lazily in the wind. The clearing where the fire circle always appeared was empty. No sign of the six. No smoke, no flicker. Just calm.
You'd think that would've felt good — finally a night with no movement, no chanting, no fire. But the emptiness made it worse. It felt like the forest was holding its breath.
I scanned every ridge, every dark line between the trees. Nothing.
After ten minutes, I went back inside and tried the radio again. "Base, this is Tower Seventeen, checking in. Radio silent yesterday evening. Do you copy?"
Static.
Then — for half a second — a sound. Not a voice, exactly. Just a flicker of something human, maybe a syllable buried under the noise.
I pressed the button again. "Carter? That you? Over."
Nothing.
I sat there staring at the radio, thumb resting on the transmit switch, debating if I should try the backup emergency channel. We're told to use that only if there's a life-threatening emergency. But the rules also say if regular communication is down for more than twenty-four hours, we have to test the backup.
I figured that counted.
I switched the frequency to the emergency line and pressed transmit.
"Tower Seventeen calling on emergency channel. Radio link with Base not responding. Testing backup frequency. Over."
For a long moment, only static answered.
Then, faintly, something crackled through.
Not Carter. Not anyone from Base.
A whisper.
At first, I thought it was feedback, or maybe I'd brushed the gain dial too high. But the whisper had rhythm. Cadence. It sounded like someone breathing too close to the mic, words catching between the static.
I froze. The voice came again, clearer this time — soft, deliberate, close.
"You shouldn't be watching."
My hand snapped off the switch.
The static cut out instantly. The tower went dead quiet.
I stared at the radio, my pulse hammering in my ears. Every instinct screamed at me to turn it off completely. I reached out, flicked the main power switch down. The light went out.
Silence.
I sat there for a long minute, waiting to hear something else — a follow-up, another breath, a laugh. Nothing.
My chest tightened. I could still hear the exact tone of that voice in my head. Low. Calm. Not angry. Just… certain. Like it was stating a fact.
You shouldn't be watching.
I stood up, moved away from the desk, pacing the narrow cabin. My mind kept looping it. The phrasing. The voice. It hadn't sounded like Carter, or any of the Base crew. It hadn't even sounded like a radio distortion. It was too clean. Too close.
I poured myself another cup of coffee, hands shaking slightly. Tried to convince myself it was a prank. Maybe another ranger messing with the line. It happens sometimes — boredom makes people do stupid things. But the emergency frequency is monitored, encrypted. You'd have to know the exact code to transmit on it.
And the tone… it wasn't playful. It wasn't someone joking. It felt like a warning.
I stepped out onto the deck for air. The sun was halfway up now, burning through the morning haze. The forest stretched in every direction — endless pines, muted greens, and mist curling through the lower valleys.
I scanned with the binoculars again, slowly sweeping. No movement. No fire circle. No figures. Just wind.
Still, the words stayed in my head. You shouldn't be watching.
I set the binoculars down. The metal railing of the tower felt cold under my hands. I realized I was gripping it too tight.
I whispered, to no one, "Then stop giving me things to watch."
The wind answered with nothing. Just silence again.
I stayed outside for most of the day. Something about being in the open felt safer than sitting next to that silent radio. I cleaned gear, organized the food crates, checked the generator twice even though it was fine. Anything to keep my hands busy.
When the sun started to drop, I went back inside. The radio sat on the desk like a dead thing. I thought about turning it on again, just to see if it was really broken, but my fingers wouldn't touch it.
Instead, I made a new entry in my logbook.
Day Nine. Radio unresponsive. Attempted contact via emergency frequency. Response received: unidentified whisper, phrase "You shouldn't be watching." Terminated transmission. No further communication. Figures absent from valley. Weather calm. Emotional state: elevated anxiety.
I stared at that line for a while — You shouldn't be watching. I underlined it twice without meaning to.
The rest of the evening passed slowly. I ate in silence, watching the valley through the window. The sun dropped behind the ridge, and the forest turned black again.
For hours, nothing happened. No fire. No chant. No movement. Just wind and insects.
Then, sometime near midnight, the radio clicked on by itself.
No static. No voice. Just a faint hiss, like breathing.
I didn't move. I watched the signal light flicker faintly. The volume knob was still at half. I hadn't touched it since morning.
Another faint exhale came through. Then silence again.
I reached for the switch, slowly, carefully. My hand hovered over it.
The whisper came one more time, softer now, almost friendly.
"Stop looking."
I shut the radio off. Hard.
The hiss died. The light went out. The tower was silent again.
I stood there in the dark, breathing shallow, staring out into the trees. Every branch seemed alive now, shifting slightly in the wind.
Somewhere below, far off in the valley, a faint orange light flickered between the trunks. Just one. Small.
The circle was back.
I turned away from the window. I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to know how many were there tonight.
For the first time since arriving, I didn't record their presence. Didn't take photos. Didn't pick up the binoculars.
I sat at the desk, notebook closed, radio dark.
The forest could have all the silence it wanted.
But I couldn't shake the feeling that the silence wasn't peace. It was warning.
And that voice — calm, steady, whispering through static — wasn't done with me yet.