The voice came just before dawn.
At first, I thought I was dreaming. It was soft — calm, almost patient — calling my name from somewhere below the tower.
"Evan."
I opened my eyes to a room still dim with early light. My heart was already thudding before I even sat up. The word still hung in the air, quiet and close, like someone standing at the base of the ladder, looking up.
I listened. Nothing.
I reached for my watch — 5:13 a.m. Mist outside, pale gray light bleeding into the trees.
Then it came again.
"Evan."
Same tone. Same careful pause between syllables.
I froze. The voice was too familiar. Too specific.
It sounded like Carter.
I pulled on my boots, crept to the hatch, and crouched. My fingers hovered near the lock. I didn't know what I was planning — to answer? To yell?
"Carter?" My voice cracked slightly. "That you?"
No response.
The forest below stayed still. Not even birds yet.
I hesitated, then unlatched the hatch halfway and pushed it open a few inches. The air that rushed up was cold and damp, smelling of pine and wet earth. I leaned forward and looked down.
Nothing.
The base of the tower was empty. The fog was thick enough that the ladder disappeared into it halfway down.
But there were marks — dark smudges in the dirt near the first rung. Footprints.
I grabbed the binoculars and squinted through them. The prints circled the tower's base — small, bare, and scattered like someone pacing.
One set broke away, leading toward the trees, vanishing into the mist.
I shut the hatch fast, locked it twice. My fingers trembled.
I stood there for a while, listening for movement, any hint of breath or step. Nothing but the occasional groan of the wood in the wind.
Eventually, I forced myself to write it down.
05:15 a.m. — unidentified voice outside tower, calling name twice. Male tone, similar to Carter. No visual contact. Footprints discovered around base.
The handwriting came out messy.
I made coffee next, more out of habit than comfort. The routine steadied me — boil water, stir in powder, watch steam rise. But every sip tasted metallic.
I kept glancing at the radio. The switch was still off. I hadn't touched it since last night. I wasn't sure if I should.
Carter's voice — or whatever had mimicked it — had been too clean to be static. Too direct.
By noon, I convinced myself to test the frequency again. My throat was dry when I pressed transmit.
"Base, this is Tower Seventeen. Do you read me? Over."
Static.
I tried again.
"Carter, if you're there, I heard something this morning. Sounded like you. Just confirm you didn't send anyone up here. Over."
Static. Then a faint click — like the mic keying in, followed by breath.
Then it cut.
I turned the dial off again. I couldn't keep listening. The silence after the click felt worse than static.
Outside, the day stayed overcast, dull light filtering through the clouds. The forest looked still, but I couldn't shake the sense of something watching from between the trees.
At one point I thought I saw movement — a shadow darting between trunks — but when I refocused, it was gone.
I made myself eat. Canned stew. It felt like chewing on metal.
The day stretched thin. I cleaned gear, organized the maps, rechecked the logbook, anything to fill the hours. My mind kept looping back to that voice — the way it said my name. Not shouted. Not panicked. Just called. Like it already knew I'd wake up.
When night came, I tried not to look outside. I even covered part of the main window with my spare blanket to stop catching reflections in the glass.
But sometime around nine, I gave in. I always do.
I lifted the binoculars and scanned the valley.
The fire circle was back.
The faint orange glow pulsed in the darkness like a heartbeat. Only this time it wasn't far — not miles away like before.
Half the distance. Maybe less.
I could see them clearly now. Six figures, motionless, surrounding the flame. Their shapes wavered in the heat, but their posture was unmistakable — upright, rigid, arms at their sides.
The seventh was missing again.
I adjusted focus. The faces — if they even were faces — didn't reflect light. No eyes, no movement. Just stillness.
I counted them twice. Six.
And then I noticed something else. A thin line in the dirt, faintly glowing orange — like an ember trail stretching from their fire outward, up the slope, toward the tower's base.
I lowered the binoculars slowly. My throat went dry.
It wasn't a trick of light. The glow was real. Dim, but there.
Something was connecting them to me.
I backed away from the window. I didn't want to see any more.
But before I turned, one of the figures — one on the far left — tilted its head. Slightly. In my direction.
My stomach dropped.
I shut off the lantern. The room plunged into darkness.
I sat in silence, back against the wall, forcing my breathing quiet. Every few seconds I swore I could hear something — a faint tap from below, wood creaking under weight.
I waited.
After what felt like hours, I stood and carefully peered through the window again.
The fire was still burning. But the figures weren't there.
Only the glow remained — small, flickering, like dying coals.
I listened. Nothing.
Then, from below the tower, a voice rose again. Same tone, same calm certainty.
"Evan."
I froze.
"Evan," it said again. "Come down."
It sounded closer this time. Clearer.
I whispered, "Carter?"
The voice paused. Then —
"Come down."
My stomach turned cold. It wasn't Carter's cadence anymore. The shape of the words was wrong, like something trying to be him but getting the rhythm just slightly off.
I backed away from the hatch. Every instinct screamed to run, to climb, to do anything but go down there.
The voice called again, softer. "Come down, Evan. It's okay now."
I didn't move. Didn't breathe.
Then the tower shifted. Just slightly. A creak in the support beam, like weight pressing against one leg.
I glanced at the ladder hole. The sound came again — wood flexing. Then footsteps. Slow. Barefoot. On the lowest rung.
I grabbed the flashlight, clicked it on, and shone it down the hatch crack.
Nothing. Just mist.
But the sound stopped immediately.
The silence that followed felt alive — thick, waiting.
I stood there for maybe five minutes, not daring to move. Finally, I forced myself to shut the hatch again, locking it with both bolts.
I backed away until I hit the wall.
For a long time, I just sat there. The forest outside stayed dead quiet. No wind, no insects. Even the usual night sounds had gone.
At some point, exhaustion took over. My eyes burned. I slid down the wall, flashlight still clutched tight, and let myself drift in and out of half-sleep.
When I woke again, it was morning.
The first thing I did was open the hatch carefully and look down.
The fog was lighter now. The dirt was wet.
And around the base of the tower, fresh footprints circled again — seven this time. All barefoot.
I counted them twice.
Then I noticed the small patch of ground directly below the ladder, where something had been placed. A small object, square and metallic, reflecting weak sunlight.
I raised my binoculars.
It was a radio — one of the old handhelds used for tower-to-tower communication.
Mine.
The same model I'd lost from my pack on my first day.
I shut the hatch and backed away, pulse hammering.
If they'd found it, that meant they'd been close since the beginning.
That meant they'd always known where I was.
And if the voice last night wasn't Carter's…
Then whoever — or whatever — called my name had learned it from somewhere very, very near.