I woke to another overcast morning. Mist lingered along the ridges, curling in slow, lazy waves across the treetops. Even in daylight, the forest felt different now — heavier somehow, like it had absorbed the tension from the previous nights. My sleep had been restless again, filled with fragments of chanting and shadowy figures moving just beyond the firelight.
I started my morning routine mechanically: coffee, beans, checking the camcorder, inspecting the tower. Every motion was slow, deliberate. My eyes kept drifting toward the base of the tower, half-expecting to see footprints from last night.
They were there. Fresh. Smaller than mine, barefoot. Circling the tower's base. My stomach tightened as I crouched to examine them. The prints seemed to move in random directions, but all remained within a few meters of the ladder. Some ended abruptly at the siding. Faint scratches ran along the metal panels.
I ran a hand over the marks. Not deep, but deliberate. Someone — something — had been here while I slept. I swallowed hard and tried to convince myself it was just the wind catching branches against the tower, just raccoons. But the pattern didn't make sense for animals. These scratches, the scattered footprints — they were intentional.
I logged it in the notebook:
Day Twelve. Footprints and scratches around tower base. Barefoot. Small. Disturbances at siding. Observation: figures moving closer. Emotional state: anxiety increasing.
I forced myself to eat, but every bite felt mechanical. I chewed slowly, trying to convince my stomach to settle. Coffee was bitter, metallic. My hands shook slightly as I refilled it.
By mid-afternoon, the mist had lifted a little, revealing the valley in pale gray light. I climbed to the observation platform with binoculars. The camcorder was already set, aimed at the valley floor. I didn't want to miss anything.
The six figures were moving again. Slowly, deliberately. Not in the fire circle yet, but inching toward the slope that led up to the tower. I counted carefully. One, two, three… six. All still, swaying slightly, but their motion was forward, uphill.
I noticed subtle details: the way their feet pressed into soft soil, the small rocks that shifted under their weight, leaves crushed beneath them. Every movement precise, careful. They weren't wandering or lost. They were advancing.
My heart rate picked up. I backed away from the binoculars, breathing shallow. I wanted to rationalize it — maybe the terrain made them move forward for easier footing, maybe it was coincidence. But I didn't believe that.
I adjusted the camcorder zoom, keeping them in frame. My hands trembled slightly. I didn't want to drop it — not now. I needed proof. Needed evidence that they were real, that I wasn't losing my mind.
Hours passed. The sun lowered toward the horizon. The forest seemed quieter than usual. Birds had stopped calling. The wind was faint, barely rustling the branches. Everything seemed to hold its breath.
Night came.
I waited until the last bit of daylight faded, then checked the valley. The figures were moving deliberately up the slope. The fire circle wasn't lit yet, but they were coordinated, shifting positions as if communicating without words.
I saw one break from the slope and climb halfway up a rocky incline toward the tower. My breath caught. I pressed myself against the railing, holding the camcorder tight. This one was bold. They weren't just approaching the clearing anymore. They were testing the tower. Watching. Waiting.
The chanting started, faint at first, rising like a tide. Low, rhythmic. Not a song, not words I could understand — just sound, vibration. Directed at the tower. I could feel it in my chest, faintly, unsettling.
I grabbed the flashlight, checking the base of the tower. Nothing visible yet. Just shadows, swaying faintly in the mist. I checked the ladder. Scratches. More fresh prints. They had touched it again.
Panic built in my chest. My hands were sweating. My mind spun through possibilities — barricade the ladder, climb to the top and stay put, hide from sight.
I decided on barricade first. I moved the spare wood planks I'd stashed, wedging them against the base of the ladder. It rattled slightly as I pushed, but it held. My heart was hammering so loudly I was sure it could be heard from the valley.
The chanting grew louder. Not just vibration now — distinct, pressing. My ears rang. The figure halfway up the slope paused, tilting its head. I froze. Its gaze felt directed at me, sharp. Measuring. Calculating.
I sat down on the platform floor, back against the railing, trying to force myself to breathe slow. My flashlight flickered once, then went out completely. Darkness pressed in.
I didn't move for a long time. Couldn't move. My hands shook against my knees. Every instinct screamed at me — get out, climb higher, run. But where could I run? They were outside. Around the base. Watching. Waiting.
I whispered to myself, quietly, over and over: Don't move. Don't make noise. Don't let them know you're scared.
Minutes passed. The chanting rose and fell like a tide. I could hear the low hum of the valley, even through the thick walls of the tower. My skin prickled. The hairs on my arms stood straight.
Eventually, I forced myself to check the camcorder. The lens captured the figures, faintly illuminated by moonlight filtering through clouds. One had moved closer to the base of the tower, stopped, raised an arm — pointed. My stomach knotted.
I didn't dare look outside the window. Didn't dare breathe too loud. I sat in darkness, listening to their rhythm, my mind racing for solutions.
Escape options ran through my head. The ladder was blocked, but maybe I could wait until they dispersed. Maybe I could distract them with fire or light. Maybe I could make it to the service trail if I timed it right.
But nothing felt safe. Not the forest, not the slope, not the tower itself. Everything seemed alive, watching, waiting for a mistake.
Hours passed. The chanting slowed as the figures moved back slightly — just enough to remind me they were still there, still observing.
I logged everything in my journal by touch, keeping the entries brief but precise:
Day Twelve. Six figures observed moving closer to tower. Disturbances around base: scratches on siding, footprints on ladder. One figure climbing slope toward tower. Chanting louder, directed at tower. Flashlight failed. Barricade applied. Observation: high alert. Emotional state: extreme anxiety.
I leaned against the railing, eyes fixed on the slope. Sweat dripped down my back. My jaw ached from clenching my teeth.
For the first time since I arrived, I genuinely feared the night. Not just the figures, not just the chanting — them knowing I was here, studying me, preparing.
I forced myself to eat something — a piece of jerky, a sip of water — but each bite felt like an effort against gravity. My body was tense, wound tight like a drawn bow.
Sleep was impossible. I lay on the cot, flashlight dead at my side, ears straining for any sound, eyes flicking toward the window, toward the ladder, toward the slope outside.
Every shadow seemed to move. Every creak of the tower sounded like weight on the rungs.
And I realized: tonight, they weren't just observing. They were testing.
I didn't know if I could survive another night like this.
But I had to.
I had to keep watching.
And I had to prepare.