Chapter Text
The hum is your constant companion. There is no drone of civilization, but the low, electrical thrum of the tower itself, a living thing in the vast, silent stretch of the national forest.
You are miles from anywhere, a lonely sentinel guarding against fires that rarely come, monitoring radio waves that mostly carry static. It’s a quiet life, precisely what you sought.
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Tonight, the wind howls a mournful dirge against the reinforced glass of your aerie, rattling the old metal frame. Below, the ancient pines sway like drunken giants, their needles whispering secrets to the indifferent night.
You sip your favorite lukewarm cocoa–coffee–mix, the bitter taste a welcome jolt against the creeping tendrils of sleep while reading your book–a well-worn paperback detective novel.
The console before you glows with a comforting, familiar array of lights and dials. You adjust the squelch on the main communication channel, just in case, though you rarely expect anything but weather reports from the nearest ranger station, a good two-hour drive away.
Suddenly, the silence of the room is punctured by a sound that makes you freeze mid-sip; a faint, irregular tick, rhythmic yet alien against the hum of the console.
You frown, leaning closer to the speaker.
It’s almost imperceptible at first, easily mistaken for interference or the groan of the tower in the wind. But it persists, a rhythmic, almost metallic tap… tap-tap… tick.
It’s not the sharp, precise beat of a clock, more like something being struck, intermittently, with varying force.
"Just a loose wire," you mutter to yourself, reaching for the gain knob. You boost the audio, and the sound clarifies, though it remains distant. It’s definitely not internal to the tower. It’s coming from outside, somewhere in the dense woods below.
Tick… tap… tick-tick-tap…
It’s uneven, almost erratic, yet there’s a strange, underlying rhythm to it, like a broken metronome trying to find its beat. You grab your binoculars, scanning the inky blackness. The high-powered lens cuts through some of the gloom, revealing the swaying tops of the trees, but nothing else.
No campfires, no headlights, just an endless sea of green and darkness.
You check the time. It’s three in the morning. Too late for hikers, too early for early risers. Besides, this section of the forest is rarely traversed. It’s wild and untamed.
The sound stops abruptly, leaving behind an echoing silence that feels heavier than before. You hold your breath, listening, but only the wind and the tower's hum fill the void.
"Just your imagination," you sigh, trying to dismiss it. Solitude has a way of playing tricks on the mind. It wouldn’t be your first time overreacting.
You try to focus on your book, but your eyes keep darting to the radio. The quiet feels expectant now, charged. You wait, listening past the wind, past the hum, for that peculiar cadence to return.
Tick… tap-tap… tick…
There it is.
This time, it’s closer. Distinctly closer. Your heart gives a little lurch. It’s no longer just a faint disturbance; it has a presence. The sound seems to emanate from the north-western sector, the direction of the old logging trails, long since overgrown.
You grab the flashlight, flicking it on, its beam a stark white against the dark interior of your little cabin. You walk to the door, hesitating for a moment, then push it open onto the narrow, grated walkway that circles the lookout post. The wind immediately tries to tear the light from your hand, whipping your hair across your face. You brace yourself against the railing, shining the powerful beam down into the darkness.
Nothing. Just the impenetrable wall of trees.
But the sound is clearer now, carried on the wind. It has a metallic quality, yes, but also a distinct thud as if something heavy is hitting wood.
THWACK… tick… THWACK-THWACK…
It’s an axe. Someone is chopping wood. At three in the morning. In the middle of nowhere.
Absolutely not creepy, duh.
Yet, a chill that has nothing to do with the wind crawls up your spine. This isn't right. You’ve been here for months, and you've never encountered anything like that. Loggers work during the day, in designated areas, with proper permits. This feels... clandestine.
You retreat back inside, pulling the heavy door shut, the metallic clang echoing in the sudden quiet. You stare at the radio, at the source of the disquieting sound. Your hand hovers over the microphone.
"Hello?" you whisper, then shake your head. No, don't engage. Not yet.
You sit back down, forcing yourself to breathe evenly. Panic is useless. You are safe, high above the forest floor, behind reinforced steel and glass. Whoever is out there can't get to you.
The ax continues its strange, broken rhythm for another hour, moving slightly, sometimes closer, sometimes fading slightly, as if the unseen woodcutter is slowly circling the tower, or perhaps just wandering aimlessly through the trees.
You find yourself trying to discern a pattern, a meaning in the haphazard strikes.
Is it random? Or is there something intentional in the pauses, the sudden bursts of activity?
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Just before dawn, as the first bruised streaks of purple and grey begin to paint the eastern sky, the sound ceases. Abruptly. Completely.
You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. The silence that follows is not a relief, but a heavy, watchful thing. You feel like the forest itself is holding its breath aswell, as if it’s waiting for something that never comes.
As the sun finally crests the horizon, painting the world in hues of orange and gold, you lean your forehead against the cool glass.
The forest looks deceptively peaceful and innocent, almost holy; the kind of view you are usually admiring so much. Except this time, the beauty doesn’t reach you. This time, you feel aware of something you maybe shouldn’t be aware of, even though you can’t quite grab onto what it is.
If that certain someone– or something– will return, you might as well prepare yourself for the worst.
Or maybe you should stop listening to so many true crime podcasts.
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The next night, you are ready. The coffee pot is full, the radio is on, tuned specifically to catch any distant disturbance. You try to tell yourself it was a one-off, a lost logger, maybe prank or something.
But a prickling sense of unease has settled in your stomach, a cold knot that tightens with every passing hour.
The moon is a sliver tonight, barely piercing the heavy canopy of the trees. The wind is calmer, allowing the faintest sounds to travel further.
You don't have to wait long.
Just after midnight, the familiar tick… tap-tap… THWACK begins again. It’s slightly different tonight, a little less frantic, more deliberate. It sounds like it's coming from the north-east, perhaps a mile or so out.
You resist the urge to grab the binoculars immediately. Instead, you just listen. You close your eyes, letting the sound wash over you, trying to pick it apart. There’s the metallic clang of the axe head hitting wood, a dull thud as the force travels through the tree, and then– almost imperceptibly– a softer, distinct click or crackle that seems to accompany the more vigorous strikes.
It's unsettling. You find yourself pacing your small cabin, walking from the radio to the windows, peering out into the impenetrable darkness, then back to the radio. The sound is a tether to something unknown; something wild and untamed.
After an hour, you can't resist. You take the microphone. Your voice feels small and reedy in the quiet cabin.
"Hello?" you say, pushing the transmit button.
"Is anyone out there? This is Tower Echo-Seven."
You release the button, and the air crackles with your own voice echoing back from the forest, distorted by the static. You wait. The axe stops.
Total silence.
Your heart pounds against your ribs. You’ve alerted it. Whatever it is.
You wait for what feels like an eternity. A minute? Five? Your palms are sweating.
Then, faint, but clear, the tick returns, but it's different now. It's not the erratic chopping. It’s a softer, more deliberate click… click… pause… click.
It’s coming from the speaker. It’s being transmitted.
Your breath catches in your throat. This isn’t a coincidence. Whoever is out there heard you. And they are responding.
You pick up the mic again, your voice barely a whisper.
"Can you hear me?"
Click… click-click…
It’s almost like a question. A mirrored response. Your mind races. Is this a person? Are they playing with you? Or is this something more… primal?
"Who are you?" you ask, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts.
Silence. Then, a sudden, sharp THWACK! that makes you jump, followed by a faint, almost melodic crunch as if something heavy is falling through undergrowth. Then the peculiar click… click-click… resumes, but now it’s faster, more agitated.
It's not just a person. It's an agitated person. Or something like one.
You don't know what to say. You can't ask them to identify themselves. You're alone, miles from help, communicating with an unseen entity through a series of clicks and axe blows.
"Are you… okay?" you try, feeling foolish even as you say it. What kind of response do you expect?
Click. Click-click-click. THWACK! The axe blow sounds closer this time, almost impatient.
It's a conversation of sorts, a bizarre, one-sided exchange where you interpret the clicks and thuds as best you can.
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You spend the rest of the night, until the first hint of dawn, just listening. The clicks continue, sometimes slow and deliberate, sometimes fast and erratic, always accompanied by the distant, rhythmic chopping. It feels like a restless energy; a constant movement in the dark.
When the sun finally rises, the sounds vanish as abruptly as they began. The forest is silent once more, but now you know its silence is a deception trying to make you fall for it.
It seems to hold secrets. And one of those secrets communicates with a language of clicks and axes.
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You try to logically explain it away during the day. A lost logger with a damaged radio? A peculiar animal? But the direct response to your voice, the mirrored clicks, lingers in your mind, a chilling whisper that refuses to be ignored.
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The next day, you meticulously check your maps. You pinpoint the approximate location of the sounds based on the signal strength and direction. It’s always in the denser parts of the forest, areas with thick undergrowth and rocky terrain, far from any established trails. No one would be actively logging there.
Night three arrives, and with it, a strange mix of dread and anticipation. You’re terrified, yes, but also morbidly curious. What is this entity? Why is it communicating? Why you?
The clicks begin earlier tonight, just after sunset. They are closer, too.
Much closer.
You estimate them to be less than half a mile away, perhaps just beyond the perimeter of the immediate clearings around the tower.
Click… tap-tap… THWACK!
You pick up the mic without hesitation this time. "I hear you," you say, your voice steadier than you expected.
"Are you getting closer?"
A pause. A very long pause. The static is loud in your ears. You wonder if you’ve scared it off.
Then, a rapid series of clicks, almost a staccato burst. Click-click-click-click! Followed by a softer, almost hesitant tap tap… tap.
It feels like an affirmation. It is getting closer.
You feel a cold dread pool in your stomach, but also an odd sense of resignation. You are alone. This thing, whatever it is, is clearly not afraid of you. And it seems determined to make contact.
"Why are you here?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
THWACK! A single, powerful blow, so close it makes you jump, followed by a series of rapid, almost frantic clicks and a soft, guttural huff that barely registers above the static. It sounds… distressed. Angry, even.
You listen intently, trying to decipher the nuances. The clicks sound less like a response and more like an involuntary tic. Your mind, trained to observe, starts putting pieces together. The erratic rhythm, the involuntary nature of the sounds, the guttural huff…
You remember an old case study from a psychology class, something about involuntary vocalizations, repetitive movements. It might be… no, you can’t be quite sure. Not yet.
Could this be a person with Tourette's syndrome, deep in the woods, wielding an axe? The thought is both terrifying and oddly humanizing.
"Are you… lost?" you try, changing your approach.
The axe stops. The clicking stops.
Silence. A heavy, suffocating silence.
Then, a faint, almost inaudible whimper transmitted through the radio, followed by a series of soft, rapid taps that sound less like an axe hitting wood and more like nails drumming on a hard surface.
It’s not angry. It sounds… sad. Or confused.
You feel a pang of something akin to empathy. This isn't just a monster in the woods. This seems to be something else. Something lost, or even helpless.
"Do you want help?" you ask, your voice softening.
The response is a burst of clicks, louder this time, accompanied by a rapid series of thwacks that sound like desperate, panicked blows. It's almost a cry.
No! your mind translates. Don't help! Or perhaps, I can't be helped.
You spend the rest of that night in a bizarre, wordless dialogue. You ask simple questions, and the clicks, the axe blows, the occasional huff, become a kind of broken language. You start to recognize patterns. Fast clicks often mean agitation or emphasis. Slow, deliberate clicks might be confusion or observation. A single THWACK might be a negative, a series of them, an outburst.
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Each passing day is marked by solitude, yet with every hour, the thrill of communicating with the faceless entity intensifies.
You tell it about your day, about some parts of your lonely life, about the distant lights of a town you can barely see on a clear night. You talk about anything, everything, trying to fill the vast emptiness of the night with your voice, and to elicit a response from this strange, unseen companion.
And it responds every time.
You find yourself almost looking forward to nightfall, to the return of the clicks and the rhythmic thwacks.
It’s terrifying, yes, but also strangely comforting. You’re not alone anymore. You have a constant, unseen listener. A presence.
Days blur into nights. Weeks pass. The pattern is established. You wake up, perform your duties, watch the forest, wait for the sun to set. And then you wait for the clicks.
You’ve learned to distinguish the subtle variations in the sounds. The sound of a larger axe hitting a thick trunk, the softer clink of a smaller hatchet on kindling, the scraping sound of something being dragged through leaves.
You even notice the shift in the tick itself– sometimes it sounds like a bone cracking, other times like a dry branch snapping.
You’ve stopped trying to get it to speak in words. You understand that it can't, or won't. Its language is raw, primal, a symphony of involuntary movements and desperate actions.
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One night, a fierce storm rolls in. Thunder cracks overhead, making the tower shudder, and lightning illuminates the forest in strobe-like flashes. The wind howls like a banshee, throwing rain against the glass with violent force. You worry about the signal, about the power, but also about it.
"Are you okay out there?" you transmit, the words barely audible above the storm's fury.
The radio is silent for a long time, filled only with static and the roar of the wind. You fear the signal is down, or that the storm has driven it away.
Then, faint, almost drowned out by the thunder, you hear it.
A series of rapid, almost panicked clicks, followed by a desperate, high-pitched whine that sounds utterly devoid of hope. It’s not a human sound, not precisely. It's something… animalistic. Hurting.
Your heart clenches. It's vulnerable. It's in distress.
"Where are you?" you transmit urgently. "Can you tell me where you are?"
More clicks, a flurry of them, followed by a distant crash that sounds like a tree falling, unnervingly close. Then, the signal sputters, dies.
The radio goes completely dead.
"No!" you yell, slapping the console. "Come on!"
You try everything; resetting the system, checking the antenna, but the storm is too powerful. The communication is cut. You are truly alone again, but now, a new fear grips you.
Fear for the unknown entity in the storm-ravaged woods.
You spend a restless night, staring out into the chaotic darkness, every flash of lightning revealing the writhing, tortured forms of the trees. You imagine it out there, exposed, perhaps injured. The thought is strangely unbearable.
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When dawn finally breaks, the storm has passed, leaving behind a world washed clean, but also battered. Trees are down, branches litter the ground. The air smells of wet earth and pine.
You immediately try the radio. It sputters to life, the static a welcome sound. You boost the volume, holding your breath.
Nothing.
No clicks. No thwacks. No sign of your nocturnal companion.
A profound sense of loss washes over you. It’s gone. The storm must have driven it off, or worse…
You sit by the radio all day, hoping, listening, but only the usual static and the occasional crackle of distant weather reports greet you.
The silence is no longer peaceful; it’s a gaping void.
As dusk approaches, a heavy melancholy settles upon you. You never saw it, never spoke real words, but it had become a part of your isolated routine. You had connected with something wild, something broken, and now it’s gone.
You prepare your usual lukewarm cocoa–coffee–mix, feeling the absence keenly. The tower, once a beacon of your solitary peace, now feels like a tomb.
You’re just about to turn off the main console, resigned to another silent night, when you hear it.
Faint. Very faint.
Tick… tap…
It’s barely audible above the low hum of the tower. It’s coming from directly below you.
Your blood runs cold.
You slowly, carefully, push back your chair. You walk to the window overlooking the tower's base, your heart hammering against your ribs. You peer down, straining your eyes against the deepening twilight.
There’s a small clearing directly beneath the tower, where the access road meets the base. It’s mostly rocks and gravel, with a few scraggly bushes.
And there, standing at the very edge of the clearing, partially obscured by a large pine, is a figure.
It’s tall, slender, and undeniably human-shaped. It's wearing dark, mud-stained clothing, and what looks like a pair of goggles obscures its eyes. A tattered, faded orange hoodie is pulled up over its head. In its hands, it holds two hatchets, one larger than the other.
As you watch, it shifts its weight, a distinct click echoing faintly even through the thick glass. Its head twitches violently to the side, then snaps back. And then it happens. It raises one of the hatchets, not in an aggressive stance, but almost absently, and brings it down hard against the trunk of the nearby pine.
THWACK!
The sound vibrates through the ground, up the tower, and right into your chest.
It’s it. Or him. The tick-tocking entity from the radio which reveals itself to be what looks like a young man.
You are frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe. All those weeks of distant communication, the shared nights, the strange empathy– it all coalesces into this single, terrifying moment of revelation.
It's not a hallucination, not a trick of the mind. It’s real. And it’s right beneath you.
The figure doesn't look up. His head twitches again, another click audible, even without the radio. Then he brings the axe down again, a powerful, rhythmic blow that seems to shake the very foundations of your isolation.
THWACK!
You realize he’s not looking for you. He’s not actively trying to get in. He’s just… there. Performing his ritual, right at the base of your tower.
A cold fear, sharp and clear, pierces through you.
You are not safe. Not anymore. This person knows where you are. He came directly to you.
But then, a different thought slowly begins to form.
He doesn’t climb the tower. He just stands there, below. And he’s chopping wood, not trying to break down the door.
You take a tentative step back from the window, your gaze still fixed on the man below. He continues its rhythmic chopping, a steady, almost comforting THWACK… tick… THWACK.
You move back to the radio, your hand shaking slightly as you pick up the microphone. You press the transmit button.
"Hello," you whisper, your voice barely audible.
The chopping stops immediately.
The man below freezes, his head snapping up. Even through the goggles, you feel his gaze sweep over the tower, locking onto your window.
You watch as he slowly, deliberately, lifts one hand, still clutching a hatchet. His other hand reaches up, and he slowly, carefully, removes its goggles.
Underneath, his eyes are wide, unblinking, and utterly devoid of fear. There are dark circles beneath them, and his mouth is slightly ajar, revealing chapped, pale lips. Its face is scarred, and there's a wild, almost feral intensity in its gaze.
Another click escapes his body, a soft, involuntary sound. It's not hostile.
It is like he’s acknowledging you.
You realize you are holding your breath. This is it. The culmination of weeks of unspoken communication. The moment of truth.
You don't know what to expect. Attack? A scream? A desperate plea?
But the man just stands there, looking up at you, the hatchets hanging loosely in his hands. His head twitches again, a quick, jerky motion. And then, a sound.
A guttural, choked sound, barely a whisper through the radio, but clear enough for you to hear.
It sounds like a name. Your name.
Your blood runs cold. How does he know your name? You’ve never told him. You’ve never spoken a word about yourself, only asked questions and maybe told him about your day here and there.
He takes a step forward, then another, until he is standing directly beneath your window, looking up. His expression is unreadable, but there's a strange vulnerability in his posture.
And then, he speaks. Not in clicks, not in thwacks, but in a voice that is raw, hoarse, and clearly unused. It’s fragmented, broken, punctuated by involuntary gasps and clicks.
"You hear… me?" he rasps, the words barely strung together, each one a struggle. You barely even understand them.
Once you do, you don't answer immediately. You just stare, mesmerized by the intensity of his dark gaze, by the sheer improbability of this moment.
"Yes," you finally manage to say, your voice cracking.
"I hear you."
A faint, almost imperceptible tremor runs through its body. His head twitches again, and a small, almost childlike whimper escapes his lips.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he raises one hand, holding the larger hatchet, and points it directly at the radio antenna atop your tower.
He speaks again, its voice gaining a touch more clarity, though still broken by involuntary sounds.
"Only… you."
You seem to understand immediately.
Only you hear his true language.
Only you understand the clicks, the thwacks, the involuntary sounds that are so much a part of it.
Everyone else would not pay attention, or if so, be scared away.
You’re the only one listening.
You’re the only one staying.
A strange, dizzying wave washes over you. Fear is still there, yes, a primal, bone-deep fear. But it's mingling with something else now. Something akin to wonder. Or perhaps, recognition.
The figure takes a step back, then another, still looking up at you. His head twitches again, and then he slowly, deliberately, pulls its goggles back down, obscuring his eyes once more.
He turns, slowly, and begins to walk back into the deepening gloom of the forest. His movements are fluid, almost graceful, despite the lingering twitches and jerks. He pauses at the edge of the clearing, looks back one last time, a dark silhouette against the fading light.
And then the man melts into the trees, disappearing as silently and mysteriously as he arrived.
You remain at the window, staring into the empty space where it stood, the words echoing in your mind:
Only… you.
The tower feels different now. Weird even, and so does the forest.
The silence that follows feels agonizingly empty.
You walk back to the radio, your hand hovering over the microphone. Do you try to call him back? Do you try to speak?
No. The moment has passed.
But you are aware he will return. You know he will be back, and the clicks, the thwacks, the twisted language that feels like a shared secret will fill your nights once more. And you will be listening.
Because now you know. You are the only one who truly hears. And he knows that too. And in this vast, isolated wilderness, that singular connection feels like both a blessing and a terrifying curse.
You settle back into your chair, your beloved cocoa–coffee–mix now cold, the book forgotten. You turn up the volume on the radio, waiting.
The wind howls, the tower hums, and the world outside holds its breath. You just listen, for the first faint tick…