"The Visitor":
I started my season at the Athabasca lookout tower like any other year. I'd been doing this job for over a decade, spotting smoke from wildfires in the vast Alberta wilderness. The tower sat on a rocky hill, miles from the nearest road, with nothing but endless trees stretching out below. My routine was simple: wake early, scan the horizon with binoculars, log any changes, and radio in reports. I had my dog, Buddy, for company, and a small cabin at the base where I cooked meals and read books to pass the time.
One morning in late August, I boiled water for coffee on the stove and stepped out to the porch with my glasses still on the table inside. Buddy barked at something in the distance, but I saw nothing unusual—just the usual rustle of leaves. I called him back and went inside to grab my book. That's when I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel path leading up to the cabin. Heavy steps, deliberate, like someone not trying to hide.
"Hello?" I called out, peering through the window. A man emerged from the tree line, tall and broad, wearing a faded jacket and boots caked in mud. He looked like a hiker, but his eyes were sharp, fixed on me in a way that made my skin prickle.
"Ma'am," he said, stopping a few feet from the porch. "I'm lost. Been wandering these woods for days. Can I use your radio?"
I hesitated. We got the occasional lost person up here, but protocol was clear: help if possible, but keep distance. "Sure," I replied, keeping my voice steady. "Wait there. I'll bring it out."
He nodded, but his gaze lingered on the cabin door. I grabbed the handheld radio from the shelf and stepped back out, handing it to him from the top step. "Base, this is Athabasca lookout," he spoke into it after I showed him how. But he didn't say he was lost. Instead, he muttered something about a fire signal, then handed it back with a thin smile. "Thanks. I'll be on my way."
He turned and walked back toward the trees, but slower than before, like he was memorizing the path. Buddy growled low in his throat, hackles up. I watched until he vanished, then radioed base myself. "Had a visitor," I told the dispatcher, Karen. "Tall guy, said he was lost, but acted odd. Keep an eye out."
Karen's voice crackled back. "Copy that, Steph. You're remote out there—lock up tight tonight. We've had reports of poachers in the area."
Poachers. That explained the unease in my gut. I shook it off and climbed the tower stairs for my afternoon scan. From up high, the forest looked peaceful, but I couldn't stop glancing at the tree line where he'd disappeared.
That evening, as I cooked supper, Buddy started barking again, frantic this time. I looked out the window and saw a shadow move between the trees—too big for a deer, too upright for a bear. "Quiet, boy," I whispered, grabbing my flashlight. I shone it out, but the beam caught only branches swaying. Maybe it was nothing. I bolted the door and ate quickly, my book open but unread.
Night fell hard in the wilderness. I lay in bed, listening to the wind, but then came a soft scrape outside, like boots on wood. Buddy whimpered and pressed against me. I sat up, heart racing, and grabbed the rifle I kept loaded by the bed. "Who's there?" I shouted.
No answer. I crept to the window, peering through the crack in the curtains. The porch was empty, but something glinted on the railing—a knife, stuck point-first into the wood. My breath caught. It hadn't been there earlier.
I radioed base again. "Karen, it's Steph. Someone's out here. Left a knife on my porch."
Her response came quick. "Stay inside. We'll send a team at first light—too dark to travel now. You armed?"
"Yes," I said, gripping the rifle tighter. "But hurry."
The hours dragged. I sat in the chair, rifle across my lap, Buddy at my feet. Every creak of the cabin sounded like footsteps. Then, around midnight, the door handle jiggled. Slow at first, then harder, rattling the lock.
"Go away!" I yelled, aiming at the door. Buddy barked wildly.
A voice came from outside, muffled but clear—the same man from earlier. "Open up, ma'am. I need help again. Got hurt in the woods."
I didn't move. "Help's coming in the morning. Leave now."
He laughed, low and rough. "Morning's far off. You alone up here? No one around for miles."
The handle stopped jiggling, but I heard him circle the cabin, boots scraping the walls. He tapped on the window glass. "I see you in there. Reading your book? Nice dog you got."
How did he know about the book? He must have looked in earlier. I backed away, finger on the trigger. "I have a gun. I'll use it."
Silence. Then a thud against the wall, like he leaned on it. "Just wanted to talk. Been watching these towers for weeks. Yours is the nicest."
Watching? My mind raced—poachers didn't watch; they took what they wanted quick. This felt personal, like he enjoyed the fear.
He kept talking, his voice circling. "Heard stories about folks disappearing out here. One old lady last year, gone without a trace. You remind me of her."
I clenched my jaw, not responding. Buddy growled, but I shushed him. Minutes passed, then hours. The tapping stopped, and I dared to hope he'd left.
At dawn, I radioed again. "Karen, he's gone, I think. But send help fast."
"Team's en route," she said. "Hang in there."
I waited, rifle ready. When the rangers arrived—two men in a truck—I stepped out, showing them the knife. "He was here all night," I explained. "Tall guy, same one from yesterday."
They searched the area, finding footprints leading into the trees, and a small camp hidden nearby with food wrappers and a sleeping bag. "Looks like he's been squatting," one ranger said, named Tom. "We'll track him. You did right staying put."
"But he knew things," I said. "Like he spied on me."
Tom nodded grimly. "We've had transients before. Some get fixated. You're not the first lookout to deal with this."
They stayed while I packed essentials, insisting I come down to town for a few days. As we drove away, I glanced back at the tower, standing lone against the trees. Buddy whined in the seat beside me.
In town, the police questioned me. "Description matches a drifter we've seen reports on," the officer said. "Harasses remote workers. Slippery, though—never caught."
I stayed in a motel that night, but sleep didn't come easy. Every noise outside made me jump. The next day, Tom radioed with an update. "Found his camp abandoned. Fresh tracks heading north. We'll keep looking."
I returned to the tower a week later, but it felt different—tainted. I scanned the horizon more for people than smoke. One afternoon, while up top, I spotted movement below: a figure slipping between trees, too far to see clearly, but the build matched.
I radioed base immediately. "He's back. Saw him near the path."
"Evacuating you now," Karen replied. "Chopper's coming."
As I hurried down the stairs, gathering my things, Buddy barked at the door. I froze—the handle jiggled again, in broad daylight.
"Open up," the voice said. "We got unfinished business."
I aimed the rifle. "Help's coming. Leave!"
He pounded the door once, hard. "You think they can get here in time?"
The wood groaned under his weight. I backed to the window, heart thumping. Buddy snarled, ready to lunge.
Then, the distant whir of helicopter blades. The pounding stopped. Through the window, I saw him bolt for the trees, jacket flapping.
The chopper landed, and rangers swarmed out. They chased his trail but lost it in the dense underbrush. "Close call," Tom said later. "Guy's dangerous—signs he planned to break in."
They found tools in his abandoned gear: rope, duct tape. Enough to make my blood run cold.
I quit after that season. The wilderness I loved turned into a place of shadows, where isolation invited the wrong kind. Now, in town, I still lock every door at night, wondering if he's out there, watching another tower, waiting for his chance.
"The Real Fire":
I had dreamed of this job for years. Being a fire lookout in a remote tower, high up in the mountains, watching over the forest. It sounded peaceful, a way to escape the noise of city life. In 2018, I finally got my chance at Gold Mountain in Washington. The tower was tall, the tallest live-in one in the state, with a small cabin at the top. I packed my bags, said goodbye to friends, and drove out there in late June. The season would run until October.
The first few weeks were great. I learned the routines: scanning the horizon for smoke, logging weather data, radioing in reports. The tower had basics—a bed, a stove, a radio. No running water, so I hiked down to a creek nearby for washing. The forest stretched out forever, green and quiet. I saw deer sometimes, birds flying by. Hikers were rare; the trail up was tough, miles of steep switchbacks. Most days, it was just me.
About three weeks in, I headed to the creek one afternoon. I carried my soap and a towel, planning a quick rinse. As I approached, I heard footsteps on the dry leaves. A man stepped out from the trees. He looked in his thirties, with a backpack and hiking boots, messy hair under a hat. "Hello there," he said, smiling too wide. "Didn't expect to see anyone out here."
I nodded, keeping distance. "Hi. Just doing my wash." I hoped he'd move on.
He didn't. "You the lookout up there? Must be lonely. All alone in that tower." He asked my name—let's say I told him Abby, though I hesitated. Then more questions: How long was I staying? Did I have a gun? Was I scared of animals? I answered short, said I was fine, but he kept talking. "A woman like you, out here by herself. Not safe. Bears, cougars... people too." His eyes lingered. I felt uneasy, like he was testing me.
"I manage," I said, stepping back. "I should get to it." He finally left, heading down the trail. I waited until his footsteps faded before I washed. Back at the tower, I radioed the base station, described him. They said hikers pass through sometimes, but to report if he came back.
A few days passed without issue. I scanned the skies, read books, cooked simple meals. Then, one evening, I went to the creek again. Same time, same routine. Halfway through rinsing my hair, I heard branches snap. There he was, standing at the edge, watching. "Abby, right? Thought I'd check on you. Make sure you're okay."
My skin crawled. "I'm fine. Please leave." I grabbed my towel, backed away.
He stepped closer. "You don't need to be rude. I'm just being nice. A girl alone needs protection." His voice turned sharp. "You think you're tough up there? I could show you real danger."
"Go now," I said, louder. "Or I radio for help." He laughed, but turned and walked off. I rushed back to the tower, locked the door, heart racing. That night, I barely slept, listening to every wind gust, every creak of the tower.
The next morning, I radioed again. Gave his description—tall, dark hair, green jacket. Base said they'd alert rangers, but the area was big, hard to patrol. "Stay vigilant," they told me. "Keep the door locked."
Days blurred. I stuck to the tower more, avoided the creek unless necessary. I started carrying a small knife on my belt, along with bear spray. The views that once calmed me now felt exposing, like eyes could be anywhere in those trees.
A week later, it happened. Middle of the night, pitch dark outside. I woke to footsteps on the metal stairs. Slow, deliberate clangs echoing up. At first, I thought wind, but no—too rhythmic. Someone climbing. I grabbed the bear spray and taser from under my pillow, crouched by the door. The steps stopped at the landing. A knock, soft at first, then harder.
"Who's there?" I called, voice steady as I could make.
"It's me, Trent." His voice, muffled through the door. "Open up, Abby. You're not safe out here."
How did he know my tower at night? I flicked on the light, saw his shadow under the door crack. "Leave now! I'm calling rangers."
He laughed, low and mean. "They won't get here in time. You need to learn. All alone, acting like you don't need help. I'll teach you." The door rattled as he pushed. I held the knob, but he shoved harder. "Let me in!"
I sprayed bear mace under the door crack. He coughed, yelled in pain. Then I heard him stumble back. I radioed base, whispering urgent: "Intruder at the tower. Man from before. Trying to break in."
"Copy that. Rangers en route. Stay inside."
Outside, he cursed, banged the railing. "You'll regret this!" Footsteps down the stairs, fading into the forest. I sat against the door, taser ready, until dawn. Every shadow outside seemed to move.
Rangers arrived by morning. They searched the area, found footprints leading away, but no sign of him. They took my statement, said he'd be charged if caught—trespassing, attempted assault. But weeks passed, no arrest. Base offered to pull me early, but I stayed. Stubborn, maybe. Or scared to admit defeat.
The rest of the season dragged. I jumped at every noise—a branch snap, an owl call. I rigged a bell on the stairs for warning. Washed at odd times, scanned the trails constantly. Once, from the tower, I spotted a figure far off, watching through binoculars. Gone when I looked again.
By October, I packed up, hiked out. Rangers met me at the base, said Trent had been spotted in town, questioned but released—no proof of the night visit beyond my word. "Be careful," they said. "He might hold a grudge."
I left Washington, took a desk job back home. But even now, in the city, I lock doors tight, avoid being alone outside at night. That tower taught me peace comes with a price. And sometimes, the real fire isn't in the trees—it's the people hiding among them.
"Dead Air":
I started my shift that summer like any other, climbing the metal stairs to my tower in the Alberta backcountry. The job suited me—quiet, just me and the binoculars scanning for smoke plumes across the endless green hills. I'd been at it for eight seasons, and the isolation never bothered me much. I had my books, my radio, and regular check-ins with the other lookouts. Stephanie was one of them, stationed about fifteen miles west in her own tower. She was older, tough as nails, with a voice that crackled over the airwaves like dry leaves. We'd talk every morning and evening, sharing sightings or just passing the time.
"John, you spot that haze over the ridge today?" she'd ask, her tone steady and practical.
"Yeah, looked like dust from a logging crew. Nothing burning," I'd reply.
We kept it simple, but those chats made the long days bearable. Stephanie had been doing this longer than me, thirteen years straight. She knew every trail and creek in her sector. Lived alone in her cabin at the base of the tower, with just a dog named Rusty for company. She loved that mutt—always mentioned how he'd bark at deer or squirrels.
One afternoon in late July, her voice came through different. A bit sharper.
"John, saw a hiker today. Odd spot for one, way off the main paths."
"Hiker? What'd he look like?" I asked, adjusting my radio knob.
"Tall guy, dark jacket, backpack. He stopped and stared up at my tower for a good minute before moving on. Didn't wave or nothing."
I shrugged it off at first. People wandered into restricted areas sometimes—hunters, lost tourists. "Probably just exploring. Keep an eye out."
But the next day, she mentioned him again. "That same fellow's back. Camped maybe a mile down the valley. Saw his tent through the scopes."
"You sure it's the same one?"
"Positive. Same jacket. Rusty's been uneasy, whining at the door."
I felt a twinge then, but pushed it down. The wilderness played tricks—animals, echoes. Still, I told her, "Report it to base if he gets closer. No sense taking chances."
That evening, as the light faded, we talked longer. She described her day: boiled coffee on the stove, read a bit of her mystery novel, watched eagles circle. But her words trailed off. "John, you ever get that feeling someone's out there, just beyond sight?"
"Sometimes," I admitted. "But it's usually nothing."
"Not this time. Rusty growled low all afternoon."
We signed off, but sleep didn't come easy in my bunk. The tower creaked with the wind, and I kept picturing her alone in that cabin.
The following morning, her call woke me early. "He's closer now. Saw him through the trees, heading my way. Didn't look lost—moved deliberate."
"Stephanie, call it in. Get the rangers up there."
"Already did. They're short-staffed, said it'll be tomorrow before anyone checks."
I gripped the radio. "Lock your doors. Keep Rusty inside."
She laughed, but it sounded forced. "I've got my rifle. Been handling myself out here longer than you've been breathing, kid."
We chatted about lighter things—her grandkids back in town, my plans for fall hunting. But underneath, tension built. That afternoon, no check-in. I called her frequency. Static. Tried again. Nothing.
By evening, worry gnawed at me. Base confirmed they'd tried too—no answer. "Probably radio trouble," they said. "We'll send someone at dawn."
Dawn felt too far. My tower overlooked her sector; through binoculars, I scanned the hills. No smoke, no movement. But something pulled at me. I couldn't just sit. I grabbed my pack, rifle, water, and started the hike. Fifteen miles over rough terrain—streams to ford, steep climbs. I'd make it by night if I pushed.
The trail wound through thick pines, roots tripping me every step. Birds called overhead, but no other sounds. Hours in, sweat soaked my shirt. I stopped at a creek to fill my canteen, ears straining. A branch snapped nearby. Deer? I waited, rifle ready. Nothing showed. Kept moving.
As the sun dipped low, shadows stretched across the path. I crested a ridge and spotted her tower in the distance, a thin spire against the hills. No lights in the cabin below. My legs burned, but I hurried down the slope, calling her name as I approached. "Stephanie! It's John!"
Silence. The cabin door stood ajar. Rusty wasn't barking. I pushed inside, flashlight beam cutting the dim room. Table set for one, coffee pot on the stove, still warm. Her book open on the chair. But no Stephanie.
Then, outside on the porch, I saw it—a dark smear across the wood planks. Blood. Fresh enough to shine wet in the light. My mouth went dry. Footprints led from the porch into the grass, scuffed and uneven, like a struggle. I followed them a few yards, heart pounding hard. They vanished into the underbrush.
"Stephanie!" I yelled again, voice echoing back empty.
Back in the cabin, I grabbed her radio—dead battery? No, it powered on fine. Why hadn't she called? I radioed base, words tumbling out. "Blood on the porch. She's gone. Send help now."
"Copy that, John. Stay put. Team's en route—ETA three hours."
Three hours? In the dark? I paced the room, rifle in hand. The cabin felt too small, walls closing in. Rusty—where was the dog? I searched outside, beam sweeping the yard. In the bushes, a shape. Rusty, lying still, neck twisted wrong. Dead. Someone had killed him quiet.
Panic rose. Whoever did this might still be close. I barred the door, sat by the window, watching the trees. Minutes dragged. A rustle outside—wind? No, footsteps, soft on dirt. I peered out. A shadow moved between trunks, tall, dark jacket. The hiker.
He stepped into view, face hidden in shadow, but I saw the glint of a knife in his hand. Blood on the blade? He stared at the cabin, head tilted, like listening.
I ducked low, breath shallow. The door rattled—testing the lock. I aimed the rifle, finger on trigger. "Who's there? I got a gun!"
No answer. The rattling stopped. Footsteps circled the cabin, slow, deliberate. A window creaked—him trying to pry it. I fired a warning shot through the glass. Shatter and echo. The footsteps retreated, fading into the woods.
I waited, sweat cold on my skin. Hours? Felt endless. Every snap, every leaf stir made me jump. Was he gone? Or waiting?
Finally, lights bobbed up the trail—rangers. They burst in, questions flying. I told them everything: the radio talks, the hiker, the blood, the shadow. They searched the area, found tracks leading north, but lost them in the rocks. No sign of Stephanie. No body. Just gone.
Days later, investigators pieced bits: a drifter seen in town weeks before, matching the description. History of violence, assaults on lone campers. But he vanished too. Case went cold.
I quit the job after that. Couldn't climb another tower, couldn't face the empty airwaves. Stephanie's voice still echoes in my head, those last words about feeling watched. Out there in the wild, it's not the fires that scare me anymore. It's the people who slip through the cracks, hunting in the quiet.
"The Knock":
I started my shift at the remote fire tower like any other morning. Coffee in hand, binoculars ready, scanning the endless trees for smoke. The job suited me—quiet, away from crowds. I'd been up here in the mountains for weeks, reporting fires and keeping watch. That day, though, something felt off from the start.
Around noon, I spotted movement far below through the scope. A figure, a man, weaving through the brush. He carried a backpack, moved quick, like he didn't want to be seen. I noted it in the log: "Unidentified hiker, northwest quadrant, possible trespasser." We had rules about reporting strangers in restricted zones. I radioed base.
"This is Tower Seven, over," I said into the handset.
"Go ahead, Tower Seven," came the response from my supervisor, Tom. His voice crackled clear.
"Got a visual on a lone male, about two miles out. He's off the trails, heading east. No gear for camping, just a pack. Should I keep eyes on him?"
Tom paused. "Yeah, monitor. We've had reports of poachers in the area. If he gets closer, let me know. Stay safe up there."
"Roger that." I hung up the radio and adjusted the binoculars. The man stopped, looked up toward the tower. Did he see me? My pulse quickened a bit, but I shook it off. Probably just a lost hunter.
By afternoon, he vanished into the trees. I scanned again, nothing. Focused on the horizon instead, checking for haze. Hours passed slow. I made a sandwich, ate while reading an old paperback. The tower creaked in the wind, but that was normal.
As evening came, I did my routine checks. Radioed in the all-clear. Tom signed off for the night. "Call if anything pops up. Night shift's on standby."
"Will do. Good night." I set the radio down and boiled water for tea on the small stove. The cabin was cozy—one room with a bed, table, and windows all around for views. I liked the solitude, but tonight it pressed in.
Then, a knock at the door. Sharp, three times. I froze, mug in hand. No one came up here without radioing first. The access road was gated, miles long. I peered out the window. Darkness swallowed the stairs leading up.
"Hello?" I called, voice steady as I could make.
No answer. Knock again, louder. My mind raced—animal? No, too deliberate. I grabbed the flashlight, shone it down. Empty platform.
I bolted the door, heart racing now. "Who's there?" I shouted.
Silence. Then footsteps on the metal stairs, climbing slow. Clang, clang. I backed up, grabbed the radio. "Base, this is Tower Seven, emergency. Someone's at the door, unannounced."
Static. No response. The line was dead? I tried again. Nothing. Panic rose. The footsteps stopped at the door. Handle rattled.
"Open up," a man's voice said, low and rough. "Need help."
"Who are you?" I demanded, pressing against the far wall.
"Got lost. Hurt my leg. Let me in."
I shone the light through the small window. His face—dirty, bearded, eyes hard. The same man from earlier. No limp that I could see.
"Can't do that. Protocol. I'll call for help." But the radio wouldn't work. Jammed? Cut wire?
He banged the door. "Open it now. Cold out here."
I searched for something—a fire axe in the corner. Grabbed it, held tight. "Go away! Help's coming."
He laughed, short and mean. "No one's coming. Saw you watching me today. Alone up here, right?"
How did he know? I swallowed hard. "What do you want?"
"Food. Water. A place to rest." But his tone said more. I remembered stories from training—poachers, fugitives using the woods to hide. One guy last year stole supplies from a tower, roughed up the lookout.
"Leave, or I'll defend myself," I said, axe raised.
He went quiet. Then glass shattered—one of the side windows. His arm reached in, unlocking the latch. I swung the axe, hit the frame. He yanked back, cursed under breath.
"You'll regret that," he growled.
I ran to the radio again, fiddled with wires. Sparks—someone tampered with it outside? When?
He kicked the door. Wood splintered. I barricaded with the table, pushed hard. "Stop! Please!"
Door burst open. He stood there, tall, backpack slung off. Knife in hand, glinting. "Should've opened when I asked."
I swung the axe wild. He dodged, grabbed my arm. We struggled. He twisted, I dropped it. Pinned me against the wall. "Quiet now."
"Why?" I gasped, fighting.
"Saw your truck. Nice spot to hide. Cops after me—stole some stuff down valley." His breath hot on my face.
I kneed him hard. He grunted, loosened grip. I scrambled for the axe. Got it, swung low, hit his leg. He yelled, fell back.
Ran past him, down the stairs. Dark woods below. He chased, limping now. "Come back!"
I hit the ground, sprinted into trees. Branches whipped my face. Heard him behind, crashing. Hid behind a boulder, breath ragged. He passed, cursing.
Minutes dragged. No sound. Crept back toward the tower? No, too risky. Headed downhill, toward the road. Knew a ranger station miles away.
But he circled back. Flash of his light. "I see you!"
Dove into brush. Heart hammered. He prowled close. "Can't run forever."
I held still, dirt in mouth. He stopped feet away, breathing heavy. Knife scraped bark.
Radio crackled—from his pocket? He stole mine? "Tower Seven, report."
He mimicked my voice, bad. "All clear."
Tom: "You sound off. Everything good?"
"Yeah, tired."
Suspicious pause. "Sending a team up. Hold tight."
He smashed the radio. "Now you've done it."
Sirens faint in distance? No, imagination. He moved on. I waited endless minutes, then ran again.
Reached the road at dawn, flagged a passing truck. Driver, old logger: "What happened, miss?"
"Man attacked me. Call police."
They caught him later that day, hiding near the tower. Name was Victor, wanted for robbery, assault. Had stalked the area for days, targeted lookouts for supplies.
I quit after that. The isolation? Not worth it. Still wake up hearing those knocks.