"The Tomhead":
I got the job as a fire lookout through my college program. It sounded almost too easy—sit alone in a tower, scan the forest for smoke, report anything unusual. A quiet summer, a paycheck, something good for the résumé.
The tower sat high in the mountains of California, in a place called Tomhead, surrounded by endless forest. Tall pines crowded the slopes, their tops swaying like a dark sea. The road up was little more than ruts and loose rock. I parked my truck at the cutoff and hiked the last stretch with my pack biting into my shoulders.
The tower rose on four wooden legs, narrow stairs climbing to a small room perched above the trees. Inside were maps pinned to the walls, a narrow bed, a fold-out table, and a radio that crackled even when no one was speaking. Below, a storage shed held tools, water, and weeks’ worth of food. Once I climbed up and pulled the hatch closed, the world felt very far away.
The first few weeks passed smoothly. Every hour I swept the hills with binoculars, noting wind direction and visibility. Each morning and night, I radioed base.
“All clear at Tomhead,” I’d say.
“Good work,” my supervisor Tom replied every time. “Keep sharp.”
I read books, brewed coffee on the little stove, and learned the voices of the birds. But the longer I stayed alone, the more every sound stood out—the groan of the tower in the wind, branches snapping in the distance, footsteps that turned out to be squirrels. Silence stopped being peaceful and started feeling watchful.
About a month in, I went for a walk around the base of the tower. Something near the tree line caught my eye—a shape that didn’t belong. As I got closer, my stomach tightened.
It was a figure, roughly human-sized, made from sticks, wire, and tangled roots. Its arms stretched outward like a scarecrow. There was no face—just an empty suggestion of one. It looked deliberately placed, planted upright in the soil.
My first thought was that someone had been there while I slept. No hikers ever came this way. The road alone scared most people off.
I grabbed a fallen branch and shoved the thing hard. It toppled over with a brittle crack.
“Stupid thing,” I muttered, more to steady myself than out of anger.
I dragged the pieces deeper into the woods and left them scattered.
The next morning, while eating breakfast, I glanced out the window—and froze.
The figure stood upright again, exactly where it had been before. Whole. Intact. Watching the tower.
My hands shook as I set my cup down. I took the stairs two at a time, searching the ground. No footprints. No tire tracks. Nothing.
I radioed Tom. “Hey, I found this weird wooden figure near the tower. I knocked it down yesterday, but it’s back.”
He chuckled. “Probably some kids or a bored hiker. Break it again and keep an eye out.”
I did more than break it. I smashed it with a hammer, splintered every joint, and buried the remains far from the tower. I felt foolish for being scared—but also relieved.
Two days passed without incident.
Then one evening, as the sun dropped low, I smelled smoke. Not distant wildfire smoke—this was close, sharp, immediate.
I grabbed my binoculars and looked down.
The figure was back again.
Flames flickered at its base, catching on dry grass and pine needles. The fire was small but spreading fast.
I ran down, dumped water from the tank, stomped until my boots smoked. The figure collapsed into blackened sticks. Someone had lit it on purpose.
“Tom,” I said into the radio, my voice tight. “The figure’s back. Someone tried to start a fire under the tower.”
The humor was gone from his voice. “That’s serious. I’ll send a ranger up tomorrow. Lock yourself in tonight.”
I barely slept. Every creak of the tower jolted me awake.
The ranger arrived the next day—a woman named Lisa. She examined the burn marks and shook her head.
“Locals sometimes do this,” she said. “They hate restrictions. They try to scare lookouts off.”
She loaded the remains of the figure into her truck. “Call immediately if anything else happens.”
Weeks went by. No more figures. No more smoke. I started to relax. My season was almost over—just seven nights left.
The last bad night began quietly. I finished my log, ate soup, and prepared for bed.
Just after midnight, heavy footsteps echoed below the tower.
Not one set. Many.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I crept to the window. Dark shapes moved around the base—ten, maybe twelve figures. Hooded. Silent. They carried sticks, bundles, metal cans.
One struck a match.
The smell of gasoline hit me seconds later.
I grabbed the radio. “Tom! Emergency! People at the tower. They’re starting a fire!”
“Copy that,” he said. “Rangers are en route. Hold on.”
Flames climbed the wooden legs of the tower, crackling loud and hungry. Heat rolled upward. The men stepped back, watching.
One looked up at me. His face stayed hidden.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he called. “This land isn’t for watchers.”
The stairs were already too hot. Smoke filled the room. The tower groaned as the fire ate at it.
I opened the window and looked down. Fifteen feet. Maybe more. I tied a sheet to the railing, but it barely reached halfway.
The flames surged higher.
I climbed out, hung for a breathless second, and let go.
I hit the ground hard, pain screaming through my ankle, but adrenaline dragged me upright. I ran into the trees.
“They’re getting away!” someone shouted.
I ducked, crawled, hid behind a boulder, pressing my hand over my mouth as footsteps passed inches away. Then sirens wailed in the distance. Flashing lights cut through the forest.
The men scattered.
By the time help arrived, the tower was half destroyed. My belongings were burned. Everything I owned up there was gone.
The police asked questions. Faces. Names.
I had none.
Days later, they told me there was no proof anyone else had been there. Rain had erased the tracks.
One officer spoke gently. “Isolation can do things to people. Make them imagine threats.”
They ruled the fire accidental. Stress-induced behavior. Temporary psychosis.
I knew what I saw.
I never went back to lookout work. I took a city job, surrounded by people and noise. But even now, I double-check locks. I listen for footsteps.
Isolation doesn’t just make you see things.
Sometimes it hides people who are waiting for no one to be watching.
"No Tracks":
Last summer, I took a break from my usual city job to help out with the fire lookouts in Colorado’s Pike National Forest. It was meant to be simple work—quiet, routine, a reset. My uncle ran one of the towers, an old wooden structure balanced on iron legs atop a jagged outcrop called Devil’s Head. The name fit. From a distance, the rock jutted up from the forest like a skull breaking the surface of the trees.
My uncle’s name was Harold, though almost no one called him that. To everyone who knew him, he was Doc. Years ago, back home, he’d taught classes on rocks and minerals, the kind of man who could hold a room spellbound talking about quartz veins and fault lines. He was nearly eighty now, his joints stiff and unreliable after an illness that never quite left him, but he refused to give up the tower. He loved the solitude, the long hours watching the horizon for smoke, the soft crackle of the radio breaking the silence.
In late April, he invited me up for the afternoon. “Bring your shovel,” he told me over the phone. “There’s good topaz up here if you know where to look. We’ll dig a bit, then have coffee in the tower.”
I drove up Rampart Range Road under a pale blue sky, the tires rattling over washboard dirt. The air smelled sharp and clean, thick with pine resin. Birds called from somewhere high in the branches, their songs echoing oddly between the rocks. When I reached the turnout near the tower, Doc was already waiting outside the small cabin at the base, leaning on his cane.
He wore his usual outfit: a white cap pulled low, a faded plaid shirt, heavy boots scuffed from decades of use. His smile creased his face deeply when he saw me. I helped him walk to a sandy patch a short distance from the road, no more than fifty yards away. He pointed with his cane.
“Right here,” he said. “Pulled a beauty out of this spot last summer.”
I set him down carefully and handed him his tools—a small pick, a shovel, a canvas bag. “Take it easy,” I told him. “I’ll check over there.” I nodded toward a cluster of rocks farther downslope.
We worked quietly at first, the scrape of metal against sand the only sound between us. After a while, I asked, “How’s the view from the tower been?”
“Clear most mornings,” he said. Then, after a pause, “Though last night was strange.”
I looked up. “Strange how?”
“I heard someone walking around the base of the tower. Slow steps. Deliberate.” He chuckled softly, but it sounded forced. “Shined my light down, didn’t see a thing.”
“Probably a deer,” I said, though even as I said it, the forest felt too still.
“Maybe,” he replied. His voice drifted off, and he went back to digging, humming under his breath.
The afternoon stretched on. By around three, the sun had shifted, shadows lengthening across the sand. “Doc,” I called, “we should head out. I’ll get the car ready.”
“Alright,” he said. “Let me finish this hole.”
I walked back to the car, brushed dirt from my hands, and stowed my tools. It couldn’t have taken more than fifteen minutes. When I returned, I expected to see him just where I’d left him.
The sandy patch was empty.
His small, careful hole was there, neat and shallow. But Doc was gone. So were his tools. The ground around the spot looked undisturbed—no scuffed earth, no fresh footprints beyond the faint impressions he’d already made. No broken branches. No signs of a struggle.
“Doc?” I called.
The word seemed to vanish into the trees. The forest felt wrong, like it was holding its breath. I searched behind nearby rocks, down the slope, calling his name louder each time. Nothing answered me back.
My hands were shaking when I ran for the tower. The door was unlocked, just as he always left it. Inside, everything was in its place. His bed neatly made. His coffee cup washed and drying on the counter. The radio sat on the table, turned on.
I grabbed it. “Base, this is Devil’s Head,” I said, my voice unsteady. “Doc is missing. He was outside digging. He’s gone.”
There was a pause. “Say again?”
“He’s gone,” I repeated. “His tools too. I need help. Now.”
While I waited, I searched again, shouting his name until my throat burned. An hour passed. Then another. The light began to fade, and the forest grew darker, deeper.
That’s when I heard a branch snap.
I froze. Another snap followed, closer this time. Footsteps, slow and measured, crunching dry twigs.
“Who’s out there?” I shouted.
Silence.
Then the steps resumed.
I backed toward the tower, heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my neck. Between the trees, something moved. A figure stepped into view—tall, wearing a dark jacket, face swallowed by shadow. He stood still, watching me.
“What do you want?” I asked. My voice cracked.
He didn’t answer. After a moment, he turned and slipped back into the trees, vanishing as quietly as he’d appeared.
I locked myself inside the tower and didn’t come out until search teams arrived that evening. I told them everything. They brought dogs, ran grids through the forest all night and for days after. The dogs took Doc’s scent from a shirt he’d left behind—and then stopped cold. No trail. No direction. Nothing. It was as if he’d simply ceased to exist.
People nearby shared what they could. A hiker mentioned a strange truck parked along the road that afternoon, couldn’t remember the plates. Others talked about odd noises at night around the lookout, things moving where nothing should have been.
Days turned into weeks. Doc never came back. His wife called me from home, her voice breaking. “He couldn’t walk far,” she said. “Someone must have taken him. Someone had to.”
I stayed on for a while after that, but nights became unbearable. I’d hear footsteps circling the tower, slow and patient. Once, I shone my light into the trees and caught eyes reflecting back at me—low to the ground, steady, wrong.
Eventually, I left. The forest service added extra checks for the lookouts after Doc disappeared, but his case is still open.
No answers. No body.
Just an empty patch of sand at Devil’s Head.
"Overdue":
I finished the climb to the lookout just as the first band of sunlight slid over the jagged peaks. The Hidden Lake tower stood alone above everything else, a small wooden cabin balanced on spindly stilts, its windows wrapping all the way around like unblinking eyes. From up there, the trail unraveled below me—thin, pale, and fragile—snaking through rock fields and alpine meadows before disappearing into the trees.
This was my post for the season. Fire watch in the North Cascades. Watch for smoke. Watch for movement. Watch, mostly, for nothing at all.
The quiet suited me more than I liked to admit.
Inside the tower, the air smelled of old pine and dust. I set up my gear methodically—binoculars, scope, weather charts, maps thumbed soft by years of use. The radio crackled to life as I powered it on.
“Base, this is Hidden Lake. Morning check-in.”
“Roger, Hidden Lake. Paul here,” the voice replied, steady and familiar. “Clear skies today. Any trail traffic yet?”
“Nothing so far. Trail’s empty.”
“Copy that. Report any hikers. Out.”
I logged the time and stepped back to the windows. Hidden Lake glimmered far below, a deep, impossible blue tucked into the valley like a secret. Even in late spring, snow clung stubbornly to the shaded slopes. The climb up here wasn’t forgiving—steep, narrow, exposed. Most hikers underestimated it.
Late morning, movement caught my eye.
A figure emerged on the trail, climbing steadily. An older man, gray hair visible beneath his cap, trekking poles biting into the dirt with practiced rhythm. He moved like someone who’d spent a lifetime outdoors—not fast, but certain. He paused often, resting, scanning the view, then pushing on again.
When he looked up and spotted the tower, I lifted my arm and waved. After a moment’s hesitation, he waved back.
The radio buzzed again.
“You awake up there?” Amy’s voice cut through the static. She was stationed at a lookout a few ridges over.
“Barely,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Got word of a solo hiker heading your way. Older guy, day trip.”
“I see him now. Almost to the ridge.”
“Keep an eye on him. Weather’s been weird. Remember last fall?”
I did. The storm that erased trails in hours. Snow swallowing the mountains whole.
“I’ll log him,” I said.
By the time he reached the ridge, he looked winded but content. He sat on a rock, pulled a snack from his pack, and stared out at the view like he was committing it to memory.
“Nice day for it,” I called down.
He smiled up at me. “First time here. Worth every step.”
“Careful on the descent,” I warned. “Snow patches get slick.”
“I’ll be heading down soon,” he said.
He took photos. One last look around. Then he turned and started back down the trail.
I wrote it neatly in the logbook: Solo male hiker. Arrived 1100. Departed 1130. No issues observed.
The afternoon clouds rolled in quietly, softening the peaks until they looked bruised. I ate canned soup and tried to read, but my eyes kept drifting back to the trail.
The radio snapped to life just before dusk.
“Hidden Lake,” Paul said, his tone different now. Tight. “That hiker you logged—he’s overdue. Family reported him missing.”
My stomach dropped. “He left in good condition. Walking steady.”
“We’re dispatching search teams. Stay alert.”
I swept the trail with binoculars until my eyes ached. From up here, it was impossible to see every switchback, every chute and shadow. As night fell, headlamps began to flicker below—small, fragile lights bobbing against the vast dark.
They called his name. The sound echoed back hollow and distorted, swallowed by stone.
The wind picked up after midnight, slipping through the tower’s seams with a high, thin whistle. I locked the door and turned on the lamp.
That’s when I heard it.
A scraping sound. Slow. Deliberate.
I froze, listening. Maybe branches. Maybe an animal drawn to the light.
Then it came again—closer this time.
I leaned toward the window and shone my flashlight across the catwalk. Nothing. Empty boards. Blackness beyond.
“Paul,” I said into the radio, keeping my voice low. “I’m hearing noises outside.”
Static. Then, “Probably wildlife. Stay inside.”
The scratching stopped.
The man was never found.
Weeks passed. Then months. Search efforts thinned, then faded. One of the volunteers, a quiet man named Bud who preferred to search alone, climbed up to the tower one afternoon.
“This place doesn’t give things back easy,” he said, gazing down the slopes. “Too many ways to fall. Too many places to disappear.”
In the fall, another hiker appeared on the trail. A young woman with red hair, moving fast, almost excited. Birthday adventure, she told me, laughing as the wind tugged at her jacket.
I gave the same warnings. Logged the same details.
She vanished too.
Snow fell that night, erasing footprints, erasing answers.
After that, sleep became a negotiation. Every knock of wind sounded like footsteps. Every creak felt intentional. Sometimes I thought I heard voices—soft, pleading—but when I checked, there was only the mountain breathing around me.
When they finally found the woman months later, she was far downslope. Evidence she’d tried to survive. Cold had won.
The older man was found too. Broken at the base of a cliff.
But that night—when I heard the voice outside the tower, whispering help—that never fit.
The body had been there all along.
And sometimes, when the wind is right, I still don’t answer the knocking.
"The Ridge":
The radio crackled to life just as I was halfway through lunch, the sudden burst of static loud enough to make me jump. I sat alone at the small fold-down table in my cabin, a sandwich in one hand, my boots kicked off by the door. The tower stood high on the ridge, a spindly wooden structure bolted into bare rock, giving me an uninterrupted view of miles of forest rolling away in every direction. Pines, ridgelines, shadowed valleys—beautiful, endless, and deceptively quiet.
My job was simple: spot fires early and call them in. The cabin had everything I needed and nothing I didn’t—a narrow bed, a propane stove, maps tacked to the walls, and the radio that connected me to the rest of the world. It was lonely work, but I liked it that way. No traffic, no people, no noise except wind and birds and the occasional creak of the tower shifting under its own weight.
“Lookout Three, this is base. Anything to report?”
The voice belonged to Bill, one of the senior rangers. He checked in every few hours, always calm, always steady.
“All clear,” I said, swallowing the last bite of my sandwich. “No smoke today.”
“Good. Keep watching,” Bill replied, then hesitated just long enough for me to notice. “We’ve had reports of people in the area who shouldn’t be there. Stay alert. Stay safe.”
The radio clicked off.
I stared at it for a moment longer than necessary. People who shouldn’t be there could mean anything—lost hikers, poachers, squatters—but Bill’s tone made my stomach tighten. I packed up my lunch and climbed the narrow ladder to the observation deck, the metal rungs cold even in the afternoon sun.
I scanned the tree line slowly, methodically, binoculars sweeping left to right. At first, I saw nothing unusual—just wind stirring the treetops. Then I caught movement near a rocky outcrop below the ridge.
Three men.
They wore mismatched camouflage and moved with purpose, slipping through the brush in a way that suggested they didn’t want to be seen. Each carried a long gun slung low. Not hunters. Hunting wasn’t allowed anywhere near this zone, and they weren’t acting like hunters anyway—no talking, no wandering, no casual posture.
I watched them for several minutes. At one point, one of them stopped, tilted his head, and looked up toward the tower. He nudged another and pointed.
I felt suddenly, acutely visible.
They didn’t linger. After a brief exchange, they continued downhill, disappearing into thicker cover.
I was on the radio immediately. “Bill, I spotted three men in camo with rifles moving through the trees south of the tower. Pretty sure they noticed me.”
There was a pause on the line. When Bill spoke again, his voice had hardened. “Copy that. Could be growers. We’ve had problems with illegal sites in those woods. Don’t investigate. Don’t engage. I’ll send a patrol first thing tomorrow.”
“Understood,” I said, though my pulse hadn’t slowed.
Just stay inside, I told myself. Easy enough.
That evening, the forest darkened faster than usual, clouds swallowing the last light. I cooked rice on the stove and ate by the window, listening to the wind push through the trees. Then I heard it—engines. Low at first, then closer. Headlights cut through the timber, bouncing along the dirt road that led toward the tower.
Two trucks rolled to a stop near the base.
My chest tightened as doors opened. Flashlights snapped on. The beams swung wildly, searching.
One of them climbed the stairs and knocked hard on the cabin door.
“Hey! Open up!”
I grabbed the radio with shaking hands. “Bill, they’re here. At my door.”
“Lock it down,” he said instantly. “Help’s on the way, but it’ll be at least an hour.”
The knock came again, heavier this time. “We know you’re in there. Just want to talk.”
I swallowed and raised my voice. “What do you want?”
A laugh, sharp and humorless. “You saw us earlier. Thought we’d clear things up. Don’t tell anyone… and we won’t have a problem.”
“Leave now,” I shouted. “Rangers are coming.”
They whispered among themselves. Then one said quietly, “We’ll see about that.”
Lights moved around the cabin. Flashlights pressed against the windows, trying to peer inside. I crouched under the table, heart pounding so hard I thought they might hear it. The door handle rattled once. Locked.
Then, silence.
Engines started. Tires crunched on gravel. The trucks drove off.
I radioed Bill again. “They’re gone. Shook me up bad.”
“Patrol will sweep the area in the morning,” he said. “If you need to, stay up in the tower tonight.”
I didn’t argue. I climbed the ladder to the top room and locked the hatch behind me. From up there, I watched the road until the last hint of headlights vanished.
The patrol arrived the next day—two rangers, hands resting casually near their sidearms. They searched the area for hours.
“Found their camp,” one told me. “Grow site nearby. Plants already cut. Looks like they packed up fast.”
I hesitated. “Do you think they’ll come back?”
“Hard to say,” the ranger said. “But we’ll keep an eye on the road.”
They left, and the forest settled back into uneasy quiet.
Two days later, I saw one of the men again.
He was alone this time, walking the trail below the tower like he belonged there. He stopped, looked up, and waved. Friendly. Almost cheerful.
I didn’t wave back.
He smiled anyway and continued down the trail.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. Every sound felt amplified. Around midnight, I heard footsteps on the porch—slow, deliberate, heavy.
I sat up in bed. “Who’s there?”
No answer.
The door handle rattled.
I grabbed the heaviest pot from the stove. “Go away!”
A voice came through the door, low and flat. “You saw too much.”
The door shuddered as he leaned into it. Wood creaked. A window cracked, spiderwebs racing across the glass. A hand forced its way through.
I swung the pot as hard as I could. It connected with a sickening thud. He screamed and yanked his hand back.
“You’ll regret that!” he snarled.
I ran for the ladder, climbed into the tower, and slammed the hatch shut. Locked.
He pounded on the door below. “Come down here!”
Instead, I grabbed the signal flare. When he started climbing the outer stairs, his face appeared in the glass—eyes wide, furious, unhinged.
“Open it!”
I fired the flare through a vent. It burst into blinding light near his shoulder. He screamed and stumbled backward, nearly falling.
Then he ran—down the stairs, into the trees.
I stayed up there until dawn.
The rangers arrived soon after. “Found blood on the window,” one said. “From his hand.”
They tracked him a short distance and found him hiding in the brush, burned and bleeding. One of the growers. Furious that his operation had been shut down after I spotted them.
Bill called later that day. “You did exactly what you were supposed to. He’s in custody now.”
I finished out the summer, but I didn’t sign on again. Those footsteps on the porch, the hand forcing through the glass—they stayed with me. Remote jobs seem peaceful, but isolation cuts both ways.
The forest doesn’t just hide animals. It hides people.
And you never really know who’s watching from the trees.