transcript

Speaker 1:
[00:00] My name is Daniel Jones, and I work as a fire tower lookout in Yellowstone National Park. My tower is a metal structure bolted into rock at the top of a ridge, with a small square cabin sitting above the tree line, and a ladder that runs straight up the center. The whole thing sways a little when the wind picks up, and when you're inside, you can hear every bolt and panel shifting against itself like it's under constant stress. The tower I was assigned to sits off a narrow service road about nine miles from the nearest ranger station. You don't just stumble onto it. You have to drive up a gravel road that cuts through dense forest, park at a marked clearing, and then hike the last stretch on foot. It's steep enough that you feel it in your legs by the time you reach the top. And the trees thin out just enough near the ridge to give you a clearer view in every direction. That's the point of the job. You're there to watch? From the top platform, you can see miles of forest, thick stretches of pine and lodgepole broken up by patches of deadfall, and the occasional rock formation pushing through the soil. During the day, you scan for smoke. At night, you log weather changes, check equipment, and make sure the radio stays operational. It's routine, simple, quiet. That's what I signed up for. I've worked enough jobs to know what I like and what I don't. I like being left alone. I like having something straightforward to do. I don't need a team and I don't need a schedule packed with meetings or check-ins. This job offered none of that. The application process was minimal. I found the listing for a contractor that handles seasonal staffing for remote positions. There was no interview, just a short form, asking about prior work experience and whether I could handle isolation for extended periods. I checked the boxes, sent it in, and I got a response two days later with coordinates, a start date, and a short list of supplies I was expected to bring myself. When I arrived at the ranger station, I met Eric Foster for the first time. He was already there, standing next to a white service truck with the engine running. Mid-40s, maybe old or hard to tell. He wore a faded green jacket and had a pair of work gloves tucked into his back pocket. He didn't introduce himself right away. He just looked me over, nodded once, and asked if I had everything I needed. Yeah, I've got what was on the list, I said. He opened the back of the truck and started loading my gear without saying anything else. There was no small talk, no orientation packet, no walk-through of procedures, just a quiet understanding that we were heading up to the tower, and that whatever I needed to know would be handled there. Well, the drive took about 40 minutes. The first half was paved road through thicker parts of the park, with the occasional passing vehicle or tourist turnout. After that, turned into gravel, then dirt, then something closer to a worn path than an actual road. The truck handled it fine, but I could feel every shift in the terrain as we climbed higher. Eric didn't say much during the drive. He kept both hands on the wheel, eyes forward, like he'd done the route so many times he didn't need to think about it anymore. I tried to ask him a few basic questions, how long he'd been working the tower, what the typical schedule looked like, but his answers were short and direct. A few years, he said. Rotations depend on the season. Just watch for smoke, log what you see. That was about the extent of it. We reached the clearing just before noon. The tower was already visible from the road, rising above the trees on the ridge like a thin metal frame holding up a box. It looked smaller from a distance, but as we got closer, I could see the details. Cross brace supports, ladder rungs welded into place, and a hatch at the bottom that let inside. Eric parked the truck and cut the engine. That's it, he said, nodding toward the structure. Up close, the tower felt taller than a look from below. You don't really get a sense of the height until you're standing at the base and looking straight up through the center. The ladder runs vertically with no brakes, just a series of metal rungs that lead all the way to the cabin above. The wind was light that day, but even then, I could hear the faint creak of the structure shifting. We carried the gear up in two trips. By the time we reached the top, I could feel the burn in my arms and shoulders from the climb. The cabin itself was exactly what I expected. Compact, functional, and stripped down to essentials. There was a desk with a radio unit, a set of binoculars mounted near the windows, a log book, and a few shelves stocked with basic supplies. A narrow cot sat against one wall, and a small propane stove was bolted to the counter near the corner. The windows ran along all four sides, giving a full view of the surrounding forest. From up there, the park didn't look like something you'd hike through, looked like something you'd, I don't know, study. Every section of trees blended into the next, broken up by elevation changes and the occasional clearing. It was quiet, and I don't know, it felt complete. No traffic noise, no distant voices, just wind moving through the trees and the occasional sound of something shifting in the distance. Eric set the last of gear down and walked over to the desk. He checked the radio first, turning the dial slightly and listening for a response. A faint burst of static came through, followed by a clipped voice reporting weather conditions somewhere farther north. Radio works, he said. He flipped open the logbook and scanned the last few entries. Each line was dated, time stamped, and written in the same neat handwriting. Wind direction, temperature, visibility, and a few notes about cloud cover. Nothing unusual. Pretty simple, he said closing the book. You watch and log and you report if something starts. I nodded. That all tracked with what I expected. He moved around the cabin, checking a few things. Window latches, the stove connection, a storage bin near the cot. Everything seemed routine. No surprises or complications. Just a system designed to do one job over and over again. And for a while, that's all it felt like. A job. We stood there for a minute without talking, both of us looking out through the windows at the tree line, stretching in every direction. The sky was clear, and the visibility was good enough that you could pick out details miles away if you took the time. I figured that was it. Drop off, quick check, then he'd head back down and leave me to it. Instead, Eric reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He didn't hand it to me right away, just held it there for a second, like he was deciding whether to say something first. These, um, they're not in the official handbook. I looked at the paper, then back at him. What aren't? He unfolded it once, then again until it was flat. Rules, he said. For what, I asked? For staying here. He stepped closer and handed me the paper. I took it and glanced down. It was a short list. Four lines, written in plain handwriting. No explanations. No extra notes. Just four separate statements, each on its own line. I started to read the first one, but he spoke again before I got through it. You follow those or you won't last here. I looked back up at him. There was no smile, no sign that he was joking or trying to mess with me. His expression didn't change at all. He just stood there, waiting for me to finish reading. Well, I didn't ask anything else after that. Not right away, at least. I folded the paper once and kept it in my hand. From outside, the wind picked up just enough to make the tower shift slightly on its supports. The metal frame let out a low creak that ran up through the structure and into the floor beneath our feet. Eric turned toward the ladder hatch. Well, I'll be back in a couple of days. And then he opened it and started climbing down without another word. I stood there in the middle of the cabin, the paper still in my hand, listening to the sound of his boots moving down the rungs until it faded into the distance. And after that it was just me, the tower, and the forest stretching out in every direction, and the list he left behind. Rule 1 Do not wear bright colors Eric didn't explain the rules before he left, and I didn't ask him to. At the time, they didn't seem important enough to question. The job was simple. Watch for smoke, log what I saw, keep the radio on, and stay put. The list he handed me, it felt out of place compared to everything else in the tower, like something personal he'd written down over time, rather than part of any official procedure. I folded it once, set it on the desk next to the log book, and went back to learning the routine. The first day was quiet. I woke up just after sunrise, checked the radio, logged the temperature, and ran a full visual sweep from each window. The forest looked the same in every direction. Dense green canopy broken up by dead trees and patches of exposed rock. No smoke, no movement worth noting. Just wind pushing through the tops of the trees in slow steady waves. By mid-morning, the temperature had climbed enough that the inside of the cabin started to feel warm. I opened one of the windows to let some air through, and I stepped outside out of the narrow platform that ran along the edge of the tower. It wasn't much space, just enough to stand and move along the perimeter, but it gave a clearer view down the slopes and into the tree line below. And that's when I heard it. A low buzzing sound, faint at first, almost easy to miss under the wind. I leaned over the railing, and I looked down toward the trees, trying to figure out where it was coming from. At that point, it didn't register as anything unusual. You hear insects in places like this all the time. The park is full of them, especially in the warmer months. It's part of the background. I went back inside, and I didn't think about it again. Around noon, I decided to organize the rest of my gear. I brought a duffel with clothes, some basic tools, and a few personal things to pass the time. Books, a small flashlight, extra batteries. Most of it fit easily into the storage bins under the cot. The rest I kept near the desk. One of the jackets I'd packed was bright red. It wasn't something I thought about when I chose it. It was a jacket I'd owned for years. Lightweight, easy to throw on, and visible enough that I'd used it before on jobs where being seen mattered. Out here it didn't matter at all. There was no one around to see me. Well, by early afternoon, the sun was high enough that the light coming through the window started to feel harsh. I pulled the jacket on before stepping outside again, mostly out of habit, and I walked along the platform to check the view on the west side of the tower. The buzzing was louder this time. Not constant, it came in waves rising and falling, like something moving through the air in uneven patterns. I stopped near the corner of the platform and listened, trying to track the direction. It sounded like it was coming from the tree line about fifty yards out, somewhere just below the ridge. I leaned forward slightly, resting my hands on the railing and scanned the area, and that's when I saw the first one. At a distance, it looked like a bird hovering in place, wings moving too fast to make out clearly. It held its position for a second, then shifted sideways in a slow drifting motion. Something about it felt off, but I couldn't place it right away. And then it moved closer. The shape became clearer as it crossed the open space between the trees and the tower. The wings were too short for a bird, the body too thick. It wasn't gliding or flapping in a pattern I recognized. It was just hovering, adjusting itself in the air with small, heavy movements. When it got within 20 feet of the tower, I understood what I was looking at. It was a bee. It was a bumblebee. If you went by the shape and the coloring, thick body, black and yellow bands, wings beating in a rapid blur. But it was the size of a basketball, maybe larger. Big enough that I could see the individual segments of its body and the slight twitch of its legs as it adjusted in the air. I didn't move. It hovered there for a few seconds, drifting slightly from side to side, like it was inspecting the space around the tower. The buzzing was louder now. And then another one came into view behind it. And another. Within a minute, there were at least five of them moving through the air around the tower, crossing paths, hovering near the edges of the platform, and then drifting back toward the trees. None of them moved fast. None of them made any sudden motions. They just floated there steady and controlled, like they were following something I couldn't see. I took a step back toward the door, and one of them shifted direction. It didn't rush at me. It just turned slowly and started drifting closer to the platform where I was standing. The others didn't react. They kept moving in their own patterns, crossing through the air in wide arcs. The one that turned toward me kept coming, though. I stepped back again, keeping my eyes on it as it closed the distance. At ten feet, I could see the texture of its body clearly, the dense, almost matted surface of its outer layer, the way the light caught on it in uneven patches. Its wings made a sharp, vibrating sound as they cut through the air. At five feet, it stopped. It hovered there, facing me. And then it moved forward. The impact hit my chest before I had time to react. It wasn't a sting or a bite. It was a solid hit, like being struck by something heavy moving at speed. The force pushed me back into the door frame, knocking the air out of me and sending a sharp jolt through my shoulders as I hit the metal behind me. I grabbed the frame to keep me from losing my balance. But the bead didn't stop. It bounced off me and drifted upward, adjusting itself in the air like nothing had happened. The sound of its wings filled the air around the platform, loud enough that I could feel it in my ears. I pulled the door open and stepped inside. As soon as I moved out of the open space, the bead lost interest. It hovered near the edge of the platform for a second, then turned and drifted back toward the others. I shut the door and stood there, catching my breath. From inside the cabin, I could still hear them. The buzzing carried through the walls, low and constant, like a distant machine running somewhere out of sight. I moved to the window and looked out carefully, keeping my distance from the glass. They were still there. Moving in slow patterns around the tower, crossing through the air and drifting back toward the trees. None of them came close to the windows. None of them tried to get inside. They just stayed out there. I stepped back from the window and looked down at myself. The red jacket stood out immediately. Bright against everything else in the room. Bright against the forest outside. Bright enough that it was the first thing you would notice from a distance. I took it off. The buzzing outside didn't stop, but none of the bees came back toward the door. I folded the jacket and set it on the floor next to the cot, and then walked back to the desk and picked up the paper Eric had left. I unfolded it and read the first line again. Do not wear bright colors. I stood there for a minute, looking at the words, then back at the jacket. And the rest of the day passed without anything else happening. By late afternoon, the bees had drifted back into the trees, and the buzzing faded until it was gone completely. The forest went back to the way it had been that morning, still quiet and empty from a distance. But the rule stayed where it was. I didn't put the jacket back on. The next time Eric came up to the tower, I asked him about it, and he did not look surprised. I tried it, didn't you? He said, setting a crate down near the door. I didn't think it mattered. He nodded once, like that was the expected answer. They're not aggressive, he began. They don't come after you on purpose. Then why did it hit me, I asked. He walked over to the window and looked out toward the tree line before answering. They, they think you're something else. Something they're supposed to land on. I didn't say anything. He turned back toward me. You know, you wear something bright, they see it from a distance. They probably think you're a flower. Sometimes they try to settle, sometimes they just bump you and move on. That did not feel like a bump, I said. No, it wouldn't. He picked up the jacket from the floor, looked at it for a second, then tossed it back down. You know, you're lucky it only hit you once, he began. We, um, we had a guy a few years back wore a yellow vest out here. Didn't take it off when he should have. What happened to him, I asked. Eric paused a second before answering. They lifted him, I stared at him, waiting for more. Not on purpose. They grabbed on to him, tried to hold position. Wings got under him just enough to carry him. And then? Well, they lost grip. Dropped him. Yeah, me didn't die. But he did not walk right after that either. The cabin was quiet for a second after that. I looked back at the paper in my hand, then at the first line. Do not wear bright colors. Eric moved past me and started checking the radio like he had the first day, adjusting the dial slightly and listening for his signal. They're not trying to hurt you. But that doesn't matter. I folded the paper and set it back on the desk. And after that, I stuck to neutral colors. Greens, browns, anything that blended into the trees and the structure of the tower itself. I did not question it again. And I did not test it a second time. Rule 2. If you hear chewing on the tower, start spraying immediately. The second rule didn't make sense to me at first either. Chewing wasn't something I associated with a structure like this. The tower was metal, fixed ports, bolted joints, reinforced plates. There wasn't anything up there that an animal could really get through. And even if something tried, you'd expect scratching or impact, not chewing. I didn't question it out loud. After what happened with the bees, I'd already learned that the rules weren't there to be debated. They were there because something had gone wrong before. Well, the first time I heard it, it was just after sunset. The temperature had dropped fast once the sun dipped behind the ridge, and the forest below had gone quiet and the way it does when the light fades. I had the windows closed, the radio on low, and the logbook open on the desk in front of me. I just finished writing down the last visibility check. When a sound came up through the floor, it was faint. A steady, uneven grinding noise. Like something rubbing against metal and short bursts. It wasn't loud enough to be obvious at first. I thought it might have been the wind shifting the structure, or maybe a loose panel vibrating under pressure. I stopped writing and listened. The sound came again. Short, repetitive, not random. I stood up and walked toward the center of the cabin, where the ladder hatch opened down into the tower shaft. The noise was clearer there. It wasn't coming from the walls or the roof. It was coming from below. Another scrape, then a pause, then a sharper sound like something cracking under pressure. I felt a slight vibration through the floor beneath my boots. And that's when I remembered the second rule. If you hear something chewing on the tower, start spraying immediately. Well, I moved to the storage bin out of the counter, and I pulled out the sprayer Eric had shown me earlier that day. It was a basic pump system, about the size of a small fire extinguisher, with a hose and a nozzle attached to the top. The container was filled with a thick oily liquid that smelled strong even before I opened it. Something sharp and bitter, like crushed wood mixed with chemicals. Cedar oil, Eric had said when he pointed it out, and a few other things. At the time it hadn't meant much. Now it did. The sound came again, louder this time. Something was biting into the structure of the tower. I stepped over to the hatch, pulled it open and looked down. First I didn't see anything. The interior of the tower shaft dropped straight down through the center of the structure. The ladder running along one side, the metal supports forming a rigid frame around it. The light from the cabin didn't reach all the way to the base, leaving the lower section in shadow. And then something moved. A shape shifted near one of the support beams, just at the edge of where the light faded. It was large, too large to be anything I'd expect to see that high up on the structure. It clung to the metal in an angle, its body pressed against the beam. I leaned forward slightly, trying to get a better look. It turned. The movement was slow but deliberate, and as it rotated, the light caught the surface of its shell. It was a beetle, the size of a large dog. Its body was thick and segmented, covered in a dark, dull shell that reflected just enough light to show its shape. The legs gripped and the metal beamed tightly, each one hooked and joined in a way that let it hold its position without slipping. At the front, its mandibles opened and closed in steady, mechanical motions. Each time they came together, they bit into the metal. That was the sound I was hearing. The mandibles clamped down again, and I watched as the edge of the beam shifted slightly under the pressure. Not much, but enough to see that it wasn't just surface contacts. It was digging in. Another shape moved below it. Then another. There were more of them. Least three, maybe four, climbing along the base supports of the tower. Each one positioned at a different angle. Each one biting into the structure with the same slow motion. The tower vibrated again under my feet. Pressure. I pulled back from the hatch and I grabbed the sprayer. The instructions Eric gave me came back fast. Don't wait or watch, just spray. I pumped the handle a few times to build the pressure, then dropped back down to the hatch and aimed the nozzle downward. The first stream hit the nearest beetle across its shell. And the reaction was immediate. It stopped. Not gradually, or like it was deciding to move, it just froze. And then its leg shifted, gripping the beam tighter for a second before it pushed itself away from the metal. The mandibles opened wide, then closed without biting, like it lost interest in what it was doing. I sprayed again, this time sweeping the nozzle across the other shapes moving along the supports. And each one reacted the same way. They stopped chewing, pulled back, and turned. The smell of the oil filled the shaft, rising up into the cabin in a sharp wave that burned the back of my throat as I breathed in. But I didn't stop spraying. I kept the stream moving, covering as much of the lower surface as I could see. One of the beetles shifted direction and started climbing upward toward me. I adjusted the nozzle and hit it directly across the front of its body. It hesitated for half a second and then dropped. Its body fell through the lower section of the tower, hitting one of the cross beams on the way down, before disappearing into the shadows below. The others followed. One by one they released their hold on the structure and they dropped away from the supports, vanishing into the darkness at the base of the tower. The chewing stopped. The vibration faded. I held the sprayer in place for a few more seconds, waiting for the sound to come back. But it didn't. I closed the hatch slowly and stepped back, keeping my eyes on it like something might try to push its way through the opening. But the cabin was quiet again. The smell did stay, though. It hung in the air, thick and bitter, settling into the walls and the floor like it had nowhere else to go. I set the sprayer down on the desk, and I wiped my hands against my jeans, trying to clear the residue from my skin. A few minutes passed before I moved. I walked over to one of the windows, and I looked down along the outside of the tower. At the base near the supports, I could see movement in the fading light, shapes pulling back into the treeline. Large, dark forms slipping between the trunks, disappearing into the forest, like they had never been there at all. I stayed at the window until the last of them was gone, and when Eric came back up the next morning, I didn't have to explain anything. He stepped into the cabin, set his gear down, and looked once at the sprayer sitting on the desk. You used it? Yeah, I said. He nodded and walked over to the hatch, opened it, leaned down slightly, and looked along the interior supports for a few seconds before pulling back up. Where were they? he asked. Base beams. I began. Three, maybe four of them. Chewing through the metal. He closed the hatch and wiped his hands on his pants. You know, they come higher up each year. I watched him for a second. What are they? I asked. He didn't answer right away. He walked over to the window and looked out toward the trees. Some kind of beetle. Not natural. He said finally. He turned back toward the desk and picked up a sprayer, checking the level of liquid inside. Well, he did it right though. Soon as you heard it, you spray. Don't wait to see how bad it is. I glanced toward the hatch. You know, if I hadn't sprayed, how long would it have taken? He didn't hesitate. Not long. And the rest of the day went back to routine after that. Log entries, radio checks, watching the tree line for any sign of smoke. But every time I moved across the floor, I felt the memory of that vibration under my feet. And every time the tower creaked, I listened for the sound of chewing. Rule 3. Before nightfall, seal every opening in the tower. By the time I got to the third rule, I wasn't second guessing anything anymore. I didn't need Eric to explain why it existed. I didn't need proof. The first two had already made that very clear. You follow the rules exactly as they're written, where you deal with whatever happens when you don't. This one sounded simple. Before nightfall, seal every opening. Every evening, just before the light dropped behind the trees, I went through the same routine. I checked each window, made sure the latches were tight, closed off a small vent near the stove, and slid the metal cover over the hatch leading down into the tower shaft. There were a few narrow gaps along the base of the walls and around the corners, where the floor met the panels, but nothing large enough to worry about. Or at least nothing that looked large enough. The first time I heard them, it was just after dark. Not loud or obvious, just a faint, irregular tapping sound, coming from somewhere below the floor. It didn't carry the same weight as the chewing from the beetles. It was lighter, faster, like something moving quickly across the surface and stopping in short bursts. I sat at the desk and listened. The tapping moved, one spot to another than another. I stood up slowly and walked toward the center of the cabin, listening for where it was strongest. The sound shifted again, tracing along the underside of the floor, then up along one of the walls. It wasn't random. It was searching. I grabbed the flashlight from the desk, and I moved toward the lower edge of the wall near the cot. There was a narrow gap there, maybe half an inch where the panel didn't sit perfectly flush against the floor. I crouched down and angled the light toward it. For a second, I didn't see anything. Then something moved inside the gap, fast. A long segmented shape slid past the opening, just within the edge of the light. It was too quick to make out clearly, but I saw enough to know it wasn't small. It filled the space behind the window as it moved, pressing against the opening just enough to show its outline before slipping past. The tapping stopped. For a moment, everything was quiet. And then something pushed against the gap from the other side. The panel shifted slightly. Not enough to open, just enough to show pressure. I stood up and stepped back. The movement stopped again. I kept the flashlight trained on the gap, waiting. But there was nothing. No sound or motion. I stayed there for a full minute before I lowered the light. And that's when I realized what I had missed. The rule wasn't about closing the obvious openings. It was about closing all of them. Well, the next evening, I took more time. I went through the cabin slowly, checking every edge, every scene, every place where two surfaces meet. The tower wasn't built to be airtight. Didn't need to be. But there were small imperfections everywhere. Thin gaps along the baseboards, spaces around the window frames. A slight opening where the stove pipe ran through the wall. Individually, they didn't seem like anything. Together, they were enough. I found a roll of heavy tape in the storage bin, and I started sealing every one. Window edges first, then the vent, then the base of the walls. I pressed the tape firmly into place, smoothing it down with my fingers until there were no visible openings left. It took longer than I expected, but by the time the sun dropped behind the ridge, the cabin was sealed as tightly as I could make it. That night, the tapping came back. Louder. Faster. It started near the base of the tower again, and then it moved upward along the supports. I could hear it clearly now, even through the sealed walls. Dozens of points of contact, all moving at once. Climbing, probing, testing every surface. I stayed still, listening. The sound reached the level of the cabin, and it spread out along the exterior. And then something hit the wall hard. Not a strike, not an impact meant to break through. It was contact followed by movement. Whatever it was, pressed against the outside panel, sliding along it in a smooth, continuous motion. The tapping followed it, circling the cabin, stopping and starting in different places, like it was mapping the structure from the outside. I kept the flashlight in my hand, but I didn't move toward the windows. The sound shifted toward the door. A faint scraping followed, lower than the rest, right along the base where the metal met the floor. I stepped closer, careful not to make any noise, and I angled the light down toward the seam. The tape held, and for a few seconds nothing happened, and then the metal flexed slightly. Something pushed against it from the outside, testing the seal. The pressure increased. The tape stretched, but didn't break, and after a moment the pressure stopped. The tapping moved on. I stood there, listening as it traced along the edges of the cabin, moving from one point to another, never stopping for long. And that went on for hours. Eventually sometime past midnight, the sounds faded. The tapping slowed, then stopped completely. By the time I checked the windows again, there was nothing outside but the dark tree line and the faint movement of branches in the wind. The next morning, Eric came by up with a supply crate. He set it down near the door and glanced around the cabin. You sealed it? Yeah, I said. He walked over to one of the walls and ran his hand along the taped seam, pressing lightly against it. Good. I hesitated for a second before speaking. What are they? He didn't look at me right away. Centipedes, he said. They're bigger than anything I've ever seen, and they're not just moving around. They're looking for a way in. There was a gap, I began. Small. I didn't think it mattered. He nodded once. They don't need much. I'll let that sit for a second. If one of them gets in, what happens? I asked. Eric stopped moving. He looked at the floor, then back at me. There won't be anything left of you. That was all he said. Later that day, I checked the exterior. I climbed down part way, and I looked along the supports and the outer panels where I could reach safely. There were marks on the metal. Thin shallow lines running in irregular patterns across the surface. Not deep enough to do real damage, but clear enough to show where something big had moved. Near the base, I saw one of them. It was partially hidden in the shadow of the supports. Its body curved along the ground. Even at rest, it looked wrong. Too long, too flexible. The segments shifted slightly as it moved, each one adjusting independently as it repositioned itself. It turned its head toward the tower. Even from the distance, I could see the front of its body lift slightly, like it was testing the air. I climbed back up real fast without getting closer. And that night, I sealed the cabin earlier. I checked every seam twice, pressed down every strip of tape until I was sure it would hold. When the sun dropped and the forest went quiet, I was already inside with the door closed and the light off. The tapping started again not long after. It went on for hours. They couldn't get in that night, but they did not stop trying. Rule 4. If you see animals caught in webs, do not go into the trees. The fourth rule was the only one I followed perfectly at first. The first web showed up low between two trees just off the ridge. I spotted it during a morning sweep. Just a thin line catching the light at the right angle. If I hadn't been looking through the binoculars, I would have missed it completely. It stretched clean from one trunk to another. There was a rabbit caught in it. Hung a few feet off the ground, one leg twisted in the strands. Wasn't moving. I watched it for a while. Nothing came for it. But I didn't go down. The rule was clear. If you see animals caught in webs, you do not go into the trees. So I stayed in the tower and kept watching. Over the next few days, more webs showed up. They didn't appear all at once. They spread slowly. One at a time. Deeper in the trees at first, and then closer to the ridge. Each one placed with the same precision. Tight spans between trunks. Different heights. Some low. Some high enough that they disappeared into the canopy. And the animals changed. Birds first. Then another rabbit. Then a coyote. And that's when I started seeing them. At first it was just movement. Something shifting above the webs, high in the branches where the light didn't fully reach. I'd catch it in pieces. Something long, sliding from one trunk to another. Then gone again, before I could focus on it. I kept the binoculars trained on that area longer than I should have. And that's when I saw the first one clearly. A spider. It moved across a web, stretched between two trees, its legs placing down one at a time. The body was massive, easily the size of a small car, maybe larger depending on how much it was hidden in the shadows. The legs extended far beyond that, reaching from trunk to trunk without needing to touch the ground. It didn't rush. It didn't hunt the way animals do. It just moved slowly along the web. I lowered the binoculars and I stepped back from the window. I didn't go down. For the next few days, I stayed in the tower and I watched the tree line carefully. More webs appeared. More movement above them. Sometimes I'd catch the shape of another spider crossing between branches. Sometimes just the shift of a leg or the tension of a strand pulling tight. They never came out of the trees, not once. They stayed in the forest, building outward, filling the space between trunks with those same tight controlled lines. The closer they got to the ridge, the more defined the webs became. And then one night, I saw the fire. Not at the edge of the trees. It was right in the middle of it. A small campfire, steady and low, glowing through the webs like it didn't belong there. I saw movement around it. People, three, maybe four. They weren't moving like they understood where they were. They were just sitting there, staying. Well, I didn't hesitate that time. I grabbed a dark jacket, a flashlight, and I headed down. And the forest felt wrong the second I stepped into it. Empty. No insects, no wind moving the branches. Nothing but the sound of my own steps and the faint crackle of that fire ahead. The closer I got, the more I could see the webs. They were everywhere. Some were thick enough to catch the light from my flashlight and solid lines. Others were nearly invisible until I was a step away. I moved carefully, watching every step, and when I reached the clearing, I stopped at the edge. It was a family. Two adults, two little kids, sitting close to the fire, packs on the ground, like they just stopped for the night without having any idea where they were. This area was supposed to be off limits. They looked up when they saw me. You need to leave now, I said. And that was enough. They could see the look on my face. The man stood first, turning slightly toward the trees like he was about to ask something. And then he finally saw them. The eyes. They were everywhere. Low between the trunks, higher up along the branches, scattered in a wide circle around the clearing. Dozens of them all fixed in place just beyond the firelight. Watching us. Nobody spoke after that. I grabbed a branch from the fire and held it out until it caught. Take one, I said. They all did. Each of them took a burning branch, holding it out in front of them. The light pushed back the dark just enough to give us space, but it didn't reach far. I could feel them above us. Stay together, I said. Don't run. We started moving. Slow. One step at a time, keeping the fire between us and the trees. The webs were everywhere now. I could see them clearly in the light, stretched across our path, some low enough to catch a foot, others at chest height. I guided the family carefully around each one. That's when I looked up and I saw spiders everywhere. They were following us. Dozens of them moving along the webs above us. Massive bodies shifting between branches, long legs stepping from strand to strand without making a sound. Some were directly above us, holding position as we passed underneath. They didn't drop or rush. They followed. I think they were waiting for the right moment. The eyes stayed with us the entire time, just outside the light. By the time we reached the edge of the trees, my arms were tight from holding the branch steady. The road opened up ahead, clear ground, no webs. I could hear the spider's legs moving faster behind us. But the pressure lifted the second we stepped out, and the spiders didn't follow. They stayed in the trees, just watching from the edge. The family moved faster once they saw their car, but they didn't break formation. They got in, started the engine, and they looked at me through the windshield like they were waiting for something. There's another road west. Take it, I said. They didn't ask anything, they just went. I stood there until the headlights disappeared, and then I turned back toward the trees. From the road, you could see them clearly. The webs stretched through the forest in every direction, and above them, they moved. When I got back to the tower, I didn't even go near the windows right away. I stood in the center of the room, and I waited for my breathing to settle. Later when Eric came up, I told him what happened. He listened, then looked out toward the tree line. There's more than usual, he said. We burned it the next day. A full section of forest cut clean along the ridge before the webs could reach the tower. The fire took fast, climbing through the strands and the dry ground underneath. I saw movement in the trees as it spread, large shapes pulling back ahead of the flames, retreating deeper into the forest. They didn't come out. When it was over, the ground was black. No webs, no movement. I've been in those trees once. That's enough. Most people who go in don't come back out. And I know I got very lucky. Well, after the burn, things improved. The section of forest below the tower slowly started coming back. First the grass, then the small growth. After that, the animals returned like they always do. Rabbits showed up along the ridge again. Birds moved back into the trees. A few weeks later, I saw a deer pass through the same stretch that had been nothing but ash not long before. From up top, it looked normal again. The job went back to kind of routine. Morning sweeps, log entries, radio checks. I still go down into the forest when I have to. Clearing lines, checking sections the tower can't see. That part doesn't change. You know, the bee is never left. You still hear him during the day, moving through the air in those slow, heavy patterns. I've seen him drift close to the tower more than once. You keep your colors dark, keep your distance, and they leave you alone, mostly. The beetles come back too. Not every night, but enough that I keep the sprayer filled and ready. You hear it once, that chewing sound, and you don't wait anymore. And the centipedes, they never stop trying. Every night before it gets dark, I seal the tower the same way. Every seam, every edge, I don't miss anything now, but I can never fully rest here at night. They're always trying to get in. Everything out here, it's got a pattern. Everything except one thing. I haven't seen a spider since the fire. Not one. No webs, no movement in the trees, nothing caught between the branches. If you looked at the forest now, you wouldn't even know they were ever there. But I don't think about it like that. Because out of everything I've seen out here, the bees, the beetles, even the centipedes, the spiders are the worst. Eric says the fire bought us time. He says that maybe we killed all of them this time. But I don't think so. I think one or two of them survived. Maybe hid from the fire somewhere deep underground. And I have a feeling that one day, maybe soon, they'll come back.