Speaker 1: I'm not looking for advice. I just want someone, anyone,
Speaker 1: to tell me I'm not the first that I didn't
Speaker 1: imagine it. Something else is knocked on that hatch before.
Speaker 1: When I took the job, it felt like a blessing.
Speaker 1: Two weeks alone on a firewatch tower off grid, paid
Speaker 1: in cash, so that was part of a remote reactivation program.
Speaker 1: Some of the towers hadn't been used in years. This
Speaker 1: one needed a body to make it active again. For
Speaker 1: funding fine by me. No service, no roads, just a
Speaker 1: drop off by helicopter and a daily check in by radio. Notebooks,
Speaker 1: coffee and way too much instant ramen, and I thought
Speaker 1: I'd be bored. That was the plan. The tower itself
Speaker 1: was old than I expected, steel frame, probably World War
Speaker 1: II era, forty feet tall, with a vertical ladder that
Speaker 1: groaned when I climbed it. At the top was a
Speaker 1: single room cabin with wide windows on all four sides,
Speaker 1: a trapdoor entry, and a thick metal latch locked from within.
Speaker 1: The moment I stepped inside, I knew something was off,
Speaker 1: not wrong, exactly, just off. The room felt colder than outside,
Speaker 1: even in the afternoon sun. The air was still musty, stale,
Speaker 1: just still kind of still that feels intentional. The first
Speaker 1: few days passed like I hoped, slow, uneventful. The red
Speaker 1: wrote watched clouds, no fire, activity, no animals, barely any wind.
Speaker 1: But the silence didn't feel peaceful, felt held. Then the
Speaker 1: scratching started. He was faint, inconsistent, always at night. At
Speaker 1: first I thought maybe it was a bird or a squirrel,
Speaker 1: testing the supports, but it always came from the same spot,
Speaker 1: beneath the northeast corner of the floorboards. I crouched there
Speaker 1: with a flashlight more than once, checked the bolts, the framing. Nothing,
Speaker 1: no gaps, no nests. The sounds kept coming, like fingernails,
Speaker 1: dragging the slow spirals into the wood. By the fourth night,
Speaker 1: I couldn't sleep. I kept imagining it something under the floorboard,
Speaker 1: tracing circles. Then I found the first message. It wasn't written.
Speaker 1: It was carved, shallow but deliberate, into the underside of
Speaker 1: the desk, barely visible unless you were lying on the
Speaker 1: floor like I was. Five lines don't leave after dark,
Speaker 1: don't answer the latter, don't look at its hands, don't
Speaker 1: speak your name, and whatever you do, don't open the
Speaker 1: trap door. My stomach turned. I hadn't carved that, I
Speaker 1: hadn't even touched the desk. I stared at it for
Speaker 1: a long time, then radioed it in HQ. Told me
Speaker 1: I was probably reading old graffiti, said a guy station
Speaker 1: here a decade ago used to write creepy poems. Laughed
Speaker 1: it off and reminded myself that I was one hundred
Speaker 1: miles from the nearest person. But that didn't explain the
Speaker 1: sixth line that I found the next night, or how
Speaker 1: it was fresh. It doesn't like being watched. That was
Speaker 1: carved into the window frame, same jagged strokes. I started
Speaker 1: leaving lights on after that all night, every bulb, even
Speaker 1: the flashlight. But around midnight the power flickered, and then
Speaker 1: I heard it knocking, four slow knocks from beneath the
Speaker 1: trap door, not from the ladder, not from below, from
Speaker 1: inside the room, under the floorboards. I didn't move, I
Speaker 1: just I just stared at the hatch. The bolt was
Speaker 1: rattling gently, not forced, just tested the way someone might
Speaker 1: turn a doorknob to see if it's locked. Her voice
Speaker 1: whispered my name, not shouted, just whispered, like someone who
Speaker 1: was lying just beneath the wood, mouth pressed to the grain,
Speaker 1: and it sounded. It sounded like me. I stayed frozen
Speaker 1: until the first light of dawn pushed through the windows.
Speaker 1: When I finally moved, I found something by my cot
Speaker 1: in the dust. Footprints, bare, human shaped but wrong, the
Speaker 1: toes the room backwards. The next day I tried to
Speaker 1: convince myself I was They opened all the windows, let
Speaker 1: the wind in, took a cold sponge bath, anything to
Speaker 1: break the spell. And that's when I noticed the trees.
Speaker 1: They were closer.
Speaker 2: I don't mean they felt closer, I mean they were.
Speaker 2: There used to be a clearing around the tower, fifty
Speaker 2: sixty feet at least. Now the pines pressed just below
Speaker 2: the window. Ledge needles brushed the glass. And that's when
Speaker 2: I found the photo, folded and wedged between two floorboards
Speaker 2: near the cot. It was black and white, faded, curled
Speaker 2: with age. They showed the tower taken from a distance,
Speaker 2: maybe the edge of the tree line. But something was wrong.
Speaker 2: There was a figure standing at the top of the tower,
Speaker 2: just beneath the hatch, tall, thin, too thin, arms.
Speaker 1: Long enough to bend at the knees, fingers that trailed
Speaker 1: below the rungs. The face wasn't cleared. It was just
Speaker 1: a smudge like the film had been warped. But in
Speaker 1: the window above someone was watching, pressed to the glass,
Speaker 1: wearing my jacket, same hat, same patched shoulder, same expression
Speaker 1: I'd seen in the mirror that morning. I turned the
Speaker 1: photo over. A single line was written in blocky uneven pen.
Speaker 2: You let it out. I locked the trap door, blocked
Speaker 2: it with the desk there. I locked the windows, turn
Speaker 2: on every light in there.
Speaker 1: I waited. It didn't knock that night. Instead it whispered,
Speaker 1: not my name. This time it had said, come back down,
Speaker 1: like it knew that I remembered something. And that's when
Speaker 1: the final carving appeared. I thought it yesterday, beneath the cot,
Speaker 1: carved into the metal support frame. You opened it in
Speaker 1: your sleep. I checked the hatch, still bolted. I checked
Speaker 1: the desk, still wedged. But my nails were cracked, my
Speaker 1: hands ached, My shirt was dirty, staying with pine needles
Speaker 1: and something darker. I haven't radioed in since I don't
Speaker 1: think they're listening anymore. Clearing's gone. I'm surrounded by trees.
Speaker 1: I don't know if the chopper will ever see me.
Speaker 1: And across the canopy there's another tower. Was it there before?
Speaker 1: It's taller, it's thinner, built of darker metal, windows blacked out,
Speaker 1: no movement, he said last night when I saw a
Speaker 1: light inside it just a second, a flicker like a
Speaker 1: flashlight or a match, and then something at the window
Speaker 1: pressed against the glass watching me, and it.
Speaker 3: Looked like me only smiling.
Speaker 2: Either.
Speaker 1: Kids, It's me, mister Greepasta, And I just wanted to
Speaker 1: tell you thank you so much for watching tonight's video
Speaker 1: or for listening to tonight's episode of the podcast wherever
Speaker 1: you happen to do that.
Speaker 2: So if it's like on YouTube, then you're probably, you know,
Speaker 2: watching the video, But if it's on not then you're
Speaker 2: probably listening to the podcast. You're like with Spotify or
Speaker 2: Apple or something like that. But yeah, thank you so
Speaker 2: much for listening. And as always, I want to give
Speaker 2: a very big thank you to everybody who supports me
Speaker 2: over at Patreon, Patreon dot com slash mister Creepypasta.
Speaker 1: I cannot thank you guys enough. Thank you guys so
Speaker 1: much for being supporters.
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Speaker 1: It really helps me out. Once again, that's patreon dot
Speaker 1: com slash mister Creepy Pasta or if you guys like
Speaker 1: to just listen, honestly, it helps me out a lot too.
Speaker 1: Thank you guys so much for being here, thank you
Speaker 1: for listening, thank you for watching. They're sweet, your hins