I lived at a fire tower in Alaska. Obsidian pyramids hidden throughout our park are teeming with something monstrous [part one]

The tower loomed above me, a shadowy silhouette of spiraling stairs and wooden beams against the fiery Alaskan dusk. I had spent the last five hours clearing the trails, dragging logs and broken branches off to the sides and repainting the faded markers with fresh red paint. I felt sweaty and dirty. My legs ached with every step. But underneath all that, I felt a sense of contentment that always followed a day of hard work and a job well done.

At the foot of the fire tower, I saw a green mountain bike propped against one of the steel support beams. I instantly recognized it as belonging to my supervisor, Roger Hodges. Stopping in my tracks, I glanced up at the single room ten stories in the air. I could hear the diesel generator running and see the flickering, incandescent lights spilling onto the rusted catwalk. I hadn't turned it on, however.

Creeping shadows stretched down the stairs towards the hard-packed dirt surrounding the tower in a semi-circle. Tree roots jutted through the ground like countless dark veins through a scar. Off in the distance, I heard the howling of a coyote, its shrill cry rapidly answered by a second, then a third.

“What in the hell is he doing here at this hour?” I wondered aloud, looking down at my watch. It read 7:07 PM. I knew that the long Alaskan night would begin in less than fifteen minutes. Roger had never just stopped in randomly like this before, especially at such a late hour. It would be impossible to ride his bicycle back in the dark with so many roots reaching up towards his tires like greedy, skeletal hands.

The grated metal steps clanked softly below me as I took them two at a time, running up the ten flights of stairs with practiced ease. I emerged on the wooden catwalk surrounding the single room in the center. My breath caught in my throat as the light pouring out of the dusty windows showed me something ominous.

Drops of something slick and red led to the door, splattered in a serpentine pattern, as if a drunk man with a gushing nosebleed had staggered his way inside through sheer willpower. The only door leading in and out of the fire tower's room stood wide open. I saw the blood trail continue towards the closed bathroom.

I heard laughter coming from the other side of the bathroom door, the laughter of a man with a slit throat. The sick, wet gurgling sound cut off as someone activated the incinerating toilet. Our watchtower had gotten some basic renovations over the last few months, one of them being the closet-sized bathroom built into the back wall. It had no sink or running water. I had recently placed a metal bowl, a bar of soap and a jug of river water on a caddy hanging over the edge of the scratched mirror, but that and the black toilet comprised the full extent of the bathroom.

“Roger?” I whispered apprehensively, knocking softly on the thin door. The generator whirred far below me, the lights overhead flickering in time with its mechanical heartbeat. I heard Roger clear his throat on the other side, followed by a heavy, ominous pause and the sound of retching. “Hey, Roger! Are you OK in there, bud?” I slammed my fist harder against the door three times, feeling the feeble wood shiver in its frame.

“Alex?” he asked in a hoarse croak. He coughed again, retching briefly as the sound of thick phlegm hitting metal echoed softly around me. “Sorry, give me a minute. I think I ate something...” But his words cut off as the dry retching and coughing turned into a sudden bout of vomiting. I sighed, looking apprehensively at the blood spots drying on the floor.

I only had basic medical training in first aid and CPR, and I wasn't sure I felt cut out to deal with whatever this was. I wracked my brain, anxiously thinking back to all the fake medical shows I had seen on TV. What caused bleeding, retching and vomiting? The first thing that came to mind was a bite from a venomous snake, some kind of quick-acting poison.

The lock turned, the bathroom door flying open in a rush of stale air. Roger stood there, his eyes sunken and cheeks gaunt. His skin looked white and pale, as if all the blood had been drained from his body. His tan ranger uniform looked dirty and smudged, and on the pants and black boots, I saw small crimson spots. But I didn't see any sign of injury on the man, no bandages, no bleeding wounds, no crusted blood around his nose or mouth. Behind him, the incinerating toilet belched a small stream of foul-smelling smoke before finally going quiet.

He ran his long fingers through his dirty blonde hair, looking into my eyes yet not seeming to see me. It felt like he was staring through me, his black holes of eyes focused a thousand miles away. His pupils looked dilated, with a thin slit of a green iris the color of stagnant swamp water surrounding it. A strange, musty odor emanated from his general area, reminding me of wet caves and damp basements. And, weirdest of all, he looked as if he had aged ten years since the last time I had seen him, going from a 38 year-old to a middle-aged man with far deeper wrinkles and crow's feet.

“Jesus Christ, man, what the hell?” I said, nervously taking a step back. I tried to avoid breathing in too deeply as that cloying smell like moldy caverns rapidly increased, becoming more intense with every moment the bathroom door stood open. “You had me worried for a second there. What's with all this blood? Why are you throwing up? Why are you here so late? If you need medical help, we're probably going to need to call in one of the ATVs from the fire department. Dammit, man, I gotta be honest with you, this is bad timing for this. It's going to be pitch black out there in a few minutes.”

We both knew that getting from here to the front office building was about a seven mile hike that involved scrabbling up and down slick rock and thin mountain trails. It wasn't easy even with plenty of sunlight, and with it still being March, the nights here got fairly cold fast after the darkness rolled in. Moreover, the thick Alaskan forest increasingly crowded the trails, despite our best efforts to trim the branches of the endless evergreens and clear away fallen brush to keep them navigable.

Roger languidly shook his head, his eyes slipping away from mine and down to the wooden floor scuffed from a hundred years of boots. He heaved a long, hesitant sigh, hunching his shoulders and nervously picking at his shirt. I had never seen a man look more defeated, more tired and hopeless. This wasn't the charismatic, optimistic boss I had seen just a week earlier during our last group meeting in the front office building.

“I came to give you a message,” he answered. “Sorry about the mess, I had a little bit of a... well, an incident on my way up here, but it's under control now. That's why I got here so late, though. I left at one PM, and I can't believe how long everything ended up taking. I was hoping to be back at the front office by dinnertime, but....” As he continued rambling, he gradually lowered his volume and started speaking slower, still not meeting my eyes. “Well, it's easier to just show you, I think. I couldn't risk... I mean, I didn't want to...” His words died away, his gaze drifting through me yet again, back to that point of space infinitely beyond the horizon. Feeling anxious and increasingly uncomfortable, I tried to keep him talking.

“Why didn't you call ahead?” I said, gesturing emphatically to the base station radio, my sole lifeline to the front office, Alaskan state police and local fire crews. It had a central role in the room, being placed in the direct center of the only table. On the wall directly overhead hung a dusty map of Frost Cove State Park with my fire tower and the front office building both marked and labeled in red ink. “I wouldn't have kept you waiting, especially in the condition you're in! I don't know if you're going to be able to hike all the way back tonight, buddy. There's packs of mean coyotes out this way after sunset, and a lot of bears are waking up from their long winter naps, too, and they're definitely feeling a little peckish.” In the back of my mind, though, I wondered if Roger was just trying to change the subject. He still hadn't explained where all the blood had come from, and as far as I could tell, he didn't have so much as a nosebleed.

“Listen, we have way bigger problems than coyotes right now,” he said stonily. Some of the color looked like it had returned to his face, though he still appeared slightly vampiric. His waxy skin and dead eyes gave me a creepy 'uncanny valley' sensation that felt like ice water dripping down my spine. Small needles of fear pricked the inside of mind.

“You need to come outside with me,” he continued urgently, seeming to gain new energy and vigor. “Time is of the essence, you understand? There has been an incident, and I need your help.”

I nodded, but my apprehension only increased with each passing second. I had known Roger for six months now, and he had always came across as a direct man and a meticulous supervisor. He got along with everyone and struck me as the kind of boss who would always be the last one to leave, making sure everything was done correctly, but time spent around him always passed by quickly because he was a good conversationalist and a genuinely nice guy. He had certainly never acted like this, constantly avoiding direct questions and changing the topic.

But in spite of all I knew about Roger, my instincts continued shrieking at me in some instinctual language that had existed hundreds of millions of years before the first spoken word. A pit of fear twisted and undulated in my stomach, everything in my body telling me, “Something is wrong here, this is very wrong, you MUST feel it!” I tried probing my mind, but logically, I could come to no conclusions. So I turned to that reptilian, ancient part of my brain with only one question: Why? But no coherent response came, only more waves of dread telling me to run far away and not look back.

“You're kind of scaring me, buddy,” I responded, backing away from Roger without consciously realizing it, all my attention on his strange, green eyes. “You need to explain a little more, because if there's something dangerous or illegal out there, we need to contact the cops first.” Roger shook his gaunt face quickly, stepping closer to me even as I tried to put distance between us.

“No, no, it's nothing like that,” he whispered conspiratorially, putting his hand on my shoulder. It felt cold and clammy, even through the thick sleeves of my khaki ranger's uniform, “I'm not talking about a dead body or something. Look, will you just come see what's happening? I need someone else to see it, to convince me that I'm not losing my freaking mind here. I just need you to tell me you see it, too, OK? And it would be a lot easier, and a lot quicker, just to show you.” I hesitated for a long moment, looking over at the gun safe, then I turned back to Roger and nodded.

“Fine, but I'm bringing the rifle,” I said, pushing past him and striding across the room in two large steps. He started to protest behind me, his heavy steps lumbering over as I began to enter the combination on the dial.

“Hey, you really don't need...” Roger said, but I cut him off, not taking my eyes off the safe.

“Look, buddy, you're being weird. I don't even want to go outside with you, to be honest. You've always been a good boss, so I'm inclined to trust you this time, but to be blunt, I'm feeling a little bit of...” My words cut off as something ice cold and sharp pressed against my neck. I immediately stopped spinning the dial, my body freezing in shock as my mind went blank. A single drop of blood dripped down from the spot where the point of the blade rested on my skin, right above the jugular. I felt the sting of the metal blade, but he kept it right at the surface, not forcing it deeper into the pulsing veins and arteries hidden below.

“Just shut up,” he snarled, his voice appearing to change from one of apathy and tiredness to something harsh and animalistic in an instant. I barely recognized him at that moment. He seemed like a totally different person than the Roger I had worked with, the man I had known for over half a year now. “You had to make this difficult, didn't you? I didn't want to have to do it this way, but you forced my hand. I don't know what's going on, or what you did, but I'm going to find out, OK? I'm gong to damned well find out at any cost! Now move! I brought you a present, but it's in the shed, next to the generator. And I think you already know what it is!” In reality, I had no clue what 'it' he referred to, and I had the deepening suspicion that I might be dealing with someone having a psychotic break.

“Look, man, I don't know what this is, but you're not feeling well right now, and you're not thinking straight. Just put down the knife. We can just forget any of this ever happened. We don't have to...” I whispered huskily, putting my hands up in a gesture of openness and cooperation. But Roger only spun me towards the front door and marched me outside into the starry Alaskan night.

***

We went down all eleven flights of stairs together, Roger standing close behind me with the knife pressed against my throat the entire time. That wet cavern smell had only grown worse, and with his arm wrapped around my neck like a snake, I now knew for certain that horrendous odor emanated from his body. It seemed to rise off his skin in invisible, nauseating waves. I repressed the urge to gag, but it smelled so much stronger this close, so I just breathed through my mouth instead.

“Just tell me this: did that blood come from you?” I asked Roger as we reached the bottom. He grunted, steering me towards the shed. We passed under the four steel legs of the fire tower. I saw the bare bulb in the shed already turned on, the cracked, peeling door standing slightly ajar. A thin beam of dull light sliced outwards into the darkness.

“I promise you, Alex, every single drop,” he responded cryptically. “No one else is here besides me and you. It's not me I'm worried about, though.” He slammed me into the raggedy shed door, causing it to crash open with a bang like a cannon blast. My breath caught in my throat as I stared in horror at the wet, bloody thing stretched across the bare wooden floor beneath me.

A skinned corpse with no eyes lay there, its arms and legs outstretched like Christ on the cross. A nauseating odor hung thick in the air, the smell of panic sweat and copper. Veins and arteries ran across the mutilated corpse like fat blue and red worms, hugging the glistening red muscles underneath. Pieces of clotted gore dripped off the sides of its face, staining the boards underneath. I saw that the corpse's right pinky was missing, just as mine was after I lost at the age of the nine helping my brother cut wood. I wondered if Roger had cut off the pinky in mockery of me, or whether perhaps it was just some sort of sick coincidence.

“Recognize him?” Roger asked, his lips nearly pressed to the side of my ear. He tightened his grip, and I felt another few drops dribble down my neck where the point of the blade pressed in, staining my lapel with warm blood. I realized I had stopped breathing. I inhaled deeply and stammered a response, even as waves of panic threatened to overwhelm my logical mind.

“Is this... one of your victims?” I finally whispered in terror. “Why are you showing me this, Roger? What have you done? Why did you cut off its finger?” He laughed sardonically, a deep, grating sound that made goosebumps rise all over my body.

“Me!” he hisssed. “Don't you DARE try to turn this around on me! Why do you think...” But his words cut off suddenly as a snapping branch only a few steps behind us caused his attention to falter. He spun his head, his wide, dilated pupils staring intensely into the dark forest. More leaves crunched and twigs snapped as we saw the silhouette of coyotes standing at attention all around us, likely drawn by the smell of the blood and death that hung thick in the shed. I felt his grip around my neck loosen slightly, the blade dropping down a few inches, but that was all the edge I knew I would receive. I took full advantage of it, praying to God it would be enough.

With speed borne solely from desperation and adrenaline, I reached into my pocket, yanking out my folding knife. The blade flicked open in a blur as Roger's head snapped back in my direction, his switchblade slicing through the air towards my jugular. I ducked and pivoted left, hearing the knife whiz through the spring air before feeling a burning, freezing pain when his blade sliced into my right ear.

But at that same moment, I had aimed my little folding knife directly at Roger's chest. Our attacks met simultaneously. I felt the steel blade catch on Roger's sternum and ribs as it sliced through his clothes and skin like warm butter. My own blood poured down my neck at the same moment I felt his flow freely over my tightly clenched fist.

With so much adrenaline pouring into my bloodstream, time itself seemed to slow, the smell of copper and iron growing stronger at the threshold of the shed. Everything seemed slowed down, the tastes and smells a thousand times as intense as usual. In horror, I watched the scene unfolding before me.

Roger's skin tore apart along the deep slice etching itself down his chest with a wet, sucking sound, but I didn't see bones and twitching muscles. I beheld the jagged tearing of the bloody skin, but underneath that superficial layer, something monstrous shone in the dull light. Strange, spongy flesh with tiny holes covering every square inch of its body pulsed rapidly in sync with some invisible heartbeat. Each of these thousands of holes appeared identical, countless black mouths individually no larger than a pinhead. It looked like someone had taken a tiny scooper and ripped out pieces of its translucent flesh in perfect, grid-like patterns. Between black holes eaten into its skin, yellowish flesh shuddered and dribbled translucent, yellowish mucus.

For a moment, we both saw the strange, alien flesh that it had uncovered. But, strangely enough, Roger looked just as shocked as I felt as he stared down at the open, spurting wound and the eldritch flesh hidden behind the veil of white skin. It raised more questions than I could possibly answer or even comprehend at that moment.

With the shock and adrenaline rapidly fading, the pain on the side of my head exploded, rising in intensity with every breath. I backed into the shed, slamming the door against Roger's shocked face. I heard a dull thud and a shrill cry of pain and surprise from the other side. Other sounds rapidly followed- coyotes howling and barking, many legs sprinting forward and a fist thudding against the other side of the door over and over. I put my entire weight against it, trying to keep it shut, but there was no lock on the inside of the shed.

Thankfully, I didn't need to brace it for long. I heard a struggle, Roger's hoarse shrieking mixed with primal growls and pained whines. A heavy body flew against the other side of the door, pushing it open a few inches, but I slammed back against it, hearing a shrill canine howl in response.

“Help me, Alex!” Roger cried, but his voice sounded like it grew weaker. I could hear his breathing even through the thin wooden walls, rapid and panicked as it mixed with the sounds of coyotes fighting. “They're killing me! Open the DAMNED DOOR BEFORE I DIE!” I had both hands splayed out against the door, putting all of my weight against it and bracing it with my legs. I didn't dare budge for even a moment, in spite of the agony and my rapidly waning energy.

“I'll kill you!” Roger hissed, his voice growing fainter by the moment. I heard the trampling of coyote feet growing more distant. It sounded as if they were dragging something heavy. A few moments later, everything outside went deathly quiet.

I waited a few minutes in crushing anxiety before cautiously opening the door and peering outside. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness. I saw the hard-packed soil greedily sucking up the drops of blood scattered in front of the shed. Tiny shreds of throbbing, yellow flesh twisted and writhed like alien slugs. I saw a fingernail ripped straight up amongst ten trails gouged into the earth. In my mind's eye, I could see how it happened: the coyotes dragging Roger by his legs or ankles, his fingers trying to scrabble for purchase among the smooth dirt. I winced as I imagined my fingernails being ripped out in such a grotesque manner, though my sympathy was limited as I remembered he had tried to kill me.

A thought interrupted that: but had he? He could have slit my throat up in the fire tower, or anywhere along the stairs, or in the shed. The last fifteen minutes seemed like some sort of strange, Kafkaesque dream. Roger had forced me down here at knife-point to show me a naked, skinned body. I wondered whether it was part of the psychological torture, showing the next victim the fate of the prior one to increase their dread and terror.

Something about the body, too, seemed eerily familiar. I noticed how it seemed about the same height as me, had the same missing finger. It felt like ice water dripping down my spine as I imagined Roger finding a victim who physically resembled me before cutting off his finger to make him look more like me. It sounded like the plot of a true crime story, almost like someone trying to scam the life insurance company with a doppelganger, maybe something from the era of HH Holmes.

The thought made me feel physically repulsed, nearly on the verge of vomiting. Feeling light-headed and drained, I backed slowly out of the shed, the mild spring wind cooling my sweaty forehead as I slammed the door behind me. For some reason, I immediately felt a little better once the flimsy, wooden barrier separated me from the bloody pile of meat laying next to the generator.

A moonless, chilly spring night had now fully descended over the mountains. I ran towards the fire tower, wanting to call for help as soon as possible. I knew I was in way over my head.

As I ascended the metal steps with heavy footsteps, the moonless, starry sky erupted in a shower of light and energy. Green waves split the cloudless void, each one tipped with a crest of bright red, like blood spilling out of a freshly slit throat. I realized the Northern Lights had started, as if God himself wanted to set the stage for what would turn out to be the most horrific night of my life.

As the Northern Lights undulated and spun overhead, a subtle popping sound started all around me. I felt the hairs all over my body stand up. The emerald green lights shimmered like melting jade, the whining electricity sound increased until it felt like the air itself was shrieking all around me. Out of breath, I reached the top of the fire tower, sprinting inside and straight over to the VHF radio.

I quickly flicked the power on, but the red indicator light stayed dark. My heart felt like it dropped to the bottom of my chest. Bending down, I scanned the radio, seeing that someone had slit the wires, not only the power cable but also the wires leading to the antennae and receiver.

“No!” I whispered, the sense of hopelessness only increasing by the moment. Though this happened nearly a year ago now, I still remember that feeling- dread so thick I could almost taste it.

Robotically, I walked over to the safe and grabbed the rifle, just a simple Mossberg Patriot with a polished wooden stock. I filled my pockets with .308 rounds before slamming one in the chamber and flicking off the safety. I hoped the gun would protect me, lowering my head and whispering a short prayer of protection.

With the Northern Lights flashing above me, I turned and walked out into the night, hoping to reach the front office building with my life intact.