Author: Emma Li
I always thought the woods behind my house were silent at night. Just trees whispering in the wind, nothing more. But last Friday, when I was walking Zephyr (my dog), I noticed lights: blue and red, flickering through the trees, way off the path.
Curious, I followed. Zephyr tugged at the leash but obeyed. As I got closer, I heard a low hum, like the sky vibrating. The lights were coming from an old radio tower I didn’t know was there; rusted, leaning a little, wires dangling.
I approached. The hum got louder, making the hair on my arms stand up. Zephyr growled. I saw something moving behind the tower, like a silhouette, long and thin. I froze.
Suddenly, a voice: “Get out.” It sounded mechanical, distant, maybe coming from the tower itself. Zephyr barked; I jerked back. The silhouette stepped out, no face, just a dark shape, limbs stretched weirdly.
I ran. Don’t remember much after that except the branches scratching, heart pounding, and Zephyr matching my pace. We didn’t look back until we reached the road. The lights were gone.
At home, I locked the door and brushed it off as sleep-blurred imagination. But then Zephyr just stared at the door all night, ears pricked, growling softly. On the porch step in the morning, I found a loose strand of wire. Cold metal.
