Nothing to Report
Some flames show no smoke.
The room was split in half. On one side sat college students. On the other, retirees. On the retiree side, a man took his seat without making eye contact with anyone. A man beside him reached out a hand. “I’m Lester.”
The man turned to him, taking his hand. “Mark.”
Mark tried to turn away, but Lester wasn’t getting the hint. “Is this your first season? What brought you here?”
“The money’s good,” Mark said, “and there’s no one to come home to anyway.”
The rest of the day: radio demos, advice on keeping one’s mind engaged, piles of paperwork. All for a six-week job.
The side-by-side whined to a stop, and Mark got out without a word. He stood in the shadow of a stilted tower rising above the trees. There was a small clearing around it, beyond, a sea of swaying green rode a mountainside into the clouds.
The driver turned off the UTV and grabbed a large duffel bag out of the back. “I’ll give you a hand,” he said.
Mark only shook his head, took the bag, and headed up the steep wooden stairs to his home for the next six weeks.
The dark red hinges telegraphed the door’s creak. Mark half-smiled as he thought about the ghostly sound scaring wildlife away.
Inside was a single room. Glass covered every wall. A small cot lay in one corner with a cracked wooden footlocker and a carbon food bin. In another corner were an electric heater and a sink. In the middle of the room sat a table with stacks of maps and logs. Beside that, a pair of binoculars and a radio.
Mark wrote in the logbook:
Mark Kinsley
2:32 PM
Monday, July 8th.
His shift didn’t start until 8:15 the next day. For now, all he had to do was take in the silence. Embrace the solitude.
With the binoculars, Mark scanned the forest. He oriented himself to the dense terrain.
In the distance, an eagle swooped into a field. Mark followed until it fell behind the trees. As quickly as it plunged, it rose holding a small, squirming fox in its talons. The screams echoed through the alpine valley. The defeated creature squirmed with all its might, but the talons dug too deep.
Before the eagle reached its mountain nest, the fox fell limp, hanging like a dirty shop rag.
Day 1
8:14 — The clock moved.
8:15 — “Tower 6 reporting for 8:15 check-in,” Mark said into the radio.
“Welcome to day one, Mark,” a static-drenched voice responded. “I’m ready for the report.”
Mark licked his lips before speaking. “I have a clear line of sight today. No signs of fire or smoke. It’s going to be a great hike this evening.”
“Received. Enjoy your day, Mark.”
He placed the microphone back into its holder and scanned again.
The forest stood still. No wind. No sign of animals.
No fire. No smoke.
Before the noon check-in Mark ate beans straight from the can.
At 5:15, Mark reported nothing for the last time, then ate some jerky. He spent most of the evening exploring the forest.
Day 2
8:15 — Nothing to report.
Noon — No smoke. No fire.
5:15 — Nothing.
Day 3
8:15 — All clear.
Noon — Nothing to report.
5:15 — A couple of clouds in the distance.
He watched the eagle for about an hour again. It caught nothing.
Days 4–9
The mist rolled down the mountain like cotton candy. If it rose, Mark might have mistaken it for smoke. Behind it, he heard the eagle call but couldn’t see it.
Mark mapped the mountain and forest. Every pinecone became an anchor; every twig a trail marker. Every day he expanded his perimeter, learned the land.
Now what?
“We expand further,” Mark said to no one.
Day 10
Mark woke before the sun. He could smell smoke. Slightly sweet with the medicinal underpinnings of… was that oil?
He rolled out of the cot onto his feet, not stopping to dress himself. He grabbed the binoculars and rotated around the cabin.
Infinite darkness.
At 8:15, Mark pushed the radio’s button.
“Tower 6 reporting for 8:15 check-in.”
“Go ahead, Tower Six.” The voice sounded different, further away.
“I woke up to the smell of smoke this morning.”
“You smell smoke?”
Mark closed his eyes and filled his lungs. “No. But I did this morning.”
“Did you see anything?”
“It was dark.”
“No flames?”
“No.”
“I’m going to help you out and put ‘nothing to report.’ Keep your mind busy, Mark. The isolation can do funny things.”
Day 11
Mark’s alarm pulled him out of an inferno. In his dream, towering flames surrounded him. They didn’t rush; they crept. No equipment. No help. No escape.
Nothing to report.
Day 12
Midday, a black bear wandered across the field below Mark’s tower. Its fur was patchy and thin. Eyes dark yellow. The animal stumbled through the clearing without intention, nearly falling more than once.
For such a large animal, it was silent. Mark couldn’t hear the leaves crunch beneath its feet. For a moment it sat in the middle of the clearing, staring up at the tower with those judging yellow eyes.
Finally, it stood back up and passed into the forest on the other side.
The sun had moved directly overhead, signaling that it was almost time for check-in. He had been watching the bear for two hours.
That can’t be. It was only a few minutes.
Mark checked his watch repeatedly before picking up the radio.
By dinnertime he was hungry, but somehow it didn’t occur to him to eat.
Day 13
The fog from the mountain was upon Mark now. Holding the radio in his hand, he couldn’t find the button. He flipped it back and forth before realizing it wasn’t even time for a check-in.
The day moved in chunks.
If it weren’t for his alarms, he would not have remembered to check in when the time came.
But he did.
Meaningless. Useless.
Nothing to report.
Nothing to report.
Nothing to report.
Day 14
The UTV hummed to a stop at the tower’s foundation. It was Scott’s third stop of the day. Most of the watchers wanted to talk his ear off, and Scott felt bad cutting them off. There wasn’t enough time for conversations and reaching every tower.
Mark stared down from the window, unflinching.
Scott unloaded a locker from the back of the UTV and motioned for him to come down.
Empty locker in hand, Mark stepped out the door. He didn’t wave. He didn’t look at Scott. He walked down the stairs, the locker rattling behind him.
“Hold on, I’ll give you a hand,” Scott said.
Mark held his hand up flat, stopping him.
“Are you okay? You look really pale.”
Mark grunted as he lifted the delivery.
“Let me give you a hand with that. It’s heavy.”
Mark turned his back and walked back up the tower.
The sun was deep in the west when Mark walked down the old wooden steps again. His eyes fell on a white piece of folded paper at the bottom.
“Must have fallen out of his pocket.”
He unfolded it. Tattered edges, torn from a larger sheet.
A fragment framed by jagged edges:
ann.
Brianna.
Golden.
Beneath the sun, she didn’t reflect its rays; she amplified them.
Time moved differently in her vortex. Slow.
Space frozen in place.
A first glimpse, an eternal effect.
Day 15
The eagle cried from somewhere in the mist. The sun pressed past the eastern horizon, and Mark walked through the forest. Only days before he had every stick memorized, but now every tree seemed different. Twisted. Slight color shift. Crooked. The maps Mark had memorized didn’t match the topography, and the mist felt heavier than before. He could taste vodka in the mist. It froze him in place.
From beneath rotting leaves, a lacy white cloth caught his eye.
He held it tight.
A wedding veil.
No one was this deep in the forest. If someone had come this way, there would have been other signs. Flattened grass, cracked branches, or voices echoing through the valley. The tender lace was rough against his hand. A memory rose from his gut.
No less radiant under church lights.
Stained glass dimmed.
The room was trembling. No—it was him.
Friends and family, he saw none.
Salvation illuminated a white dress. Mark’s eyes swelled.
Don’t cry.
He cried first.
She followed.
Day 16
As Mark reported nothing to base, the scrap of paper and veil stared back at him.
Watching.
Whispering shadowed memories into his mind.
Somewhere in the distance, Mark heard a baby cry. He rushed to the field, turning toward the sound. He heard it again in the opposite direction, softer, as if it were moving away.
“That couldn’t be.”
There it was again, faint, far away now.
Mark shook. Only the whistling breeze and the chirp of birds responded.
Day 17
Coming back from his evening walk, Mark found his food locker sitting outside his door. Nothing was missing, and the door was locked as he left it. Mark spent the evening searching for clues, heart pressing into his brittle ribs. He found nothing.
Day 18
The eagle perched on the railing. Mark had never seen such an enormous bird up close. Beauty in its feathers, judgment in its almost human eyes.
Throwing open the tower door, Mark thrashed his head around. The bird was gone. The air went bitter and dry, sticking in his throat. He struggled to breathe.
A shriek vaulted from below. The eagle stood on the ground beneath the tower. They locked eyes. Mark cleared two steps at a time, reaching the ground. The bird launched into the air, landing on a nearby branch. It was then that he saw something bright yellow on the tip of its beak.
He ran after it, but it leapt from branch to branch, always ahead. They chased deeper and deeper into the forest. The bird mocked Mark with every rung. Holding Mark’s panicked gaze.
Mark rested his arms on his knees, gasping for air. The land cut steeply upward behind the eagle. He fell into the dirt and leaves, unable to pursue the bird any further.
It opened its intimidating beak and released a shattering screech. A deep red tongue flickered behind the daggers. The yellow object fell, drifting to the earth.
In a blink, the eagle was gone. Screeching from the mist. Still there, but unseen.
He held what it had dropped. Hard plastic. A hair clip with a duck on it. He had seen one like it before.
Only one.
The hospital lighting, harsh.
Antiseptic, sharp.
Parents don’t mind. Nothing could spoil perfection.
The baby cried out for the first time.
Brianna melted into the hospital bed.
Twelve hours labored. He couldn’t feel his head.
Somehow she still glowed.
Hand in hand.
Baby on her chest. World emerged renewed.
Day 19
The eagle ripped strips of flesh from the bear. Steam rose from the carcass in the cool morning air. Mark stepped off the stairs.
The eagle exploded into the sky.
The bear was fresh. Steam billowed. Mark sweated. Decay floated to his nose. Mark tried to turn away. Then he saw it.
A small glint of pink plastic from inside the bear.
He reached in. The blood was slick and warm against his bare hand. The plastic was cold.
Twisted.
Yanked.
With a deep slurp, a bent, cracked sippy cup broke free, sending Mark stumbling. He dropped it. His eyes widened, pupils focused. It wasn’t a cup.
He stood frozen for a time. Eyes wide and head shaking. He picked the cup back up. It burned in his hand, but he wouldn’t let it go. He couldn’t.
At the landing, he paused. A full bottle of vodka sat at the base of the door. Mark swallowed hard, tracing the curves of the bottle as one does a lover not held for a very long time.
Alcohol was forbidden. He hadn’t brought it here. It certainly wasn’t part of the delivery. Mark couldn’t think about that. He needed relief.
He brought the bottle and cup inside. Sitting in the corner, Mark drank. The liquor quenched his trembling.
He drank more.
The eagle’s screeching grew so loud it felt like it came from inside his skull.
The party was loud.
Another vodka?
Of course. He didn’t know it would be his last.
The drive home was blurry. The crash, crystal clear.
Screeching.
Shattering.
Rolling.
Time slowed.
Replayed. Again.
Replayed. Again.
An inferno of mangled steel, filtered through vodka haze. Focus slow.
Flashing lights closing in. Beside the flame sat a sippy cup with a pink lid, as if it had always been there.
“Where are they?”
“Help.”
“Someone help me.”
“Where are they?”
Day 20
The forest burned. Flames jumped from treetops into the dry July air. A side-by-side skidded to a stop in front of Tower Six.
“Let’s check on Mark and get out of here. The fire is way too close.”
They threw open the door. In one corner, Mark lay. A bottle of muddy water by his side. On the table: a leaf, a stick, a pine cone, and a bear liver.
An altar to infernos. The hope of a dying man.
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The Inspiration Behind Nothing to Report
I’ve been fascinated with fire lookout towers since playing Firewatch years ago. The game stayed grounded, but I kept thinking: this is the perfect setting for isolation horror.
Then I watched Lookout. Three days in a tower. A dozen visitors. That’s not isolation. That’s a social calendar.
So this is me doing it my way.
Every Tuesday I share a polished story for free. Paid subscribers also get the raw early drafts, short essays about what went into them, and the occasional experiment that probably should have stayed in the dark. If you want to go deeper into my head, bring a crucifix.
Where the money goes: I’m not here to get rich. Any support goes back into advertising this Substack and building toward self-publishing my first book.
I really enjoyed this, I want more 💜
Seems he was dead inside all along