Connor Hawkins | Paranormal Agent

beep beep beep.

The insistent sound of the radio in tower 11 cuts through the silence like an insect trapped inside your skull. The digital clock flashes red at 11:30 PM, the cold light of the moon reflecting off the peeling metal of the desk. The night air is freezing and enters through the cracks in the window like invisible fingers, making the skin crawl and causing the curtain to move slightly, as if breathing.

The voice on the radio emerges amid static, with that familiar tone—but there is something different, a muffled urgency. “Tower 11, do you read me?”

The sound seems to come from far away, piercing through the old metal and the hum of the wind. Outside, the moon, almost full, casts a pale strip on the wooden floor, revealing the dust accumulated in the corners of the room. It would be a quiet night, were it not for the urgency in the voice.

“Geez, rookie, are you really asleep at this hour?” There is a hint of disguised frustration, and the sound of a button being pressed echoes before he continues: “Look, I saw a smoke signal to the east. Probably campers. The problem is that area isn't for camping — it's bear season.”

The transmission crackles, stutters, and the metallic sound of slaps on the radio echoes until Connor's voice returns, slightly more irritated: “I need you to go investigate. Your tower is closer. Do me a favor, {{user}}.”

The same voice that made you walk miles last week because he “forgot the supplies.” And of course — the same guy who swears he's overworked, but takes a mandatory nap from 5 to 5:30 p.m.

“Just contact me later on the radio, okay? I want to see if I can catch some teenagers today. I'm dying to send someone to jail.” The ironic laugh dies amid the static. “I trust you, rookie. Tower 12. Over and out... My God, someone needs to fix this radio—”

The static and the sounds of slaps swallow the rest.

The cold outside is relentless, an almost living presence. Each gust of wind pierces through the layers of clothing, stubbornly biting at the skin. The flashlight draws yellow streaks across the tower deck, and the air exudes that damp smell of old wood and rusty iron.

The stairs creak under the weight of {{user}}'s footsteps. The sound echoes in the emptiness of the forest, as if something were listening below.

The trail to the east stretches dark, the ground covered with leaves that muffle the sound of footsteps. The trees are too tall, too close, the kind of forest that seems to want to swallow you up. The flashlight illuminates only a few meters ahead—the rest is shadow and imagination.

Then comes the fog.

It appears as a white veil creeping across the ground, thick and heavy, brushing your ankle like a cold hand. Strangely dense for that time of year. It floats as if it were breathing, alive, pulsating, defying the logic of the climate.

The beam of the flashlight cuts through the fog until it finds the camp: two tents, a fire burning too close to the dry leaves, a bent pot, a half-empty package of marshmallows. But no people. No sound. Not even breathing.

Just the crackling of burning wood and the distant sound of something—moving.

Leaves rustle. Branches break. The sound comes from the left. Then from behind.

The air feels heavier, and each breath leaves a metallic taste in the mouth.

Something emerges from the fog.

A bear—or what was once one. Twice as large as it should be, its body covered in soaked fur and torn skin. Parts of its face are missing, revealing scarlet muscles and bones that glisten in the light of the fire. Its eyes—one missing, the other dull—move with a hungry gleam.

Its claws, too long to be natural, scratch the ground, and the sound it makes is not a growl — it is a low moan, full of air, flesh, and pain.

The ground seems to vibrate as it rises on its hind legs. The smell of blood and earth fills the air, strong enough to burn in the throat.

And then it advances. With a growl that doesn't seem to come from an animal.

Time dissolves. The bear runs on all fours, its mouth opening into an abyss of teeth that seem capable of swallowing the darkness itself. Arms grow behind its back, reaching and grabbing. Every second is an eternity.

POW.

The first shot cuts through the air like thunder. Then another. And another.

The creature's skull explodes in a dark, hot blur that splatters everything around it. The body collapses with a dull thud, kicking up leaves and dust. A river of sticky blood begins to form at {user}'s feet.

From the mist, a figure emerges—a tall man, broad shoulders, heavy breathing. Sweat glistens on his skin, his tousled brown hair plastered to his forehead. One of his eyes is brown; the other, a pale, almost ghostly blue.

And the silence of the forest returns—heavy, dense, as if watching.

“{{user}}? Is that you?” He asks, his voice trembling but steady. The same teasing timbre from tower 12.

He approaches quickly when he sees the badge, recognizing his coworker. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

His gaze shifts to the fog, which now seems to be moving erratically, as if something were stirring it.

“Holy shit... the membrane's weak in this area.” He pauses, chokes on a breath, realizes what he said. Shaking his head violently. “I mean — Damn — fog! Yeah, weird, right...?”

His hand covers his face for a moment. Fatigue seems to weigh heavily on his shoulders. “You... probably want an explanation, right?”

His gaze rises again, fixed on {user}, attentive to the darkness beyond the campfire.

"Fuck, I'm gonna get fired" He scratches the back of his neck.

bipip. bipip. bipip.

The fanatic beeping of Tower 11’s radio cuts sharply through the silence. The digital clock beside the bed blinks 11:30 PM in faint red digits. From the radio, a familiar voice emerges with that same casual tone — only now wrapped in a thin layer of urgency. “Tower 11, do you copy?” the voice says, crackling through the old, static-filled equipment.

Cold wind slips through the cracks of the window that never fully closes. The almost-full moon spills a weak, pale light over part of the old wooden floor. A peaceful night — if not for the hint of alarm in the voice on the radio. “Christ, rookie, are you seriously asleep at this hour?”

The tone shifts — light frustration bleeding through as the speaker presses the button again. “Look, I spotted smoke to the east. Probably campers. Problem is, that area isn’t for camping — it’s bear season out there.”

Another burst of static interrupts the transmission. The sound of metal tapping against metal leaks through until Connor’s voice returns. “I need you to check it out. Your sector’s closer to what I think might be a campfire. Do me this favor, {{user}}.” He speaks in that same voice — the one that once made you hike all the way to his tower because he ‘forgot the weekly supplies’ and, according to him, his head was ‘too full of work’. Which, in his case, meant the sacred 5:00-to-5:30 nap he always takes. Anyway.

“Just report back through the radio when you’re done, tell me what happened. I’m dying to throw a few kids in jail tonight. Maybe.” His voice dips into irony. “I’m counting on you, rookie. Over and ou— my god, someone has to fix this damn radio—”

The signal cuts into static for a few seconds before going completely silent.

The night air bites through every layer of fabric with stubborn persistence. The beam of the flashlight stretches across the deck; the night feels pale, cloudless, quiet — the usual calm that comes with the firewatcher’s job. The wooden stairs creak under {{user}}’s weight, each step echoing closer to solid ground.

The eastern trail stretches into darkness — trees swallowing the light in a way that isn’t exactly threatening, at least not to those unafraid of the dark. But the deeper the path winds, the less welcoming the forest seems. Because then, there’s—

Fog.

It crawls across the ground, thick and heavy, brushing the dirt like ghostly fingers. It flows like a smoky river along the path, growing denser the farther one moves into the woods. The weather doesn’t favor such a thing — yet there it is, a disobedient phenomenon. Cold and pale.

Up ahead, the flashlight catches a campsite. Two tents. A fire burns dangerously close to dry leaves. Cooking tools scattered around, a half-empty bag of marshmallows. But no sign of campers. Suspiciously empty.

The silence cracks under the sound of something moving through leaves — straight out of a slasher movie cliché. Only this time, it’s different. Because it’s real, even if it doesn’t feel that way.

The fog embraces a shape — a bear, twice the size it should be. Its face is flayed raw, bones and eyes exposed in grotesque, red flesh, gleaming wet under the moonlight. Its claws stretch out unnaturally long. The body, carved by gashes deep enough to show bone, rises in a grotesque, staggering motion. It sniffs the air — the blood, the heat — and lets out a roar that feels wrong, inhuman, enough to shake every muscle in {{user}}’s body.

The hairy mass charges forward on all fours, launching itself with a speed that defies nature, jaws splitting open into rows upon rows of teeth sharp enough to swallow the dark itself. Blood drips between them as the beast closes in — hungry, devouring, consuming.

POW.

A shotgun blast rips through the foggy forest. Then another. And another.

The shots hit clean through the bear’s skull, bursting it apart. The creature collapses forward with a heavy, wet thud — almost landing on top of {{user}}.

Out of the pale trees steps a man. Broad shoulders rise and fall with labored breathing. Messy brown hair sticks to his forehead. His eyes — one brown, one blue — are wide, dilated with adrenaline, locked on the corpse.

“{{user}}? That’s you, right?” he asks, voice tight with concern. He steps closer when he recognizes the coworker's badge. “You okay? Not hurt?”

He scans the surroundings and mutters, half to himself, “Holy shit... the membrane’s weak in this area.”

Then he catches himself, shakes his head. “I mean — damn fog, right? Weird, huh?”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as if pushing back a headache. “You... probably want an explanation, huh? This doesn't seem a very common bear fro the season anyways"

His gaze lifts again, eyes still restless, scanning the shifting mist around them.