Most people think my job is pure nightmare fuel. I used to disagree with them. I work as a cell tower technician. You’ve probably seen videos on Youtube of some guy clinging to the top of a metal tower in the middle of a huge empty nothing. That’s me. It’s about the best job you can get where I live without a high school diploma - and the only real source of entertainment to boot. As a perpetual screwup with an appetite for adrenaline, I was basically a star candidate. Really the only two requirements are a basic level of physical conditioning and a complete lack of fear, both of which I have. Or at least I thought I did. Two weeks ago the company I work for (who shall remain unnamed lest the corporate overlords find this post) sent me out to a job site about fifty miles out of town. Rarely do I have to cross state lines, but the tower in question was about as far out of the way as it gets. Big one, too. 400-something-odd feet, meant to bounce signals all the way across the Appalachian mountains from one sleepy mining town to the next. That suited me fine. I prefer working where prying eyes won’t see me for one reason - BASE jumping. For the uninitiated, BASE jumping entails throwing yourself off of a big object with a parachute on. You know when you jumped off of the roof of your house as a ten year old with a blanket and broke your ankle and your step-dad came out and beat you with a belt before he drove you to the hospital? No? Maybe it’s just me. Anyhow, BASE jumping is basically the grown-up version of that. Minus the broken ankle and the beating (hopefully). Luckily for me secluded cell towers happen to be the perfect place for this kind of hobby. The morning I was supposed to head out there was a fine mist sinking down into the hollers around where I lived. The locals call it “moonshine weather”, which translates to “stay the hell inside and get drunk instead of go to work”. As tempted as I was to do just that, I’d been hoping they’d send me out that way for months and I couldn’t pass up this opportunity. I should have trusted my gut. Instead I brewed myself a shitty thermos of coffee, threw my gear into the back of my shitty jeep, and - well, you get the idea. I drove a few hours out to the site, fooling myself all the way that the weather would clear up soon and it would be a sunny climb all the way to the top. I’d packed my parachute along with my other gear. I used to bring a GoPro along, until I realized that recording the sort of behavior that would give an OSHA rep an aneurysm probably isn’t smart. I *can* be smart when I remember to. Anyway, I parked my jeep outside the fence around the tower and typed the code into the electronic gate. Someone had strung razor wire over the top of it but I doubted anyone visited much and the wire was crumbling in places. I figured anyone who really wanted to wouldn’t find it hard to bypass. My suspicions were confirmed as I drove past the tiny maintenance shed sitting on the corner of the lot and found every inch of the corrugated metal covered in graffiti. I admired it as I opened the padlock and retrieved one of the bulbs from inside. The work order said this tower needed an aircraft warning light replaced. You know, those blinking red lights that let you know there’s a giant tower out there in the dark. I took one from a dusty shelf and tucked it into my rucksack, threw on my climbing rig, checked my chute one last time, and started the climb. The start of a climb is always boring. One hand over the other, rung by rung. You’re almost impatient waiting for that thrill that comes with dangling hundreds of feet above the earth. Or at least I was. But you have to pace yourself. A fall from 30 feet can be just as fatal as a fall from 400, and if I was going to go out I knew which one I’d rather take. Most of the time you’ll see tower climbers clipping a carabiner to each rung to fasten themselves in place as they go. I don’t bother with that unless it’s a windy day. It wasn’t. In fact the air seemed unnaturally still as I climbed. If I were a wiser man I might have paid more attention to the prickle at the back of my neck or the sense of foreboding in my gut. But as you’ve probably guessed I am not, so I didn’t. Instead I chalked it up to coffee jitters and doubled my pace. Probably just needed to take a leak. Have you ever pissed off of a 400 foot tall object? It’s just as awesome as it sounds. I was around halfway up when I realized that the fog around me had grown more dense rather than less, which was strange. Usually when you get a bit of height and the sun starts to burn away the mist you can see just fine. Typically it’s all but gone by 2PM, leaving you free and clear to jump from the top. I’d already picked out a nice little meadow to the southeast of the tower where I could land and have an easy hike back to the jeep. If I couldn’t see it, though, that would be a problem. I’m not suicidal after all. It looked like my dreams were shattered for the day. The fog around me was so dense now that if I hadn’t known better I would have thought a storm was rolling in. But the weather forecast hadn’t mentioned any chance of a storm, and there was still no wind. It was strangely silent, except for the dull ring of my boots on the rungs and my own breath in my ears. I paused to take a break around halfway up - there are altitude markers painted on the cell tower so you can mark how far you’ve come and I’d just passed 150 feet. Clipping a carabiner onto the rung above me for the first time that day I leaned back and stretched, enjoying the feeling of weightlessness. I glanced down - something the veteran climbers tell you never to do - and that’s when I saw it. Down below me, shrouded in mist, a shape clung to the side of the tower. I say “shape” because I didn’t get a clear look at it. Just a shadow, maybe a hundred feet below. So far away that I couldn’t really even tell if it was moving. “The fuck?” Now I know I’m not Shakespeare, but I doubted old Bill would have reacted any differently than I did. I mean, why would anyone be climbing a cell tower in backwoods Appalachia on a day like this? Anyone besides me that is. My first thought was that it was one of the graffiti artists who, finding their skills limited by the canvas of the old maintenance shed, had grown the balls to climb the tower and add a little color to the gray steel. Good on them! Might make for a bit of an awkward meeting when they caught up to me, but I wasn’t about to call the cops or anything. I even debated hanging around until they got a little closer, but decided against it. That was my first and only good decision that day. Probably the one that saved my life. I kept climbing, reasoning that if my fellow climber made it to the top while I was still around I’d congratulate them on their courage and ask them nicely to paint over one of the lights so that the company would send me out here in a month or two and I could get my jump on. I reached the 200 foot mark and took another break, feeling the cool wet air on my cheek, scratching under my thick beanie. The company tells you to wear a helmet, but I figure that at heights like this I’d *prefer* my cranium to liquify on impact if I fall. Quick and painless. I took another look down to see how my mysterious friend was doing. It was closer. I say “it” because it took my brain a few seconds to register that the thing climbing up the tower toward me wasn’t human. It had closed the distance between us by a few dozen feet and it was impossible to mistake. Its arms were too long, its body too short. I caught a glimpse of dark, glistening skin through the mist, a face twisting on a knobbly neck, two eyes that were as pale and milk-white, like an old man’s cataracts. I blinked. It was still there. One long arm swung over the other with unnatural grace, a hand large enough to swallow the entire rung curling around steel. “The *FUCK*?” Once more and with feeling. Now I’m not superstitious, or religious, or philosophical, or political, or really anything at all. I’m a monkey-brained tower climber, and when I saw the thing that was following me up the tower my monkey-brain took right over. I scurried up the rungs throwing caution to the wind, my brain trying to account for what I was seeing. Some kind of prank? A TV show, right? With an absolutely insane budget? A dozen half-hearted attempts at reason flew through my mind, each one as pathetic as the last. I climbed until I was out of breath, and my mind, looking for excuses and coming up empty, swung back around to “did I *really* just see that”? I risked a glance down. The thing was still below me - and gaining. It climbed in eerie silence. Not growling, or snarling like a wild animal. Just the quiet, fluid determination of a predator stalking prey. I caught a flash of movement, of a snub-nosed face, of naked skin and a mouth full of black teeth. I’d given an old meth head some change once and she’d flashed me a rotten grin full of teeth like that. There was only one way down now, and that was up. I climbed as quickly as I could, throwing caution to the wind. The 300 foot mark passed in a blur. 350. I was starting to flag, every breath burning in my lungs. I could taste copper in my mouth, and my eyes were blurry. I started to get clumsy. I missed a rung with my foot, almost falling. I clung there, terrified that I would feel long fingers close around my foot. I kicked the rungs once, then managed to get my boots back in place and kept going. I reached the tower’s uppermost platform. The trapdoor was locked, secured by a padlock. Of course it was locked. I tore a glove off with my teeth and let it spiral away, fumbling in my pocket for the key. Nothing. My entire body was seizing with fear. The piss that I’d been saving for the top of the tower was running down my leg. I unhooked the hammer on my toolbelt and bashed the padlock. It came open, bouncing off my arm. I shoved open the door and hauled myself through, landing on the small platform at the top like a trout from a creek. Through the grates I could see the thing right below me. It opened its mouth, jaw cracking to reveal a mouth that was too wide. Inside that mouth was another mouth, and another, and another. I screamed. Well, I did my best with whatever air was left in my lungs. It sounded more like a whimper, or a sob. I stood with my back to the top of the tower, watching as it moved half-hidden below me. I slung one leg over the railing at the edge of the platform and checked the straps of my parachute.The sky was gray in every direction. Nothing but endless, mind-numbing gray. Looking back I feel as though I should have at least had some idea of where the sun was, but there was nothing. Just an endless field of twilight. I couldn’t tell which direction I was facing, or where the meadow I’d planned to land in could be. I’d be jumping blind. Into the fog. No idea of where I was headed or even how close I was to earth. It was insane. It was my only option. As the creature lifted one glistening arm over the edge of the tower, ready to haul itself up after and grab me, I threw myself off. Normally this is where I let out a whoop, revel in the feeling of the wind on my face, the weightlessness. This time I fell in silence, eyes full of freezing tears as the cold wind scoured my skin and hair. I had a pair of goggles slung around my neck to shield my face but I’d forgotten to put them on. I seized the ripcord and pulled for all I was worth. There was a reassuring *snap* of nylon against air, followed a bowel-loosening tug, and my feet kicked out in front of me. Thankfully instinct took over, giving my overtaxed brain a break. I glanced up and over my shoulder, wind whistling in my ears, but I could see no sign of the creature above me. I hauled on the steering lines, straining to see any sign of the ground below. There was nothing. A few long moments passed. Then I caught sight of a tree spearing through the mist. Another followed, then another, and then I was sailing between them, branches slapping my face, battering my arms and legs. I flew free of the trees and straight into the side of the fence at the base of the tower. Razor wire slashed my hands as I struck the top of the fence with enough force to knock the wind out of me. I fell backward, landing in the dirt, shredded nylon billowing down to cover my face. I struggled free from the remains of my chute and unbuckled the pack, leaving it all in a heap by the fence. I limped for the jeep. Above I could see no sign of the creature. I hauled the door open and started the engine, praying that the faulty spark plug I’d been meaning to replace for months would do me this one last solid. The engine sputtered to life. Something flew overhead. A blur. I caught sight of long limbs spread wide, of membranous wings billowing in the sky, eyes locked on mine as the predator glided silently overhead, banking, turning toward me. I threw the jeep into reverse, tires spinning in loose dirt. My head bounced off of the headrest as I crashed through the gate. Then I was off, jostling down the gravel-packed road. I didn’t stop driving until I reached home. Autopilot must have kicked in because I drove myself to the ER. They must have thought I was some kind of crazy person, eyes wide, paints soaked with piss. They had to peel my fingers from the bloody steering wheel before they could get me inside. It’s been two weeks now, and the stitches across my arms and hands are only just healing. I’ll have the scars for the rest of my life. I’m writing this with the doors locked and my step-dad’s old 12-gauge leaned against the desk next to me. I should get a dog. Maybe two. The mist is back, and somehow the mountains just don’t seem as safe as they used to. The screen of my phone just lit up. A text from the company. Another job. Another site. I don’t think I’ll answer.