Chapter 9: The Signal Tree

  Scene 1: Lines on the Map

  The sun hung high over the swamp like a coin dropped on still water—bright and lazy. The humidity had already settled in for the day, coating everything in a sheen of sticky heat. Cicadas screamed from the trees like they were trying to out-sing one another.

  Josie crouched beside the old crate in the center of the clubhouse, her elbows braced on her knees, map stretched wide across the lid. The corners were soft with use, and the ink had smudged in places where fingers had pressed too hard.

  She tapped a spot near the middle—just south of where the bridge used to be.

  “Here. That’s the dredge.”

  Kenji leaned over her shoulder, pencil in hand. “Draw it like a square. That way we remember it wasn’t just some wreck—it meant somethin’.”

  Cricket peered at the map from upside-down, lying flat on her back. “You should draw it like a monster. Big iron belly, crane arms, moss breath…”

  Bo, sitting cross-legged on a log bench, yawned. “Maybe with sad eyes. So folks know it ain't evil, just tired.”

  Josie smirked, then handed the pencil to Lila Rae, who carefully etched a bold square with long trailing lines for the crane cables. Around it, she added the spiral tree symbol, just like the one they’d seen carved into the bark.

  Tadpole stood by the open window, listening.

  Not to them.

  To outside.

  The air had gone still.

  Then—creak.

  Just a whisper.

  Low, warbling.

  Coming from the same direction as yesterday. Eastward. The signal tree.

  “I hear it again,” he said.

  The clubhouse fell silent.

  Josie stood. “Then we go.”

  They moved fast but quiet, each grabbing their packs—flashlights, rope, notebook, compass, bug spray, water bottles. They weren’t just playing anymore. The way they moved said it. The way they looked at each other. The way Bo didn’t even complain.

  They paddled part of the way, cutting through shallow green water speckled with lily pads and dragonflies, then hiked the rest, boots sinking into soft ground, cypress knees poking up like warning fingers.

  It took less time today.

  The trail felt shorter, even though the heat tried to slow them down. They didn’t stop to joke or point at turtles. The map was heavier now, even if the paper hadn’t changed.

  When they reached the signal tree, Josie paused in the clearing and held up a hand.

  “Listen.”

  The breeze stirred the moss like breath.

  Then, from somewhere beyond the tree line—a low groan. Faint, far off, like the dredge’s ghost had moved deeper into the swamp.

  Only it wasn’t the dredge.

  Kenji adjusted his backpack. “That’s not comin’ from the same place as before.”

  Lila Rae knelt near the roots of the tree and laid a hand against the bark. “Feels different, too.”

  Josie looked up into the canopy. The light filtered down in soft shafts, catching on the moss. Everything shimmered—not in a magical way, but in a hot, tired, breathing way. Like the swamp was watching from behind a screen of light and heat.

  She stepped forward and laid the map against the trunk.

  “Let’s find what it’s tryin’ to show us.”

  Scene 2: Echoes in the Bark

  The signal tree stood silent now—tall and twisted, arms spread wide like it was waiting to be asked the right question.

  Josie circled it slowly, one hand trailing along the coarse bark. It wasn’t humming the way it had before. Not exactly. But the potential of sound hung heavy in the air, like the final note of a song still echoing somewhere past hearing.

  “Let’s see if it sings,” she said.

  Kenji pulled a pocket-sized tuning fork from his backpack—because of course he had one. He struck it gently on the heel of his boot and pressed the base against the tree trunk.

  Nothing.

  Then, as the tone faded, the bark gave a faint tick—just once—like an answer, or maybe a laugh.

  Lila Rae crouched near the roots again and placed both palms to the ground. “Feel this. There’s something deep underneath. When the wind moves, it vibrates through the soil.”

  Cricket wandered off a few paces, hands cupped around her mouth like a megaphone. “HEY TREE! YOU GOT ANY SECRETS?”

  Bo, who’d been poking a stick into a hollow knot near the base, muttered, “You’re gonna get us hexed, Preacher.”

  Josie knelt and leaned her ear against the bark. For a second, there was nothing but the thrum of her own heartbeat.

  Then a creak—like the inside of a boat swaying in still water. Long. Hollow. Familiar.

  “The sound from the dredge,” she whispered. “It’s in the tree. Not just the wind—like it’s… storing it.”

  Kenji tapped the compass. “Magnetic interference, too. It keeps drifting west. This tree is messin’ with the needle.”

  Bo stood up straighter. “You think it’s one of those spy poles? Like in war movies?”

  “No wires,” Kenji replied, eyes narrowing. “But I do think it’s aligned to something. Directional. Intentionally placed.”

  Cricket raised an eyebrow. “You sayin’ this tree was planted on purpose?”

  Lila Rae pointed at the spiral again. “Or marked when someone realized what it could do.”

  Josie stepped back and looked beyond the tree—to where the sound had drifted earlier.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “That hum we heard this morning—it wasn’t random,” she said. “It’s tryin’ to lead us.”

  Tadpole was already walking in that direction.

  Didn’t say a word.

  Just followed the sound.

  And the rest fell in behind him, one by one.

  Scene 3: Lines Through the Earth

  The ground sloped gently as they moved away from the tree, the kind of slope you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention. Josie did. So did Tadpole.

  They walked in a careful line, boots squishing in the soft places, dry twigs snapping in others, eyes forward and down, scanning everything.

  Kenji held his compass out flat, brow furrowed.

  “It’s still drifting,” he muttered.

  Josie glanced back at him. “Wind doin’ it?”

  “Maybe,” he said, then shook his head. “But it’s consistent. Every few feet, it pulls harder to the west—like something underground’s draggin’ the needle.”

  Bo puffed out a breath. “That sound like science, or swamp sorcery?”

  “Could be both,” Kenji answered without a hint of irony.

  They reached a clearing—if you could call it that. The trees thinned a bit, and sunlight spilled down onto a patch of exposed roots and dark, compacted earth. It was quieter here. The kind of quiet that pressed on your ears.

  Josie turned a slow circle, scanning the tree line. Then she pulled the map from her satchel and laid it across her thigh.

  “This don’t match,” she said softly. “According to the map, this should be more water. A little creek bend, not solid ground.”

  Lila Rae crouched, fingers tracing faint lines in the dirt—lines that weren’t natural. Not quite. “There’s a pattern here.”

  Kenji joined her and studied the ground. “Someone leveled this. Decades ago. Covered it up with just enough brush to fool casual hikers—if any came this deep.”

  “Which they didn’t,” Bo muttered, glancing around.

  Josie crouched and dug a bit with her fingers, revealing a corner of something metal. Flat. Rusted.

  Kenji dropped beside her, eyes wide. “That’s a hinge.”

  She looked at him. “A door?”

  “Maybe. Or a hatch.”

  Josie turned the compass slightly and watched the needle spin erratically the moment it neared the buried edge.

  “There it is,” she said. “That tree ain’t just marked—it’s pointin’ to this.”

  Kenji gave a crooked smile. “Some kinda buried outpost. A bunker. Field station?”

  Tadpole knelt on the other side, brushing away vines with steady hands.

  Cricket backed up a step. “Y’all ever think maybe it was buried for a reason? Like, I dunno… on purpose?”

  Lila Rae stood. “That’s exactly why we need to open it.”

  Bo groaned. “Of course it is.”

  Josie’s fingers closed around the edge of the rusted hinge.

  She tugged.

  The ground gave a small click.

  And beneath the dirt, something shifted.

  Scene 4: The Hatch Beneath the Vines

  Tadpole didn’t say a word.

  He just knelt beside Josie, reached into the soft earth, and cleared a wide patch with practiced strokes. Vines snapped, roots cracked. The swamp resisted, but not too much—like it knew it couldn’t hold this secret forever.

  In less than a minute, they had exposed the shape fully.

  A square metal hatch. Old. Heavy. Bolted on three sides. Its handle, though rusted, still jutted upward like a beckoning finger. A single word, barely legible, was stamped across its top:

  PROPERTY - BRM 1961

  Kenji leaned in. “Bayou Resource & Minerals. Same as the ledger on the dredge.”

  “Then it’s his,” Josie whispered. “Lester’s.”

  Cricket whistled low. “Well, he sure didn’t want it found easy.”

  Bo tapped the metal with the butt of his pocketknife. “Sounds hollow.”

  Josie gripped the handle and gave it a tug.

  Nothing.

  “Help me,” she said, and Tadpole immediately braced the base while Kenji added both hands beside hers.

  They pulled together—grunting, slipping, the metal groaning louder than the wind now. The handle gave an angry squeal—

  —and popped.

  The hatch lifted two inches, spitting dirt as it cracked open. A sudden rush of stale, cold air whooshed out, damp and metallic, like the breath of a buried giant.

  Kenji coughed. “That’s not mold. That’s machine smell.”

  Josie reached for the flashlight clipped to her belt. The beam lit a set of mossy iron steps leading into darkness. Below, rusted shelves and scattered crates waited under a slanted ceiling of corrugated steel.

  “Ain’t a bunker,” Bo said. “It’s a stash.”

  “No,” said Lila Rae, voice thin with awe. “It’s a time capsule.”

  Josie looked back at the others, jaw set. “We go slow. Careful. Don’t touch nothin’ till we know what we’re lookin’ at.”

  Tadpole went first.

  One foot, then another, disappearing beneath the surface of the swamp like he belonged there.

  Josie followed him, flashlight held high.

  The others came close behind.

  And as they descended into the old metal chamber, the signal tree hummed again—faint, distant, like it was telling the swamp:

  They’ve found it.

  Scene 5: The Crates Below

  The hatch slammed shut above them with a sound like the end of a chapter.

  The air inside was thick—stale, metallic, earthy. Not suffocating, just… untouched. Like this place had been sealed when the world still moved in black-and-white photographs and crackling radio voices.

  Tadpole led the way, his boots echoing on the steel floor. Josie followed, sweeping her flashlight in a slow arc. The walls were corrugated metal, stained dark with water lines and time, but the structure itself held. No rot. No cave-ins. Just age.

  Then the beam hit something square in the back corner.

  A stack of crates.

  Josie hurried forward and brushed away the moldy tarp draped over them. Beneath it: wooden boxes stamped with the same BRM insignia as the hatch.

  “Bayou Resource & Minerals,” she murmured.

  Kenji pried the first one open with a rusted pry bar. The lid groaned but gave way.

  Inside: maps.

  Rolled tight, rubber-banded and yellowed, some with corners eaten by time. He unrolled one carefully and laid it across the flat surface of an old workbench.

  “Not just the swamp,” he breathed. “Sub-surface layouts. Water flow redirections. Hidden dredge lines. This was their master plan.”

  Lila Rae opened the next crate and froze.

  “Recordings,” she said softly. “Reel-to-reel tapes. Dozens of them.”

  Cricket lit a second flashlight and scanned the shelves. “Journals too. Handwritten. Some in code.”

  “Not code,” Kenji said, lifting a spiral-bound notebook with trembling fingers. “Shorthand. Old scientific script. It’s personalized. That means…”

  Josie finished for him. “Lester’s.”

  Bo stood near the corner, holding a dusty metal case. He popped it open and whistled. “Blueprints. Weird ones.”

  Tadpole held up a photograph.

  A younger man in a collared shirt, arms folded in front of the dredge, with a compass in his hand and that same spiral carved into the tree behind him.

  Lila Rae stepped closer and studied the back of the photo.

  There, scribbled in black ink:

  “They’ll never listen. But maybe you will.” — L.D.

  Josie looked around at the others—each of them holding a piece of the past like it might shatter.

  “This was his backup plan,” she said. “In case they shut him up.”

  Kenji nodded. “He buried the truth.”

  “And now,” Lila Rae whispered, “we’re the ones diggin’ it back up.”

  The room was still again.

  Only the creak of a rusted ceiling beam, swaying in rhythm with the distant hum above.

  Scene 6: The Man with the Vanishing Name

  Lila Rae sat cross-legged on the cool steel floor of the bunker, her flashlight propped against an overturned crate, casting a buttery cone of light across the old journal on her lap. The paper crackled with every page she turned—thin and brittle, yellow at the edges, but still strong. Like it wanted to be read.

  The rest of the crew moved about the chamber in quiet awe, each nose-deep in their own discovery. Bo had found a canvas satchel full of ancient film canisters and was shaking them like maracas. Tadpole stacked the maps with careful, reverent hands, as if arranging offerings at an altar. Josie leaned against a pipe overhead, arms crossed, just watching.

  But Lila Rae? She was somewhere else entirely.

  She squinted at the looping handwriting and began to read aloud, voice soft and low—like she didn’t want to wake anything buried too deep:

  “May 19, 1968. I heard the hum again today. Not from the dredge—but the tree. The old one near sector three. The one I carved the spiral on. I think it remembers me…”

  Her voice trailed off.

  Josie pushed off the wall and stepped closer. “That tree’s the one we found.”

  Lila Rae nodded. “He marked it. Like a compass. This whole place—it was his backup plan.”

  Kenji looked up from the blueprints, eyebrows raised. “Lester Duval?”

  Lila Rae didn’t blink. “Yeah. And listen to this.”

  She turned the page and read again, the words dry on her tongue like creekbed dust:

  “If I vanish, it won’t be because I ran. It’ll be because they finally shut the book on me. But someone’ll come looking. Maybe not today. Maybe not for years. But someone will follow the hum.”

  She shut the journal slowly, hands trembling just enough for Josie to notice.

  “It’s him,” Lila Rae said, her voice suddenly thick. “The man from the bait shop’s story. The ‘crazy researcher’ who lived in the swamp. The one who vanished.”

  Tadpole looked up, still kneeling by a crate. “They made folks forget him.”

  “Not everyone,” Josie murmured. “Not us.”

  Cricket came over, holding a cracked photo frame with a younger Lester in front of the dredge, grinning, arm slung around a wiry black man in work coveralls. The back read: Lester & Buddy – final day on the rig.

  “They tried to bury him with metal and mud,” she said. “But the swamp don’t bury truth. It grows it.”

  Kenji stepped into the circle, voice low. “He left all this not to be famous, or even believed. Just remembered.”

  Josie knelt beside Lila Rae and looked at the old journal. “Well, we remember him now.”

  She reached out and placed her hand gently on the cover.

  “And we ain’t lettin’ him vanish again.”

  Outside, the wind shifted.

  The tree above gave a single, low groan—deep and distant—like it was exhaling a thank-you.