The Blank Channel

They took the lakeside path until the abandoned tower rose ahead of them, a black tooth shoved into the treeline. It had been built in the sixties. Nobody used it anymore. But on storm nights, people still swore they could hear a whistle from inside. “My dad used to keep me away from this place,” Mara said. “Your dad is going to end up being right about half of everything tonight,” Nia said, slipping the shortwave receiver into her bag. “And I hate that.” The iron door at the base was unlocked, almost as if someone had opened it minutes earlier. In the mud outside were two sets of footprints: one made by dress shoes, the other by work boots. Mara crouched and studied them. The dress shoes were fresh.