Strange Noise, Lost Phone

Morning started gray and cold. The rain eased up, but fog still clung to the trees. Everything smelled like wet soil and smoke.

We packed up to leave, but Pete said he wanted “one more look.”

That’s when things started going wrong.

Tom couldn’t find his phone. He swore he’d left it inside his backpack. We tore through everything — nothing. Pete joked he probably dropped it by the falls, but Tom wasn’t laughing. “That phone’s my life, man,” he muttered. “Got my girl’s photos, my work log, everything.”

Sakda said maybe he dropped it when fetching water earlier. They went to look while I stayed to clean up camp.

I was alone maybe twenty minutes. The air felt heavier, like pressure before a storm. Somewhere behind me, something cracked — like a branch breaking, but slower, deliberate. When I turned, nothing. Just gray mist curling between the trees.

They came back with no phone. Tom was pissed, shouting that something “took it.” Pete rolled his eyes, but even he looked uneasy. John barely spoke at all. He’d been quiet since last night, eyes distant.

Around noon, Sakda found a note stuck under a rock near our campfire — a folded scrap of paper wrapped in plastic.

On it, written in shaky English:

> “Go home before it rains.”

No name. No signature.

Pete said it was probably from some villager trying to freak out tourists. But the handwriting looked like it was done in haste, maybe fear.

We decided to head back anyway, but the river had risen overnight. The small bridge we crossed yesterday was gone — washed out. Sakda said we’d have to wait for the water to lower.

So, one more night here.

Evening brought thunder again. I’m writing this inside the tent. Tom’s pacing, muttering about his phone. Pete keeps checking his GPS but it just blinks red — no connection.

Outside, the waterfall’s sound is lower, heavier. It doesn’t even sound like water anymore.

More like something breathing slow, patient.