“The Drone Above the Pines”

When I moved to Chester County, 45 miles west of Philadelphia, I thought I’d found the perfect place to live. The town was small enough to be quiet but big enough to avoid the feeling of being in the middle of nowhere. There were rolling hills, friendly neighbors, and rows of pine trees bordering my backyard that offered just the right amount of privacy. I was happy here. At least, I thought I was—until two weeks ago, when something happened that I still can’t explain.

Let me back up a bit. It started with rumors. Over the last month, I heard chatter online about strange lights in the sky along the East Coast. Most of the reports seemed to come from New Jersey, just across the river from me. People called them drones—big, silent things that hovered too long in one spot or moved in ways no commercial drone could. A few videos made the rounds, but they were grainy, low-resolution clips that could’ve been anything. I didn’t think much of it.

That night, though, the night of the party, everything changed.

It was a Saturday, and I’d invited a few friends over for drinks and a small bonfire. It was nothing fancy, just the kind of laid-back get-together I liked hosting. The night was cool, the air smelling faintly of pine and the bonfire crackling in the backyard. Around midnight, the party started to wind down. A few of us were still chatting by the fire, but most of the guests had left.

I excused myself to take out the recycling. The bin was tucked away behind the house, near the pines that formed the natural boundary of my property. As I stepped around the corner of the house, I glanced up—and there it was.

At first, I thought it was just a drone. It hovered directly above the tallest pine tree, motionless except for a faint pulsating glow rippling across its surface. The light wasn’t like anything I’d seen on a drone before. It was soft, almost organic, and it shifted in strange, fluid patterns. I squinted, trying to discern its shape. It was roughly oval, but there was something almost…alive about the way it shimmered in the dark.

I froze. The air felt heavier, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. I told myself to move, to get my phone and take a picture, but I couldn’t. My legs refused to cooperate, and my hands hung limply at my sides.

Then, the craft tilted slightly, and for the first time, I realized it wasn’t making any noise. No hum, no whir of propellers, nothing. It was completely silent, floating no more than thirty feet above the tree. As I stared, something on its surface shifted. A faint beam of light—no brighter than a flashlight—swept downward, tracing over the pines and the patch of ground where I stood.

For a moment, I felt weightless, as if the ground beneath me had disappeared. My vision blurred, and a sharp, metallic taste filled my mouth. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the thing shot upward into the night sky, vanishing instantly.

I stood there, paralyzed, for what felt like an eternity, staring at the empty space above the tree. Eventually, I stumbled back toward the house, my legs shaky beneath me.

When I rejoined the party, I kept what I’d seen to myself. I hadn’t known some of my partygoers all that long, and first impressions were important to me; the last thing I wanted was for them to think I was insane. Instead, I poured myself another drink and tried to focus on the conversation, but I couldn’t stop replaying the moment in my head. The way it moved. The silence. The beam of light.

By the time everyone left, I still hadn’t decided if I’d imagined the whole thing. Maybe I was just tired. Maybe I’d had one too many drinks. But deep down, I suspected that whatever I’d seen above the pines that night wasn’t a normal drone. And it wasn’t something I was going to forget.

* * * * * *

The following week passed in a strange haze. Every time I stepped outside, my eyes would drift toward the pine tree where I’d first seen the object. It became a habit—checking the sky, scanning for any sign of the faint glow or the strange patterns that had shimmered across its surface. I didn’t see anything. But the feeling lingered, that nagging sense that it had been real.

I started searching online, trying to find someone else who might have seen what I’d seen. The sightings weren’t hard to find. Forums were filled with posts about strange lights and drones behaving oddly, though most of the reports came from neighboring States. Whatever was happening, it was obvious it wasn’t confined to Pennsylvania.

It wasn’t just the forums, either. There were scattered videos on social media—blurry, shaky clips of glowing objects darting through the sky. Some were obvious fakes, but others reminded me too much of what I’d seen. The silence. The movement. The glow.

By Friday, I was obsessed. I spent hours scrolling through countless posts and videos, ignoring texts and calls from friends. The weekend was approaching, and I had decided to spend every night in my backyard, watching the sky.

That Friday night, armed with a blanket, a thermos of coffee, and my phone, I set up a makeshift observation spot in my yard. The air was cool and crisp, the stars glittering in a clear sky. The pine trees loomed dark and still against the horizon, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. I stayed outside until nearly two in the morning, but nothing happened.

Saturday night was the same—just me, the stars, and an unsettling quiet. By Sunday, I’d begun to feel ridiculous. Maybe it was just a drone after all, and I’d let my imagination run wild. I considered the possibility that I’d made a big deal out of nothing.

But then came the second sighting.

It happened just as the sun dipped below the horizon. I was walking my dog, Buddy, along the trail behind my house. The path wound through a patch of woods before opening up into a field that bordered a neighbor’s property. I’d taken this route hundreds of times without a second thought, but tonight, something felt off.

Buddy tugged on his leash, his nose to the ground, unusually subdued. I looked up, and there it was.

This time, the object hovered just above the neighbor’s yard, maybe fifty feet in the air. It was the same as before—silent and glowing faintly, with those strange patterns rippling across its surface. But it was lower now, much closer to the ground.

“Jesus,” I whispered, my grip tightening on Buddy’s leash. He noticed it, too. His ears flattened against his head, and he let out a low, menacing growl—a sound I’d never heard him make before, not even at other dogs.

The object pulsed once, its glow intensifying. Buddy’s started barking frantically, loudly and sharply enough to echo through the trees.

Then, without warning, Buddy stopped. His barking cut off mid-yap, and he dropped to the ground, whining softly. I crouched down, running my hands over him. He wasn’t hurt, but he was trembling, his body pressed flat against the dirt as if he were trying to disappear into it.

“Buddy,” I whispered. “What’s wrong?”

The answer was hovering above us.

The object pulsed again, brighter this time, and I felt the now-familiar tingling sensation on my skin. It was faint, but it spread quickly, like static electricity crawling over me. I reached for my phone, fumbling to unlock the screen.

I pointed it toward the object, my thumb hovering over the record button—but the screen froze. No matter what I did, the phone refused to respond. The object pulsed again, and I swear it tilted slightly, as if scrutinizing me.

I realized then it wasn’t just a drone.

The thought hit me like a punch to the gut. My chest tightened, and the tingling on my skin gave way to a cold, creeping dread. The object drifted closer, its glow bright enough now to illuminate the tops of the pine trees.

I didn’t wait to see what it would do next. I grabbed Buddy, scooping his trembling body into my arms, and bolted back toward the house. My feet pounded against the trail, the cold air stinging my lungs, but I didn’t dare look back. I couldn’t.

When I reached the house, I slammed the door behind me and locked it. Buddy squirmed out of my arms and took cover under the kitchen table, his tail tucked between his legs.

I collapsed onto a chair, and for a long time, I just sat there, staring at the window. The yard was dark and still, as if nothing at all had happened. But I knew better.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t gone.

* * * * * *

I didn’t sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the object—its pulsing light, the way it hovered so impossibly still, the hypnotic, shifting patterns on its surface—and I shivered.

Buddy stayed under the kitchen table until the next morning, refusing to come out no matter how much I coaxed him. I tried to convince myself that everything would feel normal in the daylight, but the house felt different somehow. Less secure, violated.

When the sun rose, I threw myself into distractions. I cleaned the house, scrolled aimlessly through social media, and caught up on work emails. But every so often, I’d glance out the window toward the pine trees, half expecting to see the object hovering there again.

By the afternoon, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to know if anyone else had seen anything like it.

I returned to the forums where I’d first read about the drones. Most of the posts were the same—blurry photos, vague descriptions, and lots of speculation. But then I found something that sent a chill through me.

One user, calling themselves EDelaney44, had posted a detailed account of an encounter just two days ago. They described seeing a glowing object hovering near their house in rural New Jersey. It was eerily similar to what I’d seen: the silence, the strange pulsing light, the way it reacted to being observed.

“The object scanned me with a beam of light,” EDelaney44 wrote. “It wasn’t bright, more like a faint spotlight, but it made my skin tingle. Since then, I’ve heard strange noises at night—clicking sounds outside my window, almost mechanical. My dog barks at nothing, and my electronics keep glitching.”

The post ended there, but the comments were filled with people sharing similar stories. A few even mentioned strange dreams following their encounters. My stomach tightened as I read. It was all too familiar.

That night, I didn’t bother trying to sleep. I sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, with Buddy curled up at my feet. Every light in the house was on, and I kept my phone and a flashlight within arm’s reach.

At some point past midnight, Buddy’s ears perked up. He let out the same guttural warning he’d given on the trail previously. I froze, listening.

The sound came from outside, faint but unmistakable: a clicking noise, rhythmic and mechanical. It wasn’t like the creak of branches in the wind or the scuttle of some small animal. This was deliberate, precise.

I grabbed the flashlight and crept to the back entrance. Buddy stayed close to my heels, his growl low and constant. My hand trembled as I unlocked the door and stepped out onto the porch.

The yard was empty, the pine trees swaying gently in the breeze. The clicking noise had stopped. For a moment, I wondered if it was all in my head.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw a faint glow through the trees.

It was back.

The object hovered just beyond the tree line, its light pulsing faintly. My breath caught as it began to drift closer, its glow illuminating the needles on the tallest pines. I raised the flashlight, pointing the beam toward it, but the light didn’t seem to faze it.

This time, I didn’t try to run. I don’t know if it was out of curiosity or sheer determination, but I stood my ground, gripping the flashlight tightly. The object tilted slightly, its surface once again shimmering with those strange, shifting patterns.

A faint beam of light swept downward, tracing over the porch where I stood. The tingling sensation returned, stronger this time, spreading over my skin like static electricity. My phone, sitting on the table inside, began to buzz and glitch, the screen flashing erratically.

The object pulsed brighter, and for a moment, I thought it might do something more—get closer, emit another beam, or even make a sound. But then it zipped upward, disappearing into the night sky as quickly as it had come.

For a long time, I stood there, staring at the empty space it had left behind.

When I eventually turned in for the night, utterly exhausted, I had more questions than ever, and no answers.

* * * * * *

The next morning, I felt like I was losing my grip. My thoughts spun in endless circles, trying to make sense of what was happening. Twice now, I’d seen it—whatever it was—and it had seen me. A this point, its visitations seemed intentional.

I sat at my kitchen table, staring at my laptop. The forums had become my lifeline, a place where I could compare notes with others who had experienced similar things. I typed out my encounter in detail, hesitating only before I hit “Post.” What if no one believed me? What if they thought I was crazy? But the thought of keeping this to myself felt worse.

Almost immediately, responses started pouring in. Some people dismissed it outright—”You just saw a fancy drone, bro,” one comment read—but others shared stories that mirrored mine. Clicking noises outside their homes. Glitches in electronics. Vivid, unsettling dreams.

It wasn’t until I found an older thread by EDelaney44 that I started to feel truly afraid.

EDelaney44 had been posting on the forum for months, documenting sightings of glowing objects in rural areas. His descriptions matched mine: the silence, the pulsing light, the tingling sensation. But his later posts took a darker turn.

“Ever since the second sighting, I feel like I’m being watched,” he wrote in one post. “Not just when I’m outside—inside, too. I’ll catch movement out of the corner of my eye, but when I turn, there’s nothing there. My electronics glitch constantly, and my dog refuses to go near the windows anymore.”

Another post was even more chilling: “I’ve started having dreams—if they are dreams. I’m lying on a cold metal surface, unable to move. There’s a bright light above me, and I can hear clicking noises, like something’s walking around me. I wake up drenched in sweat every time, but the feeling doesn’t go away. It’s like they’re in my head now.”

That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about those posts. I tried to tell myself it was all in my head, but I couldn’t ignore the growing paranoia. Every creak of the house made me jump. Every flicker of light from my phone made my stomach clench.

When I finally drifted off to sleep, I dreamed.

In the dream, I was standing in my backyard. The pine trees loomed tall and dark against the night sky, their branches eerily still. I looked up, and the object was there, larger than before, its light so bright it cast shadows across the yard.

The patterns on its surface shifted hypnotically, drawing my gaze. I couldn’t look away. My body felt heavy, pinned in place, as if the air itself had solidified around me. The light grew brighter, filling my vision until there was nothing else.

Then came the clicking. It was rhythmic and mechanical, growing louder and closer with each passing second. I couldn’t see where it was coming from, but I could feel it—moving around me, examining me.

Suddenly, I was no longer in my yard. I was lying on something cold and metallic, my arms and legs stretched out as if held in place by invisible restraints. The light above me was blinding, but I could just make out shapes moving on the edges of my vision—tall, angular figures that moved with jerky, insect-like precision.

One of them leaned closer, its silhouette blocking the light. I couldn’t see its face—if it had one—but I could feel its attention. The patterns on its surface were similar to those on the object, shifting and glowing in a way that made my head ache.

When I woke up, my heart was racing, and my sheets were soaked with sweat. I could still hear the faint clicking noise echoing in my ears.

It was just a dream. It had to be. But as I sat up, trying to catch my breath, I noticed something that made my blood run cold.

On the window above my bed, faint but unmistakable, was a pattern of glowing lines. They shifted and pulsed, just like the ones on the object.

* * * * * *

I spent the rest of the night sitting in the corner of my living room, every light in the house turned on, clutching Buddy like a lifeline. He seemed calmer than before, but every so often, his ears would twitch, his nose lifting toward the air as if he smelled something I couldn’t.

The patterns on my window had disappeared by morning, fading with the first rays of sunlight. I tried to convince myself that they had been nothing more than a lingering dream, but the memory of their glow was burned into my mind.

That day passed in a fog. I couldn’t focus on work, couldn’t eat, couldn’t bring myself to do anything but sit by the window and stare out at the pines. I wanted to believe that it was over, that the object wouldn’t come back, but deep down, I knew better.

By sunset, my paranoia had reached a breaking point. I decided to confront whatever this thing was. If it came back, I wouldn’t hide. I wouldn’t run. I would stand my ground and get answers—or at least try to.

As night fell, I grabbed my flashlight and phone and stepped out onto the back porch. Buddy whimpered, refusing to follow me outside. I glanced back at him, huddled under the kitchen table, before turning toward the pines.

The yard was quiet except for the faint rustling of branches in the wind. I stood there for what felt like hours, my breath fogging in the cool night air. My flashlight swept over the trees, their trunks casting long, jagged shadows across the ground.

Then I saw it.

The glow appeared just beyond the tree line, faint at first but growing steadily brighter. The object hovered into view, its light pulsing in a slow, deliberate rhythm. It was closer than ever, no more than twenty feet above the ground, its patterns shifting and shimmering like liquid metal.

I raised my phone, my hands trembling, and hit record. The screen glitched immediately, freezing on a distorted image of the glowing object. I cursed under my breath and pocketed the phone.

“Who are you?” I shouted, my voice breaking. “What do you want from me?”

The object tilted slightly, its surface rippling in response. A beam of light swept downward, brighter and more focused than before, tracing over me with a cold, tingling sensation.

I stumbled backward as the light enveloped me, the world around me dissolving into a blur. My skin prickled with static, and for a moment, I felt weightless again.

Then everything went still.

When my vision cleared, the object had moved closer. It was so low now that I could see the details on its surface—intricate, fractal-like patterns that seemed to pulse in time with my heartbeat.

The beam of light dimmed, and the object split open.

I can’t fully describe what I saw. The inside of the object wasn’t mechanical; it was organic, alive. Pulsing veins of light crisscrossed its interior, and at its center was a mass of glowing orbs, each one shifting and swirling like liquid mercury. They moved in unison, as though observing me.

And then I felt it.

Not a voice, exactly, but a presence, something pressing into my thoughts. It wasn’t speaking to me in words—it was more like an overwhelming flood of images and sensations. I saw distant stars, alien landscapes bathed in strange, unearthly light, and creatures that defied comprehension.

I don’t know how long it lasted. Seconds? Minutes? All I know is that when it was over, I was on my knees, gasping for breath. The object was gone.

But I wasn’t alone.

The clicking noise started again, louder and more insistent. It was coming from all around me, echoing through the pines. Shadows darted between the trees—tall, angular shapes with limbs that bent at unnatural angles. They were closing in.

I scrambled to my feet and ran. I didn’t stop until I was inside the house, the door locked and every light turned back on. Buddy was barking furiously now, his eyes wide with fear as he cowered beneath the table.

For hours, I sat there, clutching a kitchen knife and staring at the back door. The clicking noises faded just before dawn, but I didn’t move until the first light of morning spilled through the windows.

* * * * * *

By the time the sun came up, I had barely slept, my nerves too raw from the encounter. I kept replaying the moment the object split open, the strange orbs that seemed to be alive, and the images that flooded my mind. It didn’t feel like a warning. It felt like a test.

I spent the morning scouring the backyard, searching for any sign that it had been there. The grass beneath the pines was singed in patches, as if it had been exposed to extreme heat. In one spot, half-hidden beneath the needles, I found something else: a fragment of metal.

It was small, no bigger than a coin, and cool to the touch. The surface was etched with intricate lines, like the patterns I’d seen on the object. They seemed to shimmer faintly, even in the daylight.

I took it inside and placed it on the kitchen counter, staring at it as if it might start moving. Buddy sniffed at it once, then bolted out of the room, his tail tucked between his legs.

The fragment felt important, like a clue to whatever had happened. But the more I stared at it, the more uneasy I became. I didn’t know what to do. Should I report it? To who? The police? The military? No one would believe me. And even if they did, I wasn’t sure I wanted them to take it.

That night, the clicking started again.

It was faint at first, just outside the house. I turned off all the lights and crept to the window, peering into the darkness. The pine trees swayed gently in the breeze, their branches whispering against each other.

Then I saw it—movement between the trees.

The shapes were back, tall and angular, their limbs bending unnaturally. There were more of them this time, at least five, maybe six, their movements jerky and deliberate. They circled the house, their glowing outlines barely visible in the darkness.

I backed away from the window. The fragment on the counter seemed to glow brighter, as if responding to their presence.

For hours, I sat in the corner of the living room, clutching a flashlight and the kitchen knife. Buddy whimpered beside me, too scared to bark. The clicking continued, growing louder, echoing through the house.

And then it stopped.

The silence was worse. It was as if the air itself had been sucked out of the room. I didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, the fragment was gone.

I tore the house apart searching for it, but it was nowhere to be found. Instead, I found something else: a symbol burned into the wood of the kitchen table. It was faint but unmistakable, the same shifting pattern I’d seen on the object.

That’s when I realized this wasn’t over. It wouldn’t be over, not ever.

In the days that followed, the glitches started. My phone refused to hold a charge, the screen flickering constantly. The television turned on by itself in the middle of the night, static hissing from the speakers. Even the lights seemed to dim at random, as if the house itself was losing power.

The dreams came back, too. I’d wake up hyperventilating, the clicking echoing in my ears. Each time, I felt the presence of the object—or something connected to it—watching me. Waiting.

I tried to leave. I packed a bag and loaded Buddy into the car, but the engine wouldn’t start. The dashboard lights blinked erratically, the radio blaring static. I abandoned the car and tried calling for help, but my phone glitched every time I dialed.

It was as if the world outside my house no longer existed.

The last time I stepped outside, I saw them again. The shapes were standing at the edge of the pines, their glowing outlines faint in the morning light. They didn’t move, didn’t come closer. They just stood there, watching.

I don’t know what they want. I don’t even know if they’re real. But every night, I hear the clicking.

I think it’s only a matter of time before they come back for me.