Story 1057: Fangs in the Fog

The fog arrived before dawn—thick as wool, silent as a corpse’s breath. It rolled over Grimhollow like a creeping infection, swallowing the moon, silencing the birds, and suffocating sound. When the sun tried to rise, it simply… didn’t.

And with the fog came the fangs.

No one saw them at first—just the aftermath.

Livestock gutted with surgical precision. Doors clawed from the inside. Children’s beds cold and wet with ash. Blood, but no tracks. Screams, but no bodies. Whatever lurked within the mists did not hunt for hunger—it hunted for ritual.

It began with the Vernon twins. They vanished from their room during a blackout. Only a claw mark remained, etched into the ceiling, dripping with saltwater.

Then the preacher’s wife turned up walking backward through town, eyes gone, smile too wide.

“The Hollow Ones return,” she whispered, “teeth like tombstones, breath like rot... and a hunger for sins unspoken.”