Story 1059: The Ghast of Glenmoor

They say the town of Glenmoor is swallowed by fog twelve months a year.

Not a soft morning haze—no, Glenmoor’s fog is thick, wet, and wrong. It seeps into skin, into thoughts. It muffles sound like a wet rag over the mouth. The sun has not touched its cobbled streets in decades.

It wasn’t always like this.

Before the Ghast came.

The survivors wandered into Glenmoor by mistake, following broken maps and half-remembered trade routes. The skeletal remains of buildings loomed around them, brickwork crumbling like rotted teeth. Shops still bore signs: Bakery, Barber, Bookstore—but inside, only mold and silence.

They split up to scavenge. That was their first mistake.

Niko and Fern entered the town chapel, its bell still intact but frozen in place. On the altar, they found strange carvings: spirals etched into the wood, bleeding a black sap. Fern touched it.

And then she screamed.