Story 1113: Fog Over Elder Hollow

There was no sun over Elder Hollow—only fog.

It rolled in thick and pale, blanketing the withered village like a burial shroud. It coiled through the skeletal trees, whispered against mossy gravestones, and swirled around the crooked chimneys of houses that hadn’t seen life in decades.

Evelyn Blackmoor arrived just as the mist began to thicken, swallowing the road behind her.

Locals—those few who hadn’t fled—refused to speak of the fog. They warned her in trembling tones: “It listens.” “It learns.” “It remembers what we forget.”

The village square was deserted, its fountain clogged with leaves and bone fragments. At the center stood an iron post with a rusted bell. Above it hung a plaque, worn down by time:

“If the bell tolls, do not breathe. Do not speak. Do not move.”

She rang it.

Once.

The sound vanished into the mist without echo.

Then the fog stirred.