Chapter One: The Visitor in the Fog

Lin Ruo's car sputtered to a stop at the edge of Wuyin Town. The engine let out a low groan before falling silent. She sat in the driver's seat, staring at the thick fog beyond the windshield, her brow furrowed. The GPS had lost signal long ago, and her phone screen displayed nothing but gray static. She muttered a curse, pushed the door open, and stepped out. A damp, pungent smell hit her—like rotting leaves mixed with rust. She coughed twice, pulled her jacket tighter, and decided to walk into town.

Wuyin Town lived up to its name, perpetually shrouded in mist. But this fog was far from ordinary—it writhed like a living thing, swallowing the trees and power lines along the road, leaving only vague silhouettes. Lin Ruo switched on her phone's flashlight; the beam diffused in the mist, barely piercing two meters ahead. Somewhere in the distance, a sharp cry rang out—part bird, part strangled human. She froze, her trembling hand clutching the phone.

"Calm down," she whispered to herself. "It's just an investigation. Nothing more."She was here for Zhang Ran, an antiquarian book restorer who vanished ten days ago. His colleague's report had been incoherent, mentioning only that Zhang Ran was last seen clutching old books, muttering "Don't read it, don't read it," before entering the town's decrepit library and disappearing. Lin Ruo, a 28-year-old journalist with a knack for strange cases, didn't believe in ghosts. Yet Wuyin Town's name stirred an unease in her, like a half-remembered nightmare from childhood.

Dragging her suitcase, she trudged along the gravel path for ten minutes until a squat building loomed through the fog. The inn's sign hung crookedly above the door, its faded letters barely legible save for "Wuyin." The door stood ajar, the interior pitch-black. She knocked. No answer. She pushed it open with a creak.

"Anyone here?" she called. Her voice echoed in the empty lobby, swallowed halfway. The flashlight revealed a dust-laden counter, behind which hung a ring of keys tagged "Room 3." Hesitating, she grabbed the key and headed for the stairs.

The narrow staircase groaned with each step. On the second floor, she found Room 3. A long scratch marred the door, like claw marks from some beast. Frowning, she inserted the key and turned it. The room reeked of mold, with yellowed newspapers piled in a corner. She dropped her suitcase and yanked open the curtains for air—then froze.

Outside, a figure stood in the fog.It lingered beneath a streetlamp, tall and thin, its head tilted unnaturally to one shoulder as if its neck were broken. The lamp's glow scattered in the mist, failing to reveal its face—no, it had no face, just a smooth, featureless expanse. Lin Ruo's heart raced. She held her breath, staring as it slowly turned toward her and began to move, its stiff steps punctuated by the crack of snapping bones.

She slammed the curtains shut, stumbling back into the bed. The flashlight clattered to the floor, its beam sweeping the room and catching a grimy mirror. In the reflection, her pale face stared back—and behind her stood the same faceless figure, head tilted, motionless.

"Ah!" she screamed, spinning around. Nothing. The room was empty save for her ragged breathing. She snatched the flashlight and scanned every corner. The mirror now showed only her own reflection. She pressed a hand to her chest, willing herself to calm down.

"An illusion," she muttered. "Just exhaustion."But she knew better. As a child, she'd seen things—things doctors dismissed as stress-induced hallucinations. She'd never told anyone that some of those visions came true.

Shaking off the thought, she opened her suitcase and pulled out her notebook and recorder. She was here to find Zhang Ran and uncover Wuyin Town's secrets. Rumor had it the old library held the key. She checked the time: 11 p.m. Sleep was out of the question. Gritting her teeth, she donned her jacket and headed out.

The fog thickened, pressing against her like water. Lin Ruo wrapped her jacket tighter, the flashlight's beam a faint glow in the murk. She found the library by memory—a gothic relic with a spire lost in the haze. The door hung ajar, etched with strange, ancient symbols. She pushed it open, and a cold gust rushed out, carrying a damp, metallic stench.

The hall was dark, its towering shelves caked in dust. On a table lay scattered papers and a broken pen. She picked up a sheet—Zhang Ran's work log, scrawled in frantic handwriting:

October 3: Something's wrong with that book. The cover's red, feels like skin. I turned to page thirteen and heard laughter.October 5: That voice again, right in my ear. I didn't tell anyone—they'd think I'm mad.October 7: Don't look at it, don't look at it, don't look at it.

The final entry stopped mid-sentence: Page thirteen must not—A blank space followed, as if torn away. She frowned, flipping back, when a dull thud echoed from deeper within. She froze, her grip tightening on the log.

"Who's there?" she shouted. No reply. She stood, inching toward the sound. The air grew colder, the moldy smell tinged with rust. At a shelf, she found a book—its crimson cover glistened, wet as if freshly pulled from water. She reached for it, and it flipped open on its own.

Page after page turned, stopping at the thirteenth—empty, save for a jagged tear. She stared as a black droplet oozed from the edge, splashing onto her shoe. She stepped back, heart pounding. The flashlight flickered, catching a shadow behind the shelf.

Something moved.A low growl rumbled—animalistic yet human, like a throttled scream. She clenched her jaw, aiming the light—but it caught nothing. The beam flickered out, plunging her into darkness. Heavy footsteps approached from the shelves, slow and deliberate.

"Lin Ruo…"A hoarse whisper brushed her ear. She whirled around, the light flaring back on, revealing an empty floor. A chill stabbed her neck; she touched it, and her fingers came away bloody—a fresh scratch marked her skin.

She stumbled to the table, shoving the log into her bag. She had to leave—this place was wrong. At the door, she stopped. Beyond, in the fog, countless shadows stood—faceless, heads tilted, limbs twisted like broken dolls. They turned as one, advancing toward the library.

Her heart nearly stopped. She backed away as the door slammed shut, locking her inside.