James_Looi

When Lena Carter returns to Black Hollow to settle her estranged grandmother’s estate, she expects dust, memories, and maybe a few ghosts of her past. What she doesn’t expect is the fog—thick, unnatural, and whispering her name.

Her grandmother’s cryptic warning—“Don’t let the fog take you.”—becomes chillingly real when strange figures begin appearing in the mist. Shadows press against the windows, voices call to her from the darkness, and the once-familiar house warps into something sinister. Then she finds her grandmother’s journal, filled with frantic warnings about something in the fog—something that has waited for Lena to return.

As the whispers grow louder and reality begins to unravel, Lena must uncover the truth about Black Hollow’s dark past before the fog takes her, too.

Because once you answer the whispers, you belong to them.

The Fog Whispers

The cold mist flooded into the room, twisting in strange patterns as it swirled toward Lena. She scrambled backward, her breath coming in sharp gasps. The rocking chair stopped moving. The whispering faded.

Through the broken window, a shadow loomed. It had no defined features, only a tall, elongated figure that seemed to shift and stretch with the movement of the fog. Its fingers—too many of them—curled against the window frame, its body half inside, half out.

Then the voice came again, this time directly in her ear.

A gust of wind blew through the house, slamming the doors shut. The candles flickered violently, and for a split second, Lena thought she saw something else in the flames—a face, hollow and grinning.

The hallway seemed longer than before, stretching endlessly in both directions. The oil paintings on the walls had changed. Their eyes, once dull and lifeless, were now wide open, staring at her. Some of the mouths were twisted in silent screams.

She reached the stairs and took them two at a time, her footsteps echoing unnaturally. As she reached the second floor, a new sound filled the house—footsteps following her.

She burst into her grandmother's old bedroom and slammed the door, locking it. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she backed away from the door. The room smelled of lavender and dust, just as it had when she was a child. The bed was untouched, the lace curtains drawn shut.

For a moment, the house was silent.

Lena pressed herself against the far wall, her eyes darting around the room for anything—anything—she could use as a weapon.

On the desk, in the moonlight, lay a leather-bound journal. Her grandmother's handwriting scrawled across the cover:

Chapter Three: The Visitor in the Fog