The Whisper in the Fog

"Every town has its secrets. Some are buried in the ground. Others are carried by the wind. And some… some linger in the mist, waiting to be found."

— Graven Town Folklore

Ellie woke to the sound of faint tapping. At first, she thought it was rain. But as her eyes adjusted to the gray light filtering through the thin curtains, she realized it wasn't coming from outside. It was coming from somewhere inside the house.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Her heart skipped. The old house creaked and groaned like it was alive, settling into its foundation after years of neglect. She'd told herself last night that the noises were normal, just the house getting used to having people in it again. But this sound—it felt deliberate. Rhythmic. Like fingers drumming against wood.

She sat up, her breath caught in her throat. The tapping stopped.

Silence.

For a moment, all she could hear was the faint hum of the morning fog pressing against the windows, so thick it blurred the world outside into a smudge of gray. The house felt heavier than it had the night before, as though the walls were closing in inch by inch. Ellie shook her head and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "Get a grip," she muttered. "It's just an old house."

She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and checked the time. 6:13 AM. Too early to be up after a sleepless night, but she doubted she'd be able to fall back asleep now. She shoved her feet into her slippers and stepped into the hallway, the wooden floor icy against her skin even through the thin fabric.

The house was silent now, save for the occasional groan of the floorboards beneath her weight. She passed Joey's room and peeked inside. He was still wrapped in his blanket, his chest rising and falling steadily. Ellie sighed with relief and pulled the door shut again. At least one of them was getting some rest.

The tapping started again. Louder this time. It was coming from downstairs.

Ellie's stomach twisted. She hesitated for just a moment before heading toward the staircase, each step creaking louder than the last. The air grew colder as she descended, and the faint scent of damp earth filled her nose. She hadn't noticed it yesterday, but now it was unmistakable—like the smell of wet soil after a storm.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she froze. The front door was wide open.

The fog from outside had crept into the house, curling along the floor like ghostly fingers. For a moment, Ellie couldn't move. Her mind raced with possibilities: Had she forgotten to lock the door last night? Had someone broken in? Was someone still here?

"Hello?" she called, her voice trembling. It echoed faintly, swallowed by the fog.

No answer.

Ellie stepped closer to the door, her bare feet brushing against the damp wood where the mist had seeped in. She reached for the door handle, ready to shut it, when something caught her eye—a faint shape in the distance, just beyond the edge of the driveway.

It was hard to make out through the swirling fog, but it looked like a person. A man, standing perfectly still, facing the house. Ellie squinted, her pulse quickening. "Hey! Who's there?"

The figure didn't move.

Ellie's hand hovered over the door handle as a chill ran down her spine. She could feel her instincts screaming at her to close the door, lock it, and call the police. But something about the figure held her in place, like she was tethered to it by an invisible thread.

And then it moved.

Not toward her, but away, disappearing into the fog with slow, deliberate steps. Within seconds, it was gone, swallowed by the mist.

Ellie slammed the door shut and locked it, her heart pounding in her chest. She leaned against the door, trying to catch her breath. She told herself it was nothing—just some local out for an early morning walk. But deep down, she knew better. There was nothing normal about the way the figure had stood there, watching. Waiting.

She turned to head back upstairs, but stopped dead in her tracks.

The tapping had started again. This time, it was coming from the kitchen.

"Joey?" she called, her voice shaking. No answer.

Ellie moved slowly, her bare feet silent against the floor as she crept toward the kitchen. The tapping grew louder with each step, echoing off the walls. When she reached the doorway, she hesitated, her hand gripping the frame.

The kitchen was empty, but the window over the sink was wide open. The old, rusted latch dangled loosely, swinging back and forth as though it had been forced open. The mist from outside had crept in here too, curling around the legs of the table and chairs like it belonged.

And on the kitchen counter, scratched into the dusty surface, were three words:

"More will come."

Ellie's knees nearly buckled. She stumbled back, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. Her mind raced. Who had written it? When? And why? The letters were jagged and uneven, like they'd been carved in a hurry. But that wasn't the worst part.

The worst part was the fact that the scratches were fresh.

"Mom?"

Ellie spun around, her heart leaping into her throat. Joey stood at the edge of the hallway, rubbing his eyes and clutching his game console. "What are you doing?" he asked, his voice groggy.

Ellie opened her mouth to answer, but no words came out. She glanced back at the counter, half-expecting the message to be gone, a figment of her imagination. But it was still there, carved deep into the wood.

"Nothing," she said finally, her voice barely a whisper. "Go back upstairs, Joey."

He frowned but didn't argue, turning and trudging back up the stairs. Ellie waited until he was out of sight before walking to the counter. She reached out and ran her fingers over the scratches, as if touching them would make them disappear.

The letters felt cold.

Ellie looked toward the open window, the mist still curling inside like a living thing. She slammed it shut and locked it, but she couldn't shake the feeling that it was too late. Something had already gotten in.