Whispers in the Fog
The town of Black Hollow had always been shrouded in mist, a thick, unnatural fog that rolled in every night, swallowing the streets and houses whole. Some said the fog carried whispers, faint murmurs that slithered into your ears when you were alone. Most dismissed it as the wind, but those who listened too closely never spoke of what they heard.
Eleanor Grayson had lived in Black Hollow her entire life. She knew the stories but never gave them much thought. That changed on the night of October 31st, when she found herself walking home alone past midnight. The streets were eerily silent, save for the occasional rustling of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. The streetlamps flickered, struggling to cut through the suffocating fog.
As Eleanor turned onto Hawthorne Street, the whispers began.
At first, they were soft, almost indistinguishable, like the wind sighing through the trees. But as she walked, they grew clearer. Voices, hushed and urgent, speaking in a language she couldn’t understand. A chill crawled down her spine, and she quickened her pace. The whispers followed.
Then she heard her name.
“Eleanor…”
She froze. Her breath hitched in her throat.
The voice was close—too close. It wasn’t behind her. It wasn’t ahead. It was beside her, as if someone was whispering directly into her ear.
Heart pounding, she turned, but there was no one there. Only the dense fog, swirling and shifting like it was alive. She took a shaky step forward, determined to reach home as fast as possible.
That was when she saw it.
A shadow moved within the fog, a shape just barely distinguishable against the thick mist. It was tall and hunched, its limbs long and unnatural. It stood motionless in the middle of the street, watching.
Eleanor’s breath came in short gasps. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but her legs felt cemented to the pavement. The figure took a step forward. The whispers grew louder.
She bolted.
Her footsteps echoed against the pavement as she sprinted toward her house. The whispers turned to shrieks, a cacophony of voices crying out, pleading, laughing, screaming. She could feel the presence behind her, gaining ground, reaching.
She fumbled for her keys as she reached her front door. Her hands trembled violently, making it nearly impossible to fit the key into the lock. The whispers pressed against her skull, deafening.
Then—silence.
Everything stopped.
The voices. The footsteps. The presence.
The fog remained, but it was as if the thing that had been chasing her had disappeared. Eleanor forced herself to turn around.
The street was empty.
She exhaled shakily and stepped inside, locking the door behind her. The warmth of her home did little to ease the ice in her veins. She pressed her back against the door, trying to catch her breath. Maybe it was her imagination. Maybe exhaustion was playing tricks on her.
Then—knock.
A single, soft knock on the door.
Her heart lurched.
Knock. Knock.
Slow. Deliberate.
She peered through the peephole.
The fog outside was so thick she could barely see beyond her porch, but there was no one there. The street remained empty.
A whisper curled through the keyhole.
“Let me in, Eleanor.”
The voice was her own.
A sharp scream tore from her throat as she stumbled backward. The knock became a pounding, relentless and furious. The whispers returned, echoing through the walls, seeping from the vents, whispering from the shadows.
Then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped.
Eleanor stood frozen in the silence, her body trembling. Minutes passed. Nothing. No knocks. No whispers.
Had she imagined it?
She backed away slowly, her breath uneven. That was when she noticed something.
The fog had seeped under the door, curling along the floor like grasping fingers.
And within it—footsteps.
Coming straight toward her.