Whispers in the Fog

The town of Greywick was the kind of place you didn’t find on most maps. Tucked between a dense forest and a wide, unmapped lake, it was blanketed by fog more often than not. To outsiders, it felt abandoned—silent streets, shuttered homes, and an eerie stillness that clung to the air like damp wool. But to those who lived there, the fog was part of the town, as much a fixture as the clocktower or the old church.

And sometimes, the fog whispered.

Marla had lived in Greywick her whole life. Twenty-three years of hearing stories from her grandmother—of lost children, of wandering spirits, of things best left unnamed. She didn’t believe any of it, not really. People talked when they had nothing else to do. Still, there was something about the fog that made her uneasy. It moved like it had a mind of its own, curling around lampposts and brushing past windows like a ghost trying to get in.

It was on one of those fog-thick mornings, just past dawn, when Marla heard the first whisper.

She had been walking her dog, Theo, down Willow Lane—a narrow street lined with crooked fences and trees that had long outgrown their roots. The fog was thick enough that she could barely see ten feet ahead. Theo tugged at his leash, pulling toward the woods at the end of the road.

That’s when she heard it. Faint, like wind across an empty field.

"Marla..."

She froze. It wasn’t the kind of voice you could easily dismiss. It was soft, almost soothing, and unmistakably hers. Not her name as anyone else would say it—but her grandmother’s way. The way she used to say it when Marla was scared.

“Who's there?” she called out, tightening her grip on the leash.

No answer. Only the hush of fog.

Theo whined and pulled harder. The dog, usually calm, seemed panicked. He barked at nothing, then darted toward the trees, jerking the leash from Marla’s hand. She chased him, cursing under her breath. The forest swallowed her quickly. The deeper she went, the less she could see. The trees loomed tall and silent, muffled by the mist. Somewhere up ahead, Theo barked again—and then the sound cut off.

And then came the whisper again.

"You shouldn’t be here."

This voice was different. Not her grandmother’s. Not kind.

Something brushed past her shoulder. She turned sharply, but there was nothing—just the thick soup of fog and trees reaching like fingers toward the sky.

She called Theo’s name again and again, but he didn’t come.

Minutes passed—maybe hours. Time was strange in the fog. Finally, she saw it: a clearing up ahead. She stepped into it and stopped dead.

There, in the center of the clearing, stood an old well. Cracked stones, moss-covered edges, and a darkness that seemed deeper than it should have been.

Theo sat beside it, silent, staring down into the hole.

“Theo!” she whispered, running to him. The dog didn’t move. He looked up at her, eyes wide and uncertain, and whimpered. She followed his gaze to the well.

From deep inside, something moved.

And then the voice again.

"Help me."

"Please... help me."

"It’s so dark down here..."

It sounded like a child.

Marla’s heart pounded. She stepped closer, peering over the edge. Nothing but darkness.

But the voice continued. Desperate. Pleading. Too real to ignore.

She pulled out her phone, turned on the flashlight, and pointed it down. The beam vanished into blackness, swallowed whole. No bottom. No sign of anything—except…

She squinted. Was that movement?

Suddenly, a hand shot up from the darkness, pale and skeletal, grabbing the edge of the well.

Marla screamed and stumbled backward, falling into the damp grass.

Theo barked wildly, lunging toward the well as if to protect her.

But when she looked again—the hand was gone.

So was the voice.

The fog began to pull back, slowly, revealing more of the trees, the path, and finally, the edge of the forest.

Marla grabbed Theo and ran.

Back in town, her story was met with the usual looks: a mix of concern, curiosity, and quiet dismissal. People in Greywick had learned not to talk too much about the things they saw—or thought they saw. But Marla couldn't forget. Not the voice. Not the hand.

Not the whispers.

That night, as she lay in bed, the fog returned, curling around the house like a living thing. Outside her window, she heard a familiar sound. A voice.

"Thank you for finding me..."

She stared at the ceiling, wide-eyed and afraid to move.

And then, softly:

"But I’m not alone down here."