The House Beyond the Fog

Part 1: The Path That Disappears

The fog rolled in early that night, thick and silver like spilled mercury across the countryside. Rohan gripped the steering wheel tighter, squinting through the mist. His GPS had died miles back, and now he was relying on half-forgotten directions to find the old village his grandfather used to speak of — Wrenthorpe, a name that already sounded ghostly.

He was supposed to meet his friends there for a camping weekend, but so far, he'd seen no sign of them. Just empty fields, long-forgotten stone walls, and now... this.

Through the mist, a figure appeared at the side of the road — a woman in a long gray coat, her hair plastered to her face by the damp air. Rohan’s heart jumped. She lifted one hand, pointing down a narrow track that peeled off from the main road.

Against better judgment, Rohan slowed to a stop. He rolled down the window just enough to shout through the crack.
“Is this the way to Wrenthorpe?”

The woman didn’t answer. She simply kept pointing, her hand trembling slightly.

"Thanks," Rohan muttered, uneasy. He pulled onto the track, tires crunching over gravel. When he looked back in his mirror — the woman was gone.

The track grew narrower, trees crowding closer until their bare branches scraped against his windows. After what felt like an hour but could have been minutes, the path ended at a clearing.

In the middle stood a house.

It was enormous and old, its wood siding sagging with rot. Windows stared blankly into the night. A single lantern flickered on the porch, though Rohan couldn’t imagine who would still live out here.

Maybe it’s a bed and breakfast, he thought hopefully. Maybe this is where we’re all meeting.

He stepped out of the car. Immediately, the fog seemed to swallow the vehicle whole. He turned in a slow circle — the track he’d driven down was gone, vanished like it had never existed.

Heart hammering, he approached the house.

The front door creaked open before he could touch it.


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Part 2: A Voice in the Dark

The hallway beyond was dark except for a faint light deeper inside. It smelled of damp wood and something sweet, like rotting fruit.

"Hello?" Rohan called, voice cracking slightly. "Anyone here?"

No answer.

His boots thudded softly against the warped floorboards as he stepped inside. The door groaned shut behind him.

Rohan walked toward the light, which seemed to come from a room at the end of the hall. As he passed doorways, he caught glimpses of empty rooms — a parlor full of sheet-covered furniture, a kitchen with a broken table, a staircase whose steps sagged and bent.

The light was coming from a small sitting room. Inside, an oil lamp burned on a low table, surrounded by armchairs. In one chair sat a man — or at least something that looked like one.

Rohan froze.

The figure was slumped, unmoving. Shadows obscured its face. For a long moment, Rohan thought it was a corpse. But then the figure stirred, slowly lifting its head.

"Welcome," it rasped.

Rohan found his voice. "I think I'm lost. I was looking for Wrenthorpe — is this...?"

"You've found it," said the man. His voice was like dead leaves scraping across pavement. "Or what's left of it."

The figure shifted forward into the light. His face was ruined — scarred and waxy, his eyes milky white. One side of his mouth twisted into a semblance of a grin.

"Not many visitors these days," he said. "Come. Sit."

Rohan wanted nothing more than to turn and run, but he found himself stepping forward, lowering himself into a chair. His muscles moved sluggishly, like he was underwater.

"What happened here?" Rohan asked, his mouth dry.

The man chuckled, a hollow sound.
"We opened a door," he said. "And something answered."