The Hunter in the Mist

The forest road was golden that evening — washed in dying light, leaves whispering like old secrets. Jonas Vale, a solitary hunter, had walked these woods for twenty years. He knew every broken branch, every deer track, every breath of wind.

But that autumn, something changed.

The air was different — thicker, heavier, as though the forest itself was holding its breath.

Locals had been whispering about the Mist Walker, a pale figure seen wandering through fog, always just before nightfall. Some said it was a ghost; others said it was the forest’s own soul, haunting those who took more than they needed.

Jonas didn’t believe in ghosts.

He believed in instincts — and his were screaming.

That evening, he carried his rifle and a small lantern. The path ahead glowed with the soft gold of fallen leaves.

But as he walked deeper, the trees grew denser, and the sunlight bled into shadow.

He stopped near a clearing.

A deer stood there, motionless, staring directly at him.

He raised his rifle.

But the deer didn’t move — not even when the wind shifted.

And then, the mist rose.

It came silently, creeping from the ground up, wrapping around the trunks like fingers. Jonas blinked, lowering the gun for a moment. The deer’s shape began to fade — and in its place stood a woman.

Her dress was white, torn at the edges, her hair tangled with leaves. She looked at him with eyes too dark for daylight.

“Who are you?” Jonas whispered.

The woman tilted her head. “You shouldn’t hunt here anymore, Jonas Vale.”

His chest tightened. “How do you know my name?”

“Because you took what was mine,” she said softly.

And then — she vanished.

Jonas stumbled backward, the mist swallowing her form. His lantern flickered.

He fired into the fog, the echo bouncing endlessly, but there was no sound of impact — only the hollow cry of the forest.

He ran back toward the path. But the path wasn’t there anymore. The trees seemed to have moved.

Every direction looked the same.

“Stop it!” he shouted. “I didn’t take anything!”

The air around him whispered — faintly, but clearly enough:

“You did…”

When dawn came, Jonas found himself sitting by the old oak at the edge of the forest. His gun lay beside him. He didn’t remember how he got there.

He swore to himself never to return.

But a week later, his dog — Bear — ran into the same forest and didn’t come back.

Jonas couldn’t leave him. He packed his lantern and rifle again and entered the woods as dusk fell.

This time, the mist greeted him early. It coiled around his boots, cool and deliberate, as if welcoming him back.

He followed Bear’s distant barking — or at least, he thought he did — until it turned into something else. A low human voice, humming.

He crept closer.

There she was again — the woman in white — sitting on a fallen tree, brushing leaves from her lap. At her feet lay Bear, sleeping peacefully, unharmed.

Jonas aimed his rifle.

“Let him go,” he said.

The woman smiled faintly. “He’s safe. You, however…”

She paused, her tone changing. “…you shouldn’t have ignored me.”

“What are you?” Jonas demanded.

She stood, her eyes catching the faint lantern light — deep green, like the heart of the forest.

“I am the last memory of this place,” she said. “And you’re the reason it’s fading.”

He stepped back, shaken. “I’ve only hunted here—”

“Too much,” she interrupted. “Every creature, every branch you broke, every silence you disturbed — it remembers.”

She walked toward him. The forest seemed to bend around her, leaves curling and trembling as she passed.

“You can’t undo it,” she whispered. “But you can join it.”

Jonas fired.

The bullet passed through her — and struck the tree behind.

The sound that followed wasn’t wood breaking. It was screaming.

The forest howled, as if every living thing inside it cried out at once. Jonas fell to his knees, clutching his ears.

When he looked up, the woman was gone — but the mist was darker now, pulsing like breath.

Bear was gone too.

Days passed. Jonas stopped leaving his cabin.

He stopped hunting. He stopped sleeping.

At night, he heard footsteps outside — soft, bare feet walking through leaves.

Sometimes, he’d wake to see fog seeping under his door, creeping along the floor.

One night, unable to bear it, he opened the door and stepped out.

The forest was glowing again — just like before, golden light filtering through endless mist.

And in the center of the path, Bear sat waiting.

“Come home, boy,” Jonas said softly.

The dog wagged his tail — and then walked backward into the mist.

Jonas followed.

He walked until the path disappeared, until the golden light dimmed to gray, until all he could hear was breathing — not his own.

Then, silence.

When the next hunters came weeks later, they found Jonas’s cabin empty. His rifle rested on the wall, his lantern burned out, his boots neatly by the door.

They said he must have gone deeper into the forest and lost his way.

But some nights, when the mist rises and the trees whisper, hunters claim to see a figure walking the golden road, a lantern in hand, his dog beside him — both fading into the fog.

And if you listen closely, you can hear him call out softly,

“Come home, boy…”