Echoes of the Mist

**Echoes of the Mist**

The town of Eldermere sat nestled between vast mountains and an endless stretch of forest. Though it appeared ordinary, a chilling legend had plagued it for centuries—the tale of the Mist Walkers.

No one could say where they came from, only that on fog-laden nights, eerie figures would emerge from the thick mist that rolled through the town. Those unfortunate enough to cross their path were never seen again.

For years, the warnings had been enough to keep the townspeople indoors on misty nights. But James, a historian obsessed with uncovering the truth, refused to believe the stories. Determined to prove them false, he set out one fateful evening, camera and notebook in hand, as the fog crept through the streets.

At first, the night was silent. The world around him was ghostly, buildings barely visible through the haze. But then he heard it—a soft whisper carried on the wind.

His breath hitched. "Hello?" he called, his voice swallowed by the fog.

No answer. Only the sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate, circling him.

James turned sharply, but the mist was too thick. His flashlight barely pierced the swirling gray. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement—a tall, shadowy figure standing at the end of the street.

He raised his camera, snapping a picture. The flash illuminated the fog for a brief second, revealing not one, but many figures standing motionless in the mist.

A chill ran down his spine. They had no faces.

A guttural whisper slithered through the air: **"You should not have looked."**

James felt a hand brush against his shoulder. He spun, but nothing was there. The mist grew thicker, pressing against him like a living thing. The figures in the fog moved closer, their outlines shifting unnaturally.

Heart pounding, he stumbled back, gripping his camera as if it were a lifeline. He had to get out—had to prove what he had seen. He turned and ran, the whispers rising to a deafening chorus behind him.

Just as he reached his doorstep, the mist parted. He burst inside, locking the door behind him, gasping for breath. Silence settled around him once more.

Shaking, he reviewed the photos on his camera. Most were blank, swallowed by the fog. But the last image sent ice through his veins.

It showed his house.

And standing right behind him, just beyond the threshold, was a faceless figure, reaching for him.

James never spoke of that night. But from then on, when the mist rolled into Eldermere, he made sure to lock his doors and shut his curtains. And when the whispers called his name, he never, ever answered.