The Death Fog (Caigo)

In the mountains of northern Italy, the village of San Bartolo lay hidden beneath a heavy shroud of mist. Every October, the fog would come—cold, dense, and unnatural. It wasn't the kind of mist that just rolled in from the mountains. No, this fog carried something dark with it. Something ancient. The villagers knew it as "La Nebbia della Morte."

The Fog of Death.

It had claimed many over the centuries. People who had ignored the warnings, those who thought it was just an eerie story. They vanished into the mist, leaving nothing behind but the faint echo of their final screams.

Father Guiseppie had been the village priest for decades. He had buried those lost to the fog, though their bodies were never recovered. Year after year, he warned the villagers: stay inside when the fog comes. No one ever listened, not really, until it was too late.

And now, it was coming again.

It was early October, and the fog descended earlier than expected, sliding down the mountainside like a predator stalking its prey. Father Guiseppie could feel it in the air—an oppressive weight that made his breath catch in his throat. He stood at the altar, whispering prayers, but his words felt hollow.

He knew what was coming.

His thoughts turned to Jaclyn, the young American woman who had arrived a few days ago, full of curiosity about the village and its legends. She had been staying at a Italian Estates near Venice, the decaying mansion that had been abandoned for years. Jaclyn had laughed at the villagers’ warnings, brushing off their fear as silly superstition. She wanted to see the fog for herself.

And now, the fog had come for her.

The village was silent as midnight neared. The church bell tolled, a low, mournful sound that reverberated through the mist. Father Guiseppie knew he couldn’t stay hidden. Jaclyn was still out there. Grabbing a lantern and a small cross, he stepped out into the thick fog, its cold tendrils immediately wrapping around him like fingers pressing into his skin.

The world outside the church was unrecognizable. The fog was so thick, it seemed to swallow the light from his lantern. The village was gone, the streets unfamiliar, warped by the suffocating mist. Every step felt heavier than the last, as if the fog was pulling him down, pulling him under.

But he had to find her.

Applegate Estates loomed in the distance, a silhouette barely visible through the haze. The fog curled around the iron gates like living serpents, coiling and slithering. As he pushed through the gate, Father Guiseppie felt an overwhelming sense of dread. The air was colder here, as if the fog had drained every bit of warmth from the world.

And then he heard it.

A whisper—faint, distorted, like it came from everywhere and nowhere at once. It was soft at first, almost imperceptible, but it grew louder, more insistent. It wasn’t words, not exactly, but a feeling—something malevolent, something hungry.

He reached the courtyard and saw her.

Jaclyn stood in the center, but something was horribly wrong. She wasn’t moving. Her eyes were wide, staring straight ahead into the fog, her face pale and contorted in sheer terror. Her mouth hung open, frozen in a silent scream.

"Jaclyn!" Father Guiseppie called out, but the sound of his voice seemed to die in the mist, swallowed whole by the thick fog. She didn’t respond. She didn’t even blink.

As he approached, he saw the blood. Thin, dark trails ran from her eyes, down her cheeks, her body shivering in unnatural spasms. She was trying to speak, but no sound came out—just a soft, gasping rattle that made his blood turn to ice.

He reached for her, but the moment his hand touched her arm, the fog around them shifted. It wasn’t just fog anymore—it was alive.

The mist moved, swirling violently, and within it, shapes began to emerge. Twisted, contorted figures, barely visible but unmistakably human. Faces—faces of the long dead—pressed against the veil of mist, their mouths open in eternal screams of torment, their eyes hollow and soulless.

One of the faces was Luca’s. Father Guiseppie’s heart nearly stopped as he recognized the boy—the child he had lost to the fog so many years ago. Luca’s eyes, once bright and full of life, were now empty, dead. His small hand reached out from the fog, beckoning. Father Guiseppie’s throat tightened as he fought the urge to reach back, knowing it wasn’t truly Luca—just the twisted echo of what had been.

Suddenly, Jaclyn let out a blood-curdling scream, her voice raw and broken. Her body convulsed violently, her head snapping back unnaturally as the fog poured into her mouth and nose. She thrashed as if something inside the mist had reached into her, tearing her apart from the inside.

"No!" Father Guiseppie shouted, trying to pull her away, but her body was as rigid as stone. Her eyes rolled back into her head, blood gushing from her nose and ears, her fingers clawing at her own skin as though something was crawling beneath it, inside her.

The whispers grew louder, almost deafening now, overlapping in a twisted chorus of voices—some screaming, some sobbing, others laughing in deranged, hollow tones. The fog around them seemed to pulse with energy, vibrating with an evil that was older than the village itself.

Jaclyn’s body arched backward, her spine bending in ways that made a sickening crack. Her mouth opened wider than should have been possible, and from her throat came a voice that was not her own.

"She’s ours now."

The voice was a guttural rasp, inhuman, ancient. Jaclyn’s lifeless eyes turned toward Father Guiseppie, her lips still moving, blood pouring from them as the fog consumed her completely.

In that moment, Father Guiseppie realized something horrible.

The fog wasn’t just taking them—it was feeding on them, trapping their souls, twisting them into grotesque versions of themselves, forever lost in the mist.

Jaclyn’s body crumpled to the ground, and for a brief, terrible moment, everything went silent. Then, from the depths of the fog, the whisper returned, louder, more terrifying than before.

"You’re next."

Father Guiseppie felt the fog tighten around him like a noose. His chest constricted as the cold air tore at his lungs. The faces in the fog moved closer, their mouths stretching into grotesque smiles, their fingers reaching out, desperate to pull him in.

With one final breath, the fog surged forward, smothering the light from his lantern. The last thing he saw was Jaclyn’s face—twisted in agony, her mouth forming a single, silent word:

"Run."

But there was nowhere to run.

The fog swallowed him whole, and the night went on in silence.

By dawn, the fog had lifted. The villagers ventured out, but there was no sign of Father Guiseppie or Jaclyn. Only the empty church stood, its bell tolling a soft, mournful note.

The Fog of Death had claimed them, just as it had claimed so many before.

And in the village of San Bartolo, the people wept, knowing that the fog would come again—year after year—until every last soul was lost to its eternal hunger.