The Mist

They say no one outruns the Mist. It is something forsaken by the rest of the world... an eldritch horror leftover from a darker, more sinister age. Unknowable, it swallows up anyone foolish enough to enter it’s despotic grasp. They say that once you enter, you can never leave. You are doomed to a life of aimless wandering, living out your days in desperate search of an exit until time slowly erodes your mind into madness.

They say the first thing you notice is the absence of all life around you. The birds stop chirping, the grass beneath your feet stops crunching, the very air seems still and stagnant, as if all life has been stifled. God forbid you have a travelling companion, for now he is just as lost as you.

They say you look around as you begin to notice it… the hair on your neck begins to stand, and your toes curl as a sense of deep, primal terror grips you. And just as you begin to think you’re going mad, a wind begins to blow.

It is a dead wind, stale, as if it’s moving air that has been sitting still for centuries. It whistles, low and quiet, as it washes over you, filling you with dread. And then, they say, you hear it.

A discordant bell, that can just barely be heard above the whisper of the wind. There seems to be no source, and you can almost tell yourself that you’re imagining it. It’s not a pretty chime, either. With each toll, it’s minor notes seep into your psyche, destroying any notions of safety you might have had.

They say this can persist for several minutes. You feel nauseous, knowing something is wrong but not sure what. The bell begins to rise slightly in volume, and the wind begins to blow in a mist, so dense that it’s impossible to see through.

A shadow can be seen, moving within the mist. It is short and bent; unnaturally so. The form fills you with foreboding. Though you cannot see it, you know it is an aberration, something that shouldn’t exist.

A gust of that stale wind sends the fog rolling slowly, and the shadow is revealed; a small, bent, hobbled old man. His skin is cracked and leathery, covered in scabs and sores. He holds a long, gnarled pole that stands more than twice his height, and on the end of it is a rusted old lantern. The glass is dirty and smeared, and the metalwork is bent. It squeaks unnervingly as it swings slowly in the wind, and the fog begins to blow in around him, drifting ever closer.

He is old, but you can feel that he's older than old; some kind of ancient eldritch thing. The wind begins to pick up, and you can smell it. A storm is coming, and something else… A sickly sweet smell, like a slab of meat that's been left too long in the sun.

The man lifts a pale, bony finger, trembling as he points it straight at you. His body is frail, but as you meet his gaze, you can see his eyes are devoid of anything. Lifeless orbs stare back at you. The wind is wailing at this point, whipping your hair around you, and soon, his form is lost in the fog. And as sound ceases to exist, you realize something… so are you.

The bell goes silent, and you hear footsteps from the fog, small and fast, like a fox. Soon, you begin to hear a low growl as it follows the will of its ancient, hobbled master.

From within the fog you hear a deep, manic snuffling from all sides. You begin tearing through the fog desperate to escape them. The snuffling becomes more and more frantic, until a sharp pain sears across your leg, dropping you to your knee as you cry out in agony and terror. A sinister laugh, directionless in nature, echoes out across the endless fields of mist, and the snuffling stops for a moment. You are left, chest heaving on the ground, a pitiful, terrified mess of a thing waiting for its turn to die. You hear the footsteps padding quickly away once again, leaving only you and the mist, the sound of a discordant bell tolling as it grows fainter and fainter but never quite disappearing. You are left alone... for now. It's just you and the bell in the mist.

You lie there waiting for something, anything. You would even welcome death, but strangely it never comes. You stand up, your leg still in pain as you again try to make your way out, only for the toll of the bell, that infernal, cursed bell, to slowly begin to fill your ears. As the sounds rise, filling you with horror, you feel another sharp pain, this time on your back as you fall to the ground and feel the weight press down upon you. The snuffling drowns out all noise, and it feels as though these things are mere inches from you. But again they retreat, leaving you mewling on the ground, terrified for your life. As the bell begins to sound again you realize death will not find you in the mist. Even death is a mercy, and you will find none here. You close your eyes, and your body begins to shake uncontrollably as tears stream down your face. You dare not make a sound, though. You wouldn’t want them to find you again.

They were right. No one outruns The Mist.