Whispers in the Fog

The fog rolled into Black Hollow on an otherwise unremarkable October evening. At first, no one paid it much mind. It slithered through the streets like a ghostly river, curling around lamp posts and smothering the flickering lights. The town had seen fog before—it wasn’t uncommon for the valley to be cloaked in mist on autumn nights. But this fog was different.

It was too thick. Too still. Too silent.

And then came the whispers.

At first, the voices were barely noticeable—a faint murmuring beneath the wind, a rustling sound that could be mistaken for the leaves shivering on their branches. But as the night deepened, the whispers grew clearer. They weren’t coming from the wind or the trees.

They were coming from the fog itself.

Day One

Amelia Carter, a waitress at Miller’s Diner, had just locked up for the night when she noticed the fog creeping in. It coiled around the streetlamp outside like a living thing. As she stood on the steps, fumbling for her car keys, she thought she heard something—soft, hushed voices, like a conversation just beyond her range of hearing.

She froze.

“Hello?” she called, squinting into the darkness.

No answer. Just the fog, pressing closer, swallowing up the distant glow of the diner’s neon sign. The air smelled damp and metallic, like old pennies. Her skin prickled with an unnamed dread, and she quickly climbed into her car, locking the doors behind her.

As she drove home, she had the unshakable feeling that something was moving within the fog, keeping pace with her car just beyond the reach of her headlights.

By morning, the fog still hadn’t lifted.

Day Three

The paperboy never delivered his newspapers. The old librarian, Mr. Dawson, vanished without a trace, though the library doors were left wide open, as if he had simply stepped out for a moment and never returned.

At first, the townspeople assumed it was a coincidence. But then the disappearances multiplied.

The Petersons’ young daughter, Lily, was last seen playing in her backyard before her mother turned away for only a second. When she turned back, Lily was gone—her small footprints vanishing into the fog.

Sheriff Reynolds organized a search party, but the deeper they ventured into the mist, the more disoriented they became. Compass needles spun wildly, cell phones lost signal, and the town’s once-familiar streets seemed to shift, leading them in circles.

And always, there were the whispers.

By the end of the third day, five more people had disappeared.

Day Five

The town was gripped with fear. No one dared to go outside after dark. The grocery store ran out of supplies as people hoarded food, locking themselves in their homes. But it didn’t matter.

The fog was patient.

By midnight, it was seeping in through the cracks beneath doors and creeping through keyholes. People covered their windows, stuffed towels beneath their doors, but still, they heard the voices.

They weren’t just whispers anymore.

Now they were calling names.

Amelia lay awake in bed, gripping the covers tightly as she listened. A voice, soft and familiar, drifted from the fog outside her window.

“Amelia… let me in.”

She sat up, heart pounding. It sounded like her mother. But that was impossible. Her mother had died five years ago.

“Please… I’m so cold… let me in.”

Tears burned in Amelia’s eyes as she reached for the window latch, her fingers trembling. But then she stopped.

The voice was wrong.

It had the cadence of her mother’s speech, the same gentle tone—but there was something underneath it, something… hollow. Like an echo of a voice rather than the voice itself.

She backed away, clutching her chest as her breathing grew ragged. The voice persisted for hours, pleading, sobbing, growing more desperate.

By dawn, it was gone. But outside, the fog had thickened.

Day Seven

Half the town had vanished. The remaining townsfolk barricaded themselves indoors, whispering prayers and curses in equal measure.

And then, something changed.

The fog stopped moving. Instead of creeping and shifting like a living thing, it stood still, thick and unmoving. The whispers faded.

For the first time in a week, an eerie silence settled over Black Hollow.

Then came the knocking.

One by one, doors rattled as unseen fists pounded against them. Amelia huddled in a corner of her house, covering her ears as the sound echoed through the streets.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Each knock was slow. Measured. Taunting.

Then, between the knocks, came the voices again.

“Let me in.”

“Open the door.”

“I miss you.”

“I’m so hungry.”

The voices belonged to the missing.

Mr. Dawson. The paperboy. Little Lily Peterson.

Amelia squeezed her eyes shut as the knocking grew more violent. A crack splintered through her front door.

She grabbed the nearest object—a fireplace poker—and backed toward the kitchen. If the door gave way, she would fight.

Then, the whispers stopped.

The fog outside her window thinned, revealing the street outside.

Amelia’s breath caught in her throat.

The missing were standing in the road, unmoving. Their faces were pale, their eyes dark hollows. Their mouths stretched open, but no sound came out.

And then—one by one—they turned their heads toward her window.

Amelia screamed.

The Last Night

The diary was found weeks later, half-buried in the woods outside town. The pages were smeared with dirt and dried blood, the final entry hastily scrawled.

They are not dead. They are not alive. The fog is feeding on us, taking us, turning us into something else. I am the last one. I can hear them outside now, whispering my name. The door won’t hold much longer.

If you find this—do not come to Black Hollow. Do not listen to the whispers. And whatever you do…

DON’T OPEN THE DOOR.

The diary ended there.

Black Hollow was declared a ghost town soon after. No one dared enter. The fog never lifted.

And sometimes, on cold autumn nights, travelers claim they can hear voices whispering from within the mist—calling out for help in the voices of the long-lost.

But if you hear them… whatever you do… do not answer.