Whispers in the Fog

Eli Porter had only meant to visit Grey Hollow for a weekend.

He was a travel blogger, always on the hunt for forgotten towns with stories to tell. But Grey Hollow wasn’t just forgotten—it had been erased. No phone signal, no Wi-Fi, and the last known article about it was dated 1964. That was the hook.

The fog was the first thing he noticed. Thick. Wet. Alive. It rolled in from the sea and slithered through the streets like a living thing. The townspeople—what few there were—spoke in hushed tones and always glanced over their shoulders. Eli found it atmospheric. Until it wasn’t.

He checked into the only inn in town, run by an old woman named Agnes. Her eyes were clouded, almost white, but she seemed to see him just fine.

“You’ll hear them,” she warned as she handed him an old-fashioned key. “Don’t answer.”

“Hear what?”

Agnes didn’t reply. She just turned and vanished into the fog outside the inn, which crept in under the door like smoke.

That night, Eli set up his camera and began recording notes. He talked about the village, the eerie vibe, and the lighthouse at the cliff’s edge that no one seemed willing to talk about. Around 2 a.m., he turned in, amused at his own unease.

He awoke at 3:07 a.m. to a whisper.

“Eli...”

His name. From the hallway.

He sat up, heart pounding. Maybe Agnes needed something. He stepped out into the hall, but it was empty. The fog had seeped inside again, curling down the corridor.

“Hello?” he called out.

No answer.

He returned to bed, more irritated than frightened. Old houses creaked. Fog made noises. It was just the atmosphere messing with his head.

The next day, he asked Agnes about it.

“You heard them, didn’t you?” she said, pouring him tea.

“I heard... something.”

“They know your name now,” she said, voice low. “You shouldn’t have responded.”

Eli chuckled nervously. “Is this some kind of village hazing? Try to scare the outsider?”

Agnes didn’t smile.

“You leave by sundown,” she said. “Or you’ll never leave at all.”

He ignored her.

That evening, drawn by the whispers, he wandered into the center of town where a sealed old well sat, ringed by rusted iron. No one else was around.

“Eli...”

This time it was clearer. Closer. And not just one voice—many, layered over each other like wind through dead trees.

His hands trembled as he reached out toward the bars. The stone was cold, wet.

“Come see...” the voices whispered. “We remember you...”

A sudden gust of wind slammed into him, knocking him backward. When he opened his eyes, he was surrounded.

Villagers. Pale. Silent. Eyes sunken. They stood in a circle, staring at him with something between sadness and horror.

One of them finally stepped forward. A child.

“You heard the voices,” the boy said. “You’re one of us now.”

“No,” Eli said, backing away. “I’m leaving. Tonight.”

The crowd said nothing. They only turned and melted into the fog.

He ran back to the inn, threw his things into his bag, and stormed into the lobby.

But Agnes was gone.

So was the road.

The entire town was swallowed by the fog.

The streets looped endlessly. Buildings repeated. Landmarks disappeared. Eli wandered for what felt like hours but never made it out of Grey Hollow.

That night, he barricaded his door and sat with his camera.

“I can’t leave,” he whispered to the lens. “Something’s wrong with this place. It’s like the fog... traps you. And the voices—”

“Behind you.”

The whisper came from inside the room.

Eli turned, slowly.

Nothing.

Then he saw it. His reflection in the mirror... was smiling.

But Eli wasn’t.

His reflection raised its hand. He didn’t.

And then it whispered, “Come back to us.”

The mirror shattered.

From the shards, the voices poured out like smoke.

Eli screamed.

Three months later, the inn at Grey Hollow got a new visitor. A hiker lost in the fog. Agnes greeted him the same way she had Eli.

“You’ll hear them,” she said, handing over a key. “Don’t answer.”

The hiker blinked. “What?”

She smiled sadly. “The voices. They’re lonely.”

That night, from the well, a whisper rose through the fog.

“Help me...”

“I’m Eli...”

But no one came.

They never do.