Whispers in the Fog

The village of Kharband was known for two things: its endless blankets of thick white fog, and the strange silence that fell after sunset. No matter how loudly children laughed or how far the goats wandered, the moment the sun slipped behind the mountains, the entire valley grew so silent that even the wind dared not whisper.

People said the fog carried voices—voices that didn’t belong to the living.

For decades, everyone followed one simple rule: Never go out after dark.

Everyone obeyed it… except 19-year-old Haris.

Haris had returned to the village after years of studying in the city. He wasn’t one to believe in superstitions. Ghost stories were for children and bored elders. So when he heard the old tales—whispers in the fog, shadows that moved against the wind, people disappearing without a trace—he laughed them off.

But the village had not forgotten. And the fog had not forgiven.


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The First Night

On his first evening back, Haris sat outside his grandfather’s old mud-brick house sipping chai. As always, the fog rolled in like a living thing, crawling between the trees, swallowing the road, covering the fields.

His cousin Sana came running.
“Haris! Come inside! It’s getting dark.”

He teased her. “Don’t tell me you believe in those stories.”

Her face grew pale. “They aren’t stories.”

But Haris didn’t listen. Instead, he decided to take a short walk toward the old dried well at the outskirts—just to prove nothing would happen.

As he walked deeper into the fog, he heard it—the sound that froze him in place.

A whisper.

Not wind. Not insects. A whisper that clearly said his name.

“Haaa…riiiis…”

He spun around, but there was nothing in sight. The fog was so thick he could barely see his own hands.

He hurried back home, his heartbeat thundering inside his ears. The moment he reached the door, his grandmother grabbed him by the arm.

“You went into the fog?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“It’s nothing,” he insisted.

She stared at him with horror dripping from her eyes.
“The fog remembers every step. And it never lets go.”

The Second Night

Haris woke the next morning convinced it had been his imagination. But the eerie feeling stayed with him all day. Villagers kept staring at him like he had done something dangerous, something unforgivable.

That evening, just as the fog began to thicken, strange things started happening.

The goats refused to leave their sheds.

Birds flew away in frantic circles before disappearing into the mountains.

Even the dogs—always loyal and fearless—hid under porches and whimpered.

Just after sunset, Haris heard the whisper again.

This time, it came from inside the house.

“Haaaariiiis… come back…”

He rushed into the hallway, but found no one. The walls were old, made of wood and clay, yet the whisper seemed to seep straight through them.

His grandmother put her hand on his shoulder.
“Did you hear it?”

Haris swallowed hard. “It’s just the wind.”

Her eyes filled with pity.
“The fog has chosen you.”

The Third Night: The Return

By the third evening, Haris could no longer pretend nothing was wrong. He avoided going outside, but the fog pressed against the windows like it was searching for a way in.

Later that night, Sana knocked on his door.

“You’re not safe,” she whispered. “They’re calling you because you stepped on their path.”

“Whose path?”

She hesitated before speaking.
“The ones who never left the fog.”

Then she told him the truth—stories the elders never shared with outsiders.

Years ago, a group of villagers vanished mysteriously. Some said they got lost in the fog. Others said they were taken. Their bodies were never found. But their voices… their voices were heard every night, calling out from the mist.

They wanted company.

And now they wanted Haris.

The Final Night

Haris tried to stay awake, but the exhaustion pulled him under. Around midnight, he awoke to a freezing chill crawling across his skin.

The fog was inside the room.

It swirled around him like pale smoke. The whispers grew clearer, louder, forming words that chilled his blood.

“Come with us…”
“You walked our path…”
“We’ve been waiting…”

Shadowy figures began to form within the mist—faces without eyes, bodies without shape, floating inches above the floor.

Haris stumbled backward, but the fog wrapped around his legs like cold fingers. He tried to scream, but his voice dissolved into the icy air.

The last thing he saw was a pale hand reaching out of the fog—grabbing him.

By the time the sun rose, the fog thinned, the house warmed, and everything was quiet again.

The villagers searched everywhere, but Haris was gone.

They found only one thing on his bed—a single, frost-covered handprint.

No one dared speak his name again.

And at sunset, when the fog rolled in, the whispers grew stronger.

A new voice had joined them.

A voice that called out—

“Haaaariiiis…”