Whispers in the Fog

Mira arrived in Blackwood Bay just as the sun dipped below the horizon. The ocean stretched endlessly beyond the cliffs, a deep and restless void. The town itself was quiet, almost too quiet, save for the occasional cry of a gull. She had come here to escape—the noise of the city, the memories of her mother’s passing, the weight of a life she no longer recognized. But from the moment she stepped foot in Blackwood Bay, she felt something watching.

"You’ll want to be inside after dark," the innkeeper warned as he handed her the key. "The fog rolls in quick around here. And with it, the whispers."

Mira scoffed. "Whispers?"

The old man nodded gravely. "The voices of the lost. They call out from the fog. Answer them, and they’ll take you too."

Superstitions, she thought. Every small town had them.

That night, as she unpacked her suitcase, a dense fog slithered through the streets like a living thing. It swallowed the lamplight, turned the world outside her window into a shapeless gray void. The town’s silence deepened, pressing against her ears.

Then she heard it.

A whisper. Faint. Beckoning.

At first, she thought it was the wind. But no—the words were clear. "Mira... Mira, my love... come outside."

Her blood turned to ice. She knew that voice.

Her mother.

She ran to the window, staring into the fog. The voice came again, softer this time. "I need you, Mira. Please..."

Tears burned her eyes. It wasn’t possible. Her mother had been gone for five years. Buried. Gone.

And yet...

Her trembling hand reached for the doorknob. A deep part of her knew she shouldn’t open it, but the grief in her chest pushed her forward. If there was even the slightest chance...

She stepped outside.

The fog coiled around her, cold and damp against her skin. The street had vanished beneath it. Only shadows remained. "Mom?" she whispered. "Where are you?"

A shape stirred in the mist. Not quite a figure, not quite a shadow. Just the impression of movement.

"Come closer, my love..."

Mira took a step forward. Then another.

The whispers grew. Dozens of voices, murmuring just beyond sight. Some pleading. Some sobbing. Some laughing in a way that made her stomach twist.

"Come with us... Stay... We miss you..."

A skeletal hand shot out of the fog, grasping her wrist.

She screamed, yanking herself free. The thing in the mist lunged, its form shifting—one moment her mother, the next a hollow-eyed corpse, its grin stretched too wide, its voice warping. "Don’t you love me, Mira?"

She stumbled backward, gasping for air. The whispers rose into a frenzied wail. Hands clawed at her from all directions.

She turned and ran.

The door to the inn loomed ahead. She slammed into it, fumbling with the knob. Behind her, the whispers twisted into a scream. The fog surged forward.

She threw herself inside and locked the door just as the whispering stopped.

The silence was deafening.

Morning came, and with it, the sun burned away the fog. When Mira stepped outside, the town looked normal again—quaint, peaceful. But on the doorstep, right where the fog had reached for her, lay a single handprint. Thin. Pale.

Not quite human.

Mira knew then that she could never answer the whispers again.

Because next time, they wouldn’t let her go.