Chapter 4: Lost in the Haunted Fog

Since the house was a ways from town,

I went home to get the truck. The keys jingled in my pocket as I jogged down the driveway, gravel crunching under my boots. I felt jittery, like I was being watched.

But as soon as I got to town, the truck got a flat tire. The hiss of air escaping sounded way too loud in the empty parking lot. I cursed under my breath, knuckles numb from the evening chill as I worked the jack.

By the time I fixed it, it was already dark. The streetlights cast long shadows, and the town felt smaller, quieter than usual. Every sound seemed to echo.

Remembering I still hadn’t bought the shoes, I rushed to the shoe store. The bell above the door jingled as I ran in, startling the tired-looking clerk. I blurted out my request, got the shoes, and hurried back out, barely remembering to thank him.

Shoes in hand, headed back,

I kept wondering why Old Man Hank had buried my hair in the pit—

The pit where Great-Uncle Ray suffocated. The thought gnawed at me, every bump in the road making my stomach twist tighter. I gripped the steering wheel, trying not to let my mind spiral.

And why was Grandpa buying shoes now?

He sure didn’t need new shoes. He’d worn the same battered work boots for years, never caring about style or scuffs. It didn’t add up.

But no matter how long I thought about it, I couldn’t make sense of any of it. The pieces didn’t fit, and the more I tried to force them, the more wrong it all felt. Like a puzzle with the corners ripped off.

When I snapped out of it, I saw the familiar entrance to Maple Hollow—shrouded in fog. The sign at the edge of town was barely visible, the letters blurred by the swirling mist. My stomach dropped.

The fog was thick and white, rising fast and sudden. It curled around the trees and telephone poles, swallowing up the road ahead. I’d never seen anything like it.

In the blink of an eye, that white fog turned into a dense black mist. It was like someone had thrown a blanket over the world, smothering every sound and light. The darkness pressed in, thick and total.

Suddenly, everything around me was pitch black. The headlights seemed to shrink, swallowed by the darkness. My pulse hammered in my ears, loud as thunder.

It’s October—how could there be fog like this? Usually, the air was crisp and clear, the kind of nights when you could see your breath and every star in the sky. This wasn’t right.

I frowned, quickly switched on the truck’s fog lights. The beams cut through the blackness, but only barely, lighting up a few feet of cracked pavement ahead. It wasn’t enough.

But the fog was so thick, the lights only reached a foot or two ahead. I slowed to a crawl, gripping the wheel until my knuckles turned white. My breath came short and shallow.

The roads here are narrow to begin with; if someone was walking, it’d be dangerous. My mind flashed to stories of folks getting lost on these backroads, never finding their way home. I tried not to think about it.

So I pulled over. The gravel crunched under the tires, and I killed the engine, letting the silence settle in. It was so quiet, it made my ears ring.

I grabbed my phone, turned on the flashlight, and got out of the truck. The cold air hit me like a slap, and the only sound was my own breathing, loud in the stillness. My breath fogged in front of me.

Relying on the phone’s weak light, I made my way into the village. The beam bobbed with each step, barely illuminating the ground in front of me. My sneakers squeaked on the wet gravel.

The fog was heavy. It clung to my clothes, damp and cold, making it hard to breathe. I shivered, pulling my jacket tighter.

The phone’s light was a firefly. Going by memory, I hurried toward Great-Uncle Ray’s house. I counted the turns, the mailbox posts, the old tire swing that marked the shortcut. My heart thudded with each step.

But I walked and walked, and still hadn’t arrived. My legs started to ache, and the weight of the shoes in the bag felt heavier with each step. The world felt stretched out, like a bad dream.

The road beneath my feet… felt endless. Like I was walking in circles, the same patch of gravel over and over. My shoes crunched the same stones again and again.

What was going on?

I should’ve been there by now. Even in the fog, I knew these roads better than my own bedroom. Something was off.

My brow knit tight.

Could I be… lost?

Thinking that, I stopped in my tracks. The silence pressed in, thick as the fog itself. My breath caught in my throat.

I wanted to call Grandpa and have him come get me.

But when I glanced at my phone, I froze.

9:15 p.m.

That was the time I turned on the flashlight and got out of the truck.

But I’d been walking for ages.

Yet now… it was still 9:15.

Was my phone broken?

My heart pounded. I was scared, palms slick with cold sweat. Every horror story I’d ever heard came rushing back, crowding my mind. I felt small, lost.

Don’t panic!

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. I tried to remember what Jenkins had said—no matter what you encounter, don’t panic. I repeated it like a prayer.

I found Grandpa’s number and quickly dialed.

But strangely, there was no signal.

Listening to dead air, I stood there, stunned.

After a moment, I snapped out of it, holding my phone up and looking around. I waved it in the air, hoping for a single bar, but nothing. Not even a flicker.

The fog was thick, the darkness complete. I could barely see my own feet, let alone the road ahead. My breath felt shallow, like the air itself was running out.

I held my phone and crept forward a few steps. Every crunch of gravel felt impossibly loud. My heart beat so hard it hurt.

Suddenly, I spotted a big gate and, relieved, rushed over. The metal was cold beneath my hands, slick with dew. I gripped it tight, almost afraid to let go.

When I reached the gate, I banged on it and shouted:

"Is anyone there?"

But no matter how hard I knocked, no one answered. The only reply was the echo of my own voice, swallowed by the mist. The emptiness pressed in.

Maybe no one lived here…

Thinking that, I tried the next house. The porch light was off, windows dark, the whole place looking abandoned. My hope faded a little more.

Still no answer.

Unwilling to give up, I kept going from door to door, calling out. My voice grew hoarse, desperation creeping in. Each shout sounded smaller.

But still, no one came.

House after house, my shouts were loud enough for anyone to hear. The village should have been alive with lights and voices, but it was as if everyone had simply vanished. I felt like I was shouting into a void.

Why had I yelled so long and nobody showed?

What had happened to the village?

At that moment, it felt like I was the only person left in the whole place. The weight of that realization pressed down on me, heavy as a sack of stones, and for the first time, I wondered if I’d ever find my way home again.