The Watcher in the Fog
Ayan had never feared the dark. Growing up in the quiet countryside, he had spent countless nights wandering alone under the moonlit sky. But something about Black Hollow Road unsettled him.
The road was infamous in his town. No one walked it after sunset. It stretched for miles, winding through an abandoned village that had been empty for decades. People whispered about strange figures seen through the thick fog that rolled in every night, and those who walked the road never returned the same.
Ayan dismissed it as superstition.
So, when his friends dared him to walk the entire length of Black Hollow Road at night, he didn’t hesitate.
“Just fog and old houses,” he said, pulling on his jacket. “I’ll be back in an hour.”
They laughed, shaking their heads. “Just don’t stop walking,” one of them warned. “No matter what you see.”
Ayan smirked and started down the road.
The Road of Whispers
The fog was thicker than he expected, swallowing everything beyond a few feet. The old houses loomed like forgotten ghosts, their windows shattered, doors hanging open.
As he walked, the silence pressed down on him. No crickets, no wind—only the sound of his own footsteps.
Then, he heard it.
A second pair of footsteps.
Slow. Unhurried. Following him.
He stopped. The sound stopped, too.
Ayan’s pulse quickened. “Just my imagination,” he muttered, forcing himself to keep moving.
But after a few steps—
Tap. Tap.
The sound returned. Closer.
He turned his head slightly. Through the fog, a shape stood in the distance. Tall. Still. Watching.
His breath caught. He couldn’t make out a face—only a shadowy figure barely visible through the mist.
He took a step forward. The figure didn’t move.
Then—it tilted its head.
Ayan turned back and walked faster.
But the footsteps behind him quickened, too.
The Vanishing Path
Panic settled in his chest. He broke into a jog, his breath coming faster. The fog thickened, the houses on either side fading into white nothingness.
The road should have been straight. He had checked the map before coming.
But suddenly, the path twisted into a direction he didn’t recognize.
His phone had no signal.
He turned back. The road behind him was gone—swallowed completely by the fog.
And the figure…
Was closer.
He could almost make out its features now. Its face was wrong. Stretched. Hollow eyes. A grin too wide for any human mouth.
Ayan stumbled backward, his pulse hammering. “Who are you?” he demanded.
The figure lifted a hand and pointed—behind him.
Slowly, Ayan turned.
A second figure had appeared. Identical. Grinning. Watching.
Then, from the fog, came a voice:
“You shouldn’t have come.”
Trapped in the Fog
Ayan ran. He didn’t care where he was going—he just ran. The road twisted and changed beneath his feet, leading him deeper into the unknown.
The figures never chased him.
They didn’t need to.
They were always just ahead. Waiting. Watching.
His legs burned, his lungs ached, but he refused to stop.
Then, up ahead—light.
A streetlamp. And beyond it, the familiar outline of his town.
He pushed himself harder, bursting through the last wall of fog—
And found himself standing at the entrance of Black Hollow Road.
His friends were there, laughing and clapping.
“You made it!” one of them cheered. “Took you long enough.”
Ayan staggered, gasping. “How long was I gone?”
His best friend frowned. “Dude, it’s only been five minutes.”
Ayan’s blood turned to ice. He had been running for hours.
He turned back to the road. The fog was gone. The abandoned village was just as empty as before.
But at the very edge of the mist, barely visible—
Two figures stood, watching him. Grinning.
And then—they waved.
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