The Whispering Fog

 The Whispering Fog

The small town of Ravenshade was no stranger to fog. It rolled in thick and heavy every autumn, swallowing the streets and muffling sound. But there was something different about this particular mist—something unnatural.

Eleanor had lived in Ravenshade her whole life, but she had never seen fog move like this. It slithered rather than floated, creeping through cracks in doors and windows, curling around lampposts like ghostly fingers. There were whispers in the fog too—faint, fragmented words that disappeared if you tried too hard to listen.

It started a week ago. The first to go missing was old Mr. Greaves, the grocer. Then the schoolteacher, Miss Palmer. By the time the fifth person had vanished, people were too afraid to leave their homes at night. The town’s only police officer, Deputy Hensley, patrolled the streets with a shotgun, but he was as scared as the rest of them.

Eleanor’s house sat at the edge of town, near the woods. That night, she sat by the window, staring at the swirling fog that had begun to creep toward her house. It was thicker than before, pulsing with an eerie glow under the streetlamp.

Then she heard it.

A voice—soft and delicate, calling her name.

"Eleanor... Eleanor, come outside..."

Her breath hitched. It sounded like her mother. But that was impossible. Her mother had died three years ago.

She pressed her back against the wall, heart hammering. The whispers grew louder, more insistent. Then, she saw something move within the fog—a shadowy figure, its outline barely distinguishable.

"Mama?" she whispered before she could stop herself.

The figure took a step closer. Through the shifting mist, Eleanor could make out its face—her mother’s face. Pale, hollow-eyed, smiling in a way that was not quite right.

"Come outside, sweetheart," it crooned. "I've missed you."

Tears welled in Eleanor’s eyes. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but her feet felt rooted to the floor. Then she remembered something—the stories.

The elders in town always warned about the fog, calling it 'The Hunger.' They said it took the lonely, the grieving, those who wanted something they had lost. It didn’t just take people; it made them part of itself.

Eleanor clenched her fists. This wasn’t her mother. It was something else—something pretending.

She turned away, forcing herself to look at the ground, away from the beckoning figure. "You’re not real," she whispered. "You’re not real."

A shriek tore through the air, high-pitched and inhuman. The windows rattled, the lights flickered, and the fog churned violently. Eleanor collapsed to the floor, covering her ears. The whispering voices turned to howls, echoing through the house.

Then—silence.

When Eleanor dared to look up, the fog had retreated. The figure was gone.

The next morning, the town was eerily quiet. The newspaper reported another disappearance—Deputy Hensley. But Eleanor knew the truth.

The Hunger had tried to take her, and it would try again.

And next time, she might not be strong enough to resist.