The night reeked of wet leaves, cheap liquor, and something older—something that didn't belong.
A man staggered along the cracked path that ran beside the old graveyard, humming a broken tune to himself. He reeked of alcohol, the bottle in his coat pocket half-empty, and his boots scuffed the damp earth with every unsteady step. His laughter cut through the silence, too loud, too alone.
Then something joined in.
It was faint at first—like wind brushing past brittle leaves. But the trees weren't moving. The air was still. Yet he heard it: whispers. Low and slithering, like secrets shared between shadows.
He paused, swaying. "H-Hello?" he slurred, turning on his heel.
No one.
The road behind him was empty. The graveyard to his left stretched on, rows of tombstones cloaked in darkness and mist. He squinted, trying to shake the fog in his mind. "I'm just drunk," he muttered, chuckling to himself. "Too many spirits in me to worry about the ones out here."
He continued walking, but the whispers grew clearer—urgent, almost angry. It wasn't just wind anymore. It sounded like voices. Talking. Calling.
He froze again. The air was colder now, and the mist had thickened unnaturally fast, spilling over the graveyard's rusted gates like smoke. His breath came out in pale puffs.
Then he heard it—his name.
A familiar voice. Gentle. Female.
"James…"
He spun around, heart pounding. "Who—who said that?"
No answer.
Goosebumps prickled along his arms. "Not funny!" he shouted into the mist. "Go away!"
That's when he saw it.
At the edge of the graveyard, just beyond the fence, sat a man on a bench. He held a black umbrella, despite the fact it wasn't raining. A long coat draped over his legs. His hat—tall and old-fashioned—cast a shadow over his face.
James blinked. The man hadn't been there a moment ago.
"Hey!" James called, stepping closer. "You lost or something?"
No response. The man didn't even flinch. Just sat there, perfectly still, as though carved from the mist itself.
James stumbled forward, the fog curling around his feet. "Hey, I'm talkin' to you—"
Then the figure slowly turned its head.
His breath hitched.
Beneath the brim of the hat, where there should have been a face… there was nothing. Just blackness. A void.
The whispers returned—this time loud and furious, like a dozen mouths speaking at once.
He tried to scream, but the mist surged up like a wave and swallowed everything.