Thomas didn't sleep well that night. Not because of the creaky pipes or the wind rattling the attic window, but because of that breath—cold and close, like someone had exhaled right behind his ear.
He kept telling himself it was nothing. Just nerves. Just the weirdness of a new town. But Bramble had spent the rest of the night pacing the hallway, growling at shadows that didn't move.
By morning, Thomas was running on two cups of coffee and a headache shaped like regret. He opened the curtains to find Gravenmoor wrapped in fog again, thicker than before. The trees behind the house stood still, but something about them felt... off. Like they were waiting.
He tried to ignore it. Fed Bramble. Took a shower. Scrolled through his phone, which had exactly zero notifications and one bar of signal. Then, around noon, he decided to check the backyard.
The grass was overgrown. The fence was half-rotted. And the woods started barely ten steps from the back porch. Thomas stood there for a while, staring into the trees.
And the trees stared back.
He couldn't explain it. There was no movement, no sound. But the feeling was unmistakable—like being watched by something that didn't blink. Bramble stood beside him, ears forward, tail low.
"You see it too, huh?" Thomas said.
Bramble didn't answer, obviously. But he didn't look away either.
Thomas took a step forward. Just one. The fog shifted slightly, like something had moved inside it. He stopped.
"Nope," he said, turning around. "Not today."
He spent the rest of the afternoon pretending to clean the kitchen while Bramble sat by the back door like a sentry. Every so often, Thomas glanced out the window. The trees hadn't moved. But the feeling hadn't left.
That night, 2:13 a.m. came again like clockwork.
Thomas hesitated. He looked at Bramble, who was already standing by the door, leash in his mouth.
"You're serious?" Thomas asked.
Bramble wagged his tail once.
So they went.
The streets were quieter than usual. No wind. No distant hum of electricity. Just fog and silence. As they passed the antique shop, Thomas noticed the mannequin in the window had turned its head.
He stopped. Blinked. It was facing forward again.
"Okay," he whispered. "That's new."
They kept walking. Past the diner. Past the church. Toward the woods.
And then, just before the trees swallowed the path, Thomas saw it.
A figure.
Tall. Still. Just barely visible through the fog. No face. No features. Just a silhouette.
Bramble growled low.
Thomas didn't move. The figure didn't either.
Then, slowly, it turned—melting into the mist like it had never been there.
Thomas exhaled shakily. "I hate this town."
Bramble barked once, short and sharp.
And somewhere, deep in the woods, something barked back.