The train screeched to a halt, steam billowing and cloaking the misty station.
A man in an overcoat with a fedora perched on top stepped out, it was Peter Holden, a journalist for Benzino Ben Magazine.
He had arrived in a remote village to investigate reports of cultist practices in Forhan Valley. There had been sightings of devil worshippers, and human remains were discovered at what was said to be the site of their rituals.
His magazine editor-in-chief had explicitly instructed him to capture as many grotesque pictures and stories as possible, and if feasible, arrange an interview with a cultist.
"Where am I stuck now?!" he muttered, taking a drag from his cigarette and exhaling slowly. The eastern winter was much harsher than the west, and a delay in his arrival had cost him the chance to meet the man who was supposed to guide him around the town on his first day.
Pushing the thought aside, he headed toward the counter, intending to ask the clerk for directions, but discovered it had been closed for quite some time due to the snowfall.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath.
"Looks like the station master isn't here either. How does this station even function?"
He glanced around, hoping to spot a friendly passenger, but it seemed no one else had gotten off the train with him.
"Ah... Fantastic."
The station was deserted, almost appearing abandoned.
---
Peter made his way toward Forhan Village, a secluded settlement nestled in the corner of Gramio, an eastern front in the Winter Mountains. Although the military occupation had long been removed, its presence lingered for centuries after its use. Now it was abandoned, its halls empty, with only old machinery and vehicles, technology from centuries ago, left behind.
As Peter arrived at the base of the hill, an old woman stepped out from a small hut. "Greetings, Mister. Seek the murmur," she said.
"What murmur?" Peter asked politely. He didn't want to aggravate the elderly woman in the village. From what he could tell, she lived alone and might have developed some mental illness from prolonged solitude.
"Didn't you come to investigate for your magazine, the cultists? They hid behind the murmurs." Suddenly, her voice shifted to a younger, feminine tone, saying, "Peter, if you don't do this, we might have to part ways."
It sent a chill down his spine. He bolted toward the other side, running until he stumbled upon a dimly lit bar. He stepped inside and sat on a stool.
Pale as a sheet, his face showed not the chill of cold but the grip of fear. Cold sweat dripped down his face as he wiped it away, taking heavy, labored breaths.
"What happened? You look like you've seen a ghost," asked the bartender, polishing glasses.
"An old woman… she… she had no eyes. She spoke to me. She told me to find the murmur."
"That's strange. There's no blind old woman in the village. Maybe you imagined it. This place can feel eerie, it's normal."
Slamming his hand on the desk, he exclaimed, "No, listen to me! She changed her voice mid-sentence and spoke to me, it... it was my wife's voice."
A laughter echoed behind him, just as he turned to see who it belongs to, a girl came towards him, she was the source of laughter.
"Do you think I am joking?" he sneered at her.
The girl was ghostly pale, her hair as white as snow. Her lips were purple, bruised, and swollen, as if from the biting cold. They looked like frozen blood.
Removing her hand from her face, which had been covering her lips, she spoke calmly, "No sir, I didn't mean to mock you. I was simply surprised by what you said. Everyone around here encounters strange things from time to time, especially now with the cultists roaming about. People do hallucinate things occasionally."
"But usually, it's a rabbit in the bushes or some small animal sneaking into their pantry, nothing like seeing their wife." As she said this, she burst into laughter once again.
"No, no, I don't mean that... Everyone's afraid of something, right?" she said, struggling to control her lips that twisted upward whenever she thought about what Peter had experienced.
Peter glanced back at the bartender and said, "It's fine. I'll take a beer."
---
The lady sat beside Peter, holding her wine glass.
"So, what brings you here?"
Peter glanced at his beer and sighed; his tone laced with displeasure. "Work."
"What kind of work sends you to a remote village? That must pay a fortune for someone to take on such extremes."
Peter chuckled and took a sip of his beer. "No, it doesn't. It's more like I was forced to work here."
"That seems harsh. I've always admired freedom, and I would never consider myself beneath anyone." Biting her lip, she smiled. "You want to rest, right? There's a tavern just a couple of blocks away where you could arrange a room."
Peter sighed, pulling his hand away from the cold woman. Showing her his ring, he said, "Sorry, but I can't."
"So cold!" she smirked, adding, "You know, if you're looking to have some fun while you're here, you can find me right here."
Eventually, she stood up and left an empty stool next to him.
Peter, he didn't pay attention to where she went. And she didn't come back, not until he finished his beer and planned his next move.
He stepped out of the bar and headed toward the tavern where he was told he could find a room, needing a place to rest before taking on the next day's tasks.
"Let's finish the rest of the work tomorrow."
Exclaimed, he stretched his hands; they ached from the cold, but the tavern was just a few blocks away, and he'd be there soon.
A dark figure followed closely behind him, its presence heavy as it shadowed his steps to the tavern. But it stopped at the door, watching silently before turning away and disappearing into the night.