The fog outside grows thick, turning into a solid, greasy white wall that presses flat against the windowpanes.
Inside, the chill settles deep into the floorboards.
Henry sits upright on a wooden chair, his fingers wrapped tight around the leather grip of his unsheathed sword.
Near the front door, Leonard sits on a low crate, his heavy blade resting across his knees.
Upstairs, the faint creak of a floorboard signals that Grace and Elsbeth are still awake, confined to the small bedroom.
Henry's head drops, his chin hitting his chest. He jerks awake, his eyelids heavy as lead. He rubs his face with his knuckles, his breath hitching.
"What... I just slept," Henry mutters, his voice thick. "Why am I nodding off again?"
Leonard doesn't turn his head. His eyes remain fixed on the bottom crack of the door. "Go to sleep, Henry. I can't close my eyes anyway."
"But we need to stay together," Henry says, forcing his spine straight. "If something comes—"
"I will wake you the second i hear something," Leonard cuts in, his voice flat, steady, and exhausted. "We can't exhaust ourselves waiting for a ghost to show its teeth. Sleep."
Henry hesitates, then lets out a long breath. He bows his head slightly. "Wake me, then, sir." Within moments, his breathing deepens, his chin sinking back to his chest.
Leonard stands. He moves to the window, his boots silent on the wood.
Outside, Budsle has vanished. There are no houses, no roads, no treeline—only the milk-white fog swirling in the dark.
He sits back down, his shoulders slumping.
One hour passes. Then two.
Leonard remains on the low crate, his back pinned against the timber of the door frame.
The oil lamp on the kitchen table gutters, the flame drowning in its own melted wax until it produces only a frail, smoky amber glow.
The chill in the house deepens, seeping through the floorboards and settling into the joints of his knees.
Every few minutes, Leonard shifts his weight, the leather of his armor groaning softly in the quiet.
Henry's rhythmic, heavy breathing is the only sound inside the house.The grease-white fog presses so flat against the windowpanes it looks like solid bone.
By the third hour, the exhaustion shifts from a dull ache into a physical weight.
Leonard's eyelids drag downward. The dark corners of the kitchen seem to stretch and warp in his peripheral vision.
He blinks hard, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs, his knuckles white where his fingers grip the crossguard of his sword.
His mind begins to loop through the child's diary, over and over, until the words lose meaning.
The dead weight of the middle of the night smothers his senses. His head drops. For a fraction of a second, his consciousness slips.
"Leonard... are you there?"
The sleep vanishes from his veins. His heart hits his ribs like a hammer. He stares at the window. The voice is thin, distant, coming from somewhere deep within the blinded forest, but it is clear.
"Leonard. I'm here. Come to me."
Leonard presses his palm against the cold glass, his chest heaving. "Rose..."
"Yes, sweetie. It's me. Come outside... I've been waiting so long."
Tears cut through the grime on Leonard's face, hot and stinging. "Rose... I'm coming. Stay there. Please, just stay there."
His hands move on their own. He lifts the iron bolt of the front door without a sound. He steps out onto the covered porch, his eyes wide, scouring the white void for a glimpse of her dress.
But as his boot reaches the edge of the top step, something shifts in his mind. The fog breaks for a fraction of a second inside his head.
Rose is dead.
He remembers the smell of copper in the dirt. He remembers her small hands turning to ice inside his own, her lips stained with dark blood as she whispered that it wasn't his fault before her breath stopped.
Leonard tries to pull his foot back, but his muscles refuse the command.
His body alignment remains rigid. His legs lift, taking another step down into the mud, entirely out of his control.
An invisible weight hooks into his ribs, dragging him forward toward the dark treeline like a puppet on a string.
He fights his own limbs, his teeth grinding until they crack. He reaches for his belt with a hand that feels like it belongs to a stranger.
His fingers wrap around the hilt of his hunting dagger. With a choked roar, he drives the steel straight through his own left palm.
The white-hot spike of agony shatters the fog in his mind. The invisible strings snap.
Leonard drops to his knees in the red mire, clutching his ruined hand to his chest. He sobs into the dirt, his voice raw and broken. "Rose is dead! She's dead, you bastard! Don't use her! I'll kill you... I'll fucking kill you!"
He presses his forehead into the mud, his frame shaking as the old grief tears through him. "She's dead because of me..."
He forces himself up, pulling the dagger from his flesh. Blood leaks through his fingers, dripping dark into the clay.
The fog rolls over his boots, thicker now, hiding the ground entirely. He stumbles toward the carriage, his right hand tearing open a leather pouch on the frame to find a roll of linen.
Grunting, his teeth baring, he catches one end of the bandage with his mouth, pulling it tight around his palm with his remaining hand, knotting the cloth with a brutal, clumsy jerk.
He looks down to gather his bearings, and his breath hitches.
The massive, single-legged tracks are everywhere. They form a frantic, overlapping circle around the carriage and the perimeter of the house, trailing off toward the road.
Leonard follows the line with his eyes, looking up into the white soup.
Something is standing fifty yards away.
It is impossibly tall, a narrow, towering column of shadow that stretches upward until it disappears into the upper mist.
The sheer weight of its bloodlust hits Leonard like a physical blow, freezing the air in his lungs.
Panic overrides the pain. Leonard turns and bolts, his boots churning the mire. He hurls himself onto the porch, throws the heavy door open, and slams it shut, dropping the iron bolt into place with a deafening crash.
Henry jolts upright, his blade swinging wild in the dark. "Holy crap! What is happening?"
He stops and stares at Leonard who's covered in red clay from head to toe, his chest heaving, his left hand wrapped in a thick, blood-soaked rag.
"What happened?" Henry asks, his voice rising.
"I heard the voice," Leonard pants, his back pressed against the timber of the door. "I saw it. Just a glimpse through the fog. The bloodlust...
Henry looks at the wet bandage. "I told you to wake me if anything went wrong."
"I lost my mind," Leonard says, his fingers digging into his sword grip. "The voice... it takes your will. It commands your muscles. I had no control over my own feet. I had to drive the blade through my flesh just to break the hold."
Henry stares, his jaw slack. "How... how is that even possible?"
"I don't know," Leonard whispers.
Henry turns toward the front window, his brow furrowing as he peers through the cracked glass. The white fog is a solid mass, but through the density, three faint, yellow points of light flicker in the distance.
"What is that?" Henry mutters.
He reaches for the latch.
"What are you doing?" Leonard barks.
"Look," Henry says, pointing through the pane toward the rotting archway at the town's entrance.
"Lanterns. There are people out there."
Henry flings the door open, stepping out into the freezing air of the porch. Leonard follows, his blade drawn.
Three travelers are stepping through the broken gate of Budsle, their shapes muffled by the white mist.
They carry heavy oil lamps and large leather travel sacks on their backs.
"Hey!" Henry roars, his voice cracking with desperation. "Stay out! Don't enter the town! It's not safe! Turn back!"
Leonard joins the shout, his deep voice booming across the empty square. "Go back! Reverse your steps! Do not cross the gate!"
Behind them, the inner stairs creak loudly as Grace hurries down into the kitchen, her eyes wide. "What's happening? What is that noise?"
"Travelers," Henry says, not looking back.
"They're crossing into Budsle."
Out by the archway, the three young men halt.
The yellow light of their lanterns sways as they look around the obscured street.
The fog muffles the warnings from the porch, turning the shouts into distant, garbled echoes.
"What are they yelling?" one of the travelers asks, lifting his lamp higher. "I can't make out a word. This mist is too thick."
"They sound frantic," the second man replies, adjusting the strap of his ration pack. "Maybe they're injured. Let's get closer. They might need help."
They take three slow, deliberate steps forward, crossing the threshold of the stone gate.
The moment their heels clear the entrance, the fog behind them surges like a living thing, closing off the archway and sealing them inside the perimeter.
The white mass thickens around their knees, rising to their chests within seconds, blinding them completely.
"Henry, wait!" Leonard warns, but Henry is already moving.
The two of them sprint off the porch, their boots tearing through the mud as they head toward the yellow spots of light.
The lights abruptly jolt.
A sharp, wet tear echoes through the fog—the sound of heavy canvas and fresh leather ripping apart.
It is followed instantly by a breathless, bubbling shriek that ends in a choked gurgle.
"Hold the line!" Henry yells, plunging into the white void, his steel swinging before him.
Another scream rises, high and thin, full of pure, unadulterated terror. "What is that—oh god, it's got my—" The voice cuts off with the distinct, heavy snap of a spine fracturing in the dark.
Henry and Leonard burst through the final layer of mist, reaching the site of the lanterns.
The yellow glass of the lamps has shattered on the stones, the oil spilling into the mud and burning in small, blue pools of flame.
The fog thins for a single heartbeat.
The three travelers lie scattered across the path. Their bodies have been cleaved cleanly down the center, their torsos torn open from the sternum to the pelvis with terrifying strength.
The clay beneath them is drenched in dark crimson. On every single remain, the entire left half of the flesh is completely gone, leaving only white, jagged rib stumps and sheared bone exposed to the freezing night air.