When Mark flung his sodden jacket onto the arm of the tattered sofa, the owl-shaped wall clock pointed to 2:17 a.m. Raindrops dripped from his hair onto the cheap laminate floor, pooling into a small puddle.
His studio apartment was no bigger than thirty square meters; the kitchen was just a single induction cooker and a mini-fridge tucked in the corner. A stale mix of mildew and leftover takeout lingered in the air, yet at this moment, the smell wrapped him in a warped sense of security—at least there were no creeping shadows or pale, pupil-less eyes here.
The first thing he did was empty every pocket onto the chipped dining table.
Keys. A crumpled half-pack of cigarettes. A smartphone with a cracked screen.
And that twenty-dollar bill.
Under the dim glow of the energy-saving bulb, the bill looked eerie. The rust-colored dark red edging, which looked as much like dried blood as it did iron oxide, was slowly seeping toward the center at a pace almost too faint to see. Mark pinched its corner between his fingers; a sharp, teeth-aching cold seeped into his skin, as if he were holding a shard of ice rather than paper.
"Damn it." He cursed under his breath, quickly tossing the bill into an empty cereal bowl and shoving it to the farthest corner of the table.
Then he picked up the notebook.
Its leather cover had swollen from the rain, the leather thong damp and limp. He undid it carefully and flipped to the first page. The paper was yellowed and fragile, crammed with Grandma's slanted cursive; some parts had blurred from water damage, the ink bleeding into fuzzy, downy edges.
The opening pages read like a catalog, but the categories were bizarre:
• Shadow and Mist Creatures: Solitary by nature, repelled by iron and salt, loathe bright light. Often lurk in abandoned houses, by wells, and in the shadows of crossroads.
• Flesh and Blood Resentments: Burdened by obsessions, haunt places of death, drawn to the scent of living souls. Subdue with silver, sacred words (if you believe), or fire.
• Otherworldly Visitors: Do not look upon them fully; do not speak their names. If encountered, close your eyes and retreat slowly, leave iron on the ground, never look back.
Mark flipped through the pages quickly, his fingers pausing on one entry. The title read Shadow-Eater, and in the margin beside it was a scribbled pencil sketch of a twisted humanoid figure with a single enormous eye embedded in its chest.
The description went:
Often disguises itself as a starving being to lure prey close. Its domain is shrouded in bone-chilling cold; it can morph shadows into tentacles. Vulnerable to salt, pure iron, and scorching sunlight. Addendum: This creature covets "deposits"—any money or goods given to it will be tainted with its filth, marking the giver. Must be soaked in vinegar, then burned under the noonday sun.
Mark glanced up at the twenty-dollar bill in the bowl. Deposit… the prepayment the customer had left. So that thing hadn't attacked him at random—it had marked him because he'd taken its money? What was this, some paranormal version of a food delivery rating system?
He kept reading, finding a more detailed explanation of salt barriers. Grandma had added a tiny note in the margin: Salt must be pure and untainted. If contaminated with soil, blood, or lingering malice, its effectiveness will be greatly diminished—or it may even enrage the creature further.
Mark thought of the salt he'd scattered, most of it mixing with mud and rainwater. A chill ran down his neck—he really had just gotten lucky back there.
The second half of the notebook was filled with specific "recipes" and "rituals." The handwriting grew even messier, interspersed with unintelligible symbols and rough sketches:
• House-Cleansing Water: Boil a handful of black pine needles, strain the liquid, mix in three fingers' worth of coarse salt. Sprinkle on all doors and windows.
• Iron Filings Pouch: Mix fine iron filings with dried sage, wrap in red cloth, hang above doorframes. — Side note: Can buy at hardware stores, or ask the town's auto repair shop for scraps—they'll usually give it away for free, since it's just waste anyway.
• Temporary Protective Charm: Punch a hole in a silver coin (any silver object works), soak in a mixture of oak ash and rainwater for seven days, wear on your person.
All cheap, cumbersome home remedies. Mark rubbed his temples, exhaustion crashing over him like a wave. But when his eyes flicked to the next page, sleepiness vanished instantly.
It was a crude pencil sketch of a brass pocket watch—exactly like his. Beside it was a note:
The Winster Family Heirloom. Not for telling time, but for warning and recording. Warmth foretells approaching disaster; coldness signals the breath of death. Its inner surface reveals the whispers of nearby filth; the inside of the cover… only when stirred by bloodline will the true words appear.
True words? Mark grabbed the pocket watch from the table in an instant. Its case was ice-cold. He pressed the button, and it popped open with a click.
The hands ticked steadily. The inner surface was smooth, blank of any writing.
His gaze drifted to the inside of the cover. The engraving—Your father's eyes are watching you through the fog—was still there, faint but clear.
Father. Fog.
Grandma had barely ever spoken of his father, only calling him "a man taken by the mist." Mark had always thought it was a metaphor—meant he'd left, vanished without a trace. Now, it sounded terrifyingly literal.
He snapped the watch shut, his heart heavy in his chest. He was a Winster. The surname was nothing special in Foghorn Town, but he'd never linked Grandma's "superstitions" to his family before. If the notebook was real, if the watch was real… did that mean Grandma, even his mysterious father, had known about the things lurking in the world?
And that they'd dedicated themselves to fighting them?
The thought was so absurd that Mark let out a snort, the sound sharp and out of place in the empty apartment. Come on. If the Winsters were some kind of demon-hunting clan, would they have fallen so far that he was slaving away as a delivery rider, struggling to pay rent? Would their only heirlooms be a beat-up old watch and a tattered notebook that read like a cook's recipe book?
But the faint gritty residue of salt on his fingertips, and the lingering nausea in his gut, silently contradicted him.
He needed proof. He needed to know for sure.
Mark grabbed his phone and opened the delivery rider app. He found tonight's order: No. 444 Pinewood Road. The status read Completed. The customer review section was blank—no rating yet.
He hesitated for a second, then tapped on the customer's information. All that came up was a default jumble of letters for a username: SHADOW_Feeder_01. The profile picture was pure black.
He exited the app and opened a search engine, typing in Foghorn Town No. 444 Pinewood Road.
The results were sparse. A few old posts on a local forum, with titles like What's the deal with that haunted house in the West End? Clicking them, the original posters' descriptions were vague, only mentioning that something terrible had happened there decades ago, the house had been abandoned ever since, and even the town's kids dared not go near it on a bet. Someone had replied saying they'd heard "sounds like a lot of people eating quietly" when passing by at night, only to be mocked for making up stories.
There was also a link to a snippet of municipal records, showing that the owner of the land at No. 444 was an entity called the Elliott Trust. The last property transfer had taken place… last week.
Mark was about to click on the full records when his phone suddenly vibrated—not with a message, but an incoming call. The screen displayed: Unknown Number.
2:30 a.m.
He stared at the flashing screen, his throat going dry. The pocket watch lay silent on the table, not a hint of warmth emanating from it.
The ringtone blared stubbornly on, the sixth ring, the seventh.
Mark licked his parched lips, his thumb hovering over the answer button.
"Hello?"
No voice came from the receiver. Only a low, steady… hum. It didn't sound like electronic interference; it was more like the distant rumble of a massive machine, or perhaps the faint, synchronized scraping of countless tiny teeth.
Then, through the hum, a few broken, distorted syllables squeezed out, as if transmitted through a thick layer of water:
"…the… meal… box…"
Mark's fingers tightened around the phone until his knuckles whitened.
"…wrong…"
The voice warbled, laced with the crackle of static.
"…missed… the… sauce…"
The moment the words faded, the pocket watch beside Mark turned abruptly ice-cold—he reached for it instinctively, and the second his fingertips touched the metal, it felt like grabbing a chunk of ice straight from the freezer. The cold seeped up his fingers, creeping toward his elbow; within seconds, half his arm went numb. At the same time, the app's notification chime rang out—not another call, but a new order alert.
He glanced down. On the phone screen, the delivery app's push notification blazed brightly:
Priority Order Assigned! Customer SHADOW_Feeder_01 has selected you again! Estimated Earnings: $50.00 (including tip). Accept? (Confirm within 10 minutes)
Order Note: Forgot the sauce packet last time. Double the amount this time. Deliver to the usual spot. Cash payment doubled.
Mark stared at the words, feeling his stomach lurch all over again. Fifty dollars. Cash doubled. Which meant another bill that would rot and fester in his pocket.
But he knew the app's rules all too well. The tiny print below the countdown read: Rejecting or failing to confirm in time will affect your acceptance rate and on-time rate. He was only three orders away from securing his Top Dasher rating this month—the algorithm dictated that maintaining a high rating was the only way to get first dibs on the best orders. Lose that rating, and he'd be stuck with the dregs no one else wanted, runs that were over ten miles long for a pittance of pay. Rent would become an impossibility, not in four days, but tomorrow.
Accept? Go back to that cursed place again?
Reject? Watch his livelihood crumble before his eyes?
The cold from the pocket watch still spread through half his body. Outside the window, the rain had stopped. A thick fog was creeping silently over from the direction of the Black Pine Forest, swallowing the streetlights whole, oozing slowly down the glass panes as if it had a life of its own.
The wall clock ticked on, second by second.
Countdown: 8:47…