The Throng in the Fog

The village of Black Hollow sat nestled in a forgotten valley, cut off by thick woods and curling hills that swallowed sunlight by mid-afternoon. Its people were wary, tight-lipped, and superstitious — especially about the fog.

It rolled in every seven years. Always on the same night.

They called it The Gathering Night.

At first, it appeared harmless — a low blanket of silver mist creeping along the fields and paths, flowing into cracks beneath doors and windows. But the old ones knew better. When the fog came, so did the throng.

No one who saw them survived long enough to describe them.

But everyone remembered the screams.


---

Eliora Graye never believed in village tales. At twenty-two, she had returned from the city after her father’s death, determined to sell the old cottage and never look back. Her childhood had been marked by whispered warnings, deadbolts, and strange symbols carved into doors. Her father had called them protections. She had called them madness.

The night the fog returned, Eliora stood on the porch, sipping tea, amused by the villagers rushing indoors and hammering their shutters.

“Primitive fear,” she muttered, watching the first tendrils of mist curl around her boots.

The air grew colder. The wind stopped.

And then came the sound — a low, rhythmic thump… thump… like many feet marching in perfect sync, far off but getting closer.

She set her cup down.

That’s when the lights went out.


---

Inside, the house felt smaller in the dark. She lit a candle, the flame flickering as if shivering. She reached for her phone. No signal. She wasn’t surprised.

A creak on the back porch.

Then another.

She wasn’t alone.

She turned slowly, candle in hand, and through the fogged glass of the back window, she saw them.

Dozens — no, hundreds — of tall, thin shapes. Humanoid, but not human. Their limbs were too long, their movements twitchy, as if they were marionettes pulled by invisible strings. They didn’t walk. They jerked forward, pausing in perfect unison, then twitching again.

Their faces… if they had faces… were hidden beneath gray, tight hoods. But from each one’s chest, something pulsed — red and glowing like a heartbeat made of flame.

The throng had arrived.

Eliora backed away, heart pounding. One of them raised its head — no eyes, no mouth — just a blank oval of skin. And yet, she felt it see her.

She ran to the front door. Locked. She tried the windows — nailed shut, just like her father always kept them.

Then she remembered the cellar.


---

The cellar was colder than the outside. Old boxes, rusted tools, and the smell of mold filled her nose as she slammed the door shut and bolted it. She crouched behind a workbench, candle trembling in her hand.

The thump-thump-thump of feet came again, this time right above her.

Then silence.

Then whispers.

Dozens of voices murmuring in unison, unintelligible but urgent, like a ritual chant spoken backward.

The candle flickered… and went out.

She froze.

A floorboard creaked above her.

Another behind her.

They were in the house.

But the cellar door was locked. She held her breath. She could hear them pacing, jerking, whispering.

Then came a new sound: scratching.

Not on the door — on the walls.

They were inside the walls.

She backed away, but something grabbed her ankle. She screamed, kicking wildly, but the grip was like steel. She looked down and saw a pale, fingerless hand rising from the dirt floor beneath her. Another hand followed. Then another.

They weren’t just in the walls.

They were under the house.

And they were rising.

She clawed at the stairs, scrambling up as the cellar door shuddered. The lock snapped open, not from force — but because something wanted her to come up.

She paused.

And that’s when she remembered her father's words, long ago:

> "If the throng ever comes, don’t run. Don’t hide. Stay still. Don’t breathe."



But it was too late.

A tall figure stood in the open door, its chest glowing red, the others swarming behind it.

Eliora screamed.


---

The next morning, the fog lifted.

The villagers opened their doors slowly, eyes wary.

The throng had come and gone.

And Eliora Graye’s cottage was empty. The door wide open. Her tea still on the porch — cold.

Inside, nothing remained.

Except a fresh carving in the wood above the fireplace:

"Thirty-one gathered. One joined."


---

In Black Hollow, the fog always takes what it’s owed.