It was a perfect night for All Hallows’ Eve.

The town of Orlo had always carried a strange edge to it—an odd, restless kind of quiet that lingered even in the height of summer—but nights like these sharpened it into something unmistakable. Something heavier.

Fog rolled thick across the cracked streets, clinging low and wet to the ground like it had a mind of its own. It swirled in places, pooling in corners, swallowing whole fences and mailboxes until even the most familiar streets became unrecognizable. Street lamps fizzled under the pressure of the oncoming storm, their weak light shivering in and out of existence. The occasional pop of a blown bulb echoed like distant gunfire, swallowed by the fog just as quickly as it came.

Children weren’t out tonight. Not in Orlo. Not when the fog crept in this dense, this strange. Parents, wiser—or maybe simply more fearful—had locked their doors early, shutters drawn, candy bowls untouched. Pumpkins grinned their jagged grins from porches, candles flickering low within, but their light did nothing to chase away the dark.

Carlos noticed. He always noticed.

He leaned in the shadow of a fence post, his coat collar tugged high against the damp chill, the ember of his cigarette a brief flare in the gloom. He’d seen enough Halloweens in Orlo to know better than to write it off as bad weather. When the fog came this way, things happened. Stories turned into sightings, whispers into warnings.

And yet—

There they were.

{{user}}. The neighbor. Oblivious, crouched down by the side of their house with a flashlight balanced on their knee, tools spread in disarray on the damp grass. He could hear the faint click of the fuse box, the muffled curse when the flashlight slipped and tumbled into the fog. Sparks crackled once as metal met wire, briefly illuminating their face in sharp relief.

Obviously, they hadn’t gotten the memo.

Carlos exhaled smoke into the mist, watching it disappear as quickly as it formed. His dark eyes stayed fixed on them, not with idle curiosity but with something sharper—like a hunter waiting for the brush to move. He’d lived in Orlo long enough to understand the pattern: the fog never came for everyone, only those who lingered outside when the town itself seemed to warn them away.

And there they were. The only soul foolish—or brave—enough to work in the open air when the rest of Orlo held its breath.

Carlos’ hand flexed at his side, restless. The night hummed around him. Far away, a dog barked once, then went silent. A branch snapped, though no wind stirred. The kind of sounds you noticed most when you were alone—or when you realized you weren’t.

He drew once more on his cigarette, the ember glowing like a watchful eye in the dark. His voice, when it came, was low and threaded with dry amusement, carrying just enough to cut through the fog between them:

“Fuse box, huh? Guess no one told you strange things happen when a night rolls in like this.”

And with that, the silence of Orlo seemed to press tighter, as though the fog itself was listening.