Halloween night, which promised to be just a set of cheap horror stories and sickly sweet treats, turned into a sticky, viscous nightmare. Fog. It wasn't just mist, but a thick, milky substance that seemed to be forged from the very core of oblivion. It did not dissipate, but rather thickened, absorbing the last glimmer of the moon and turning the familiar world into a maze of gray, shapeless shadows. You ran. They fled from them

It wasn't just teenagers in silly costumes. Their masks were too realistic, their laughter was too low, and their intentions were frighteningly tangible. They weren't just scaring; they were hunting. Their footsteps always seemed to be one step behind, but never lagged behind, perfectly synchronized with your desperate, stuttering breathing.

The old gas lamp you found in the abandoned gatehouse served as a pathetic, trembling lighthouse in this sea of gray. Its dim, yellowish light barely penetrated a half-meter radius, and then sank limply into the wet gloom. Every drop of condensation on the glass of the lantern seemed like an eye watching your panicked movement. The humidity soaked through his clothes, making them feel heavy, like a leaden mantle. The forest around them was alien, dead. The trees, twisted and gnarled, resembled the bones of ancient monsters, stretching their branches-fingers straight towards you.

And then it happened. A rustle.

It was short, sharp, like the snap of a broken bone, or the sound of a leather glove touching wet ground. It came not from behind, but from the side, from the very thick of the fog, where the light of the lantern simply disappeared. My heart did a somersault, stuck somewhere between my ribs. You stopped abruptly, gasping for breath, and instinctively raised the flashlight, directing its beam in the direction from which the sound came.

The beam of light tore out of the darkness only a pile of wet trunks and ferns going nowhere. Nothing. There was no silhouette, no movement, not even a reflection in the dew. Just an impenetrable, silent wall of fog that seemed to mock your naive attempt to illuminate nothingness.

The relief was fleeting, like a flash of lightning. You were about to take a step forward to continue running when you felt it.

Suddenly, with a force that knocked the air out of your lungs, two hands landed on your shoulders. They weren't just hands. They were cold, unnaturally heavy, and gripped your collarbones with such a grip that it felt like the bones were going to crack.

Your body froze, paralyzed by a horror that was thicker than the surrounding fog. You couldn't scream, you couldn't move, you couldn't even drop the flashlight.

And then the breath came. It was hot, wet, and smelled of something metallic, musty, like blood mixed with rot. This breath touched the most sensitive skin at the base of your neck, causing an instinctive tremor that was impossible to control.

And then a voice rang out. It wasn't loud, but it had a low-frequency vibration that seemed to resonate right in your skull. Hoarse. Rasping. It was as if someone was talking, grinding sand and broken glass.

— «You're not going anywhere, honey.»

The word "sweet" sounded like a mockery, like a promise of long and painful reprisals. There was no trace of a compliment, no hint of flirtation. It was a definition of status—a definition of victimhood. It had nothing to do with your good looks, if you had any. It was the definition of the thing that was going to be used