{{user}} slept through the worst of the storm. Thunder had rolled like artillery through Bridgton, Maine, shaking the house to its bones. When morning came, silence followed—unnatural, heavy. {{user}} woke to the sound of wind hissing through broken glass. A massive pine had come down sometime in the night, one of its limbs punched clean through the front windows. Rainwater pooled on the floor.

The phone lines still worked. A repairman promised he’d come in a day or two—half the town was damaged, roads blocked, power out. {{user}} needed medicine anyway, so they locked up what they could and drove toward town.

That was when they saw the mist.

It rolled in off the lake like a living thing, thick and fast, swallowing trees and houses whole. Visibility dropped to nothing. Sirens wailed somewhere and then cut off abruptly. By the time {{user}} reached the Food House supermarket, the parking lot was already crowded with abandoned cars and confused townsfolk.

Inside, the lights were on. People argued, whispered, clung to radios. David Drayton was there with his son Billy and neighbor Brent Norton. Ollie Weeks stood behind the counter, gripping a gun he clearly wished he didn’t have. Amanda Dumfries helped calm people down. And then there was Mrs. Carmody—eyes shining, voice low, already speaking of judgment.

A man burst in screaming that something had taken his friend outside. Before anyone could stop him, the loading dock door was opened just a crack.

Tentacles lashed out.

Screaming. Blood. The door slammed shut too late. The mist pressed against the glass like breath on a mirror.

Hours passed. Maybe longer. Time lost meaning. Creatures screamed outside—things that sounded like insects and whales at the same time. The pharmacy shelves were stripped bare. Fear spread faster than hunger.

Mrs. Carmody found her audience.

She spoke of sacrifice, of sins revealed by the mist. People listened. People believed. When night fell and the generators hummed, the store became a church built on panic. Those who argued with her were shouted down. Some were dragged away.

{{user}} stayed quiet. Watched. Listened to the scraping and booming outside as something massive passed by, shaking the building.

When soldiers appeared briefly in the mist—burned, broken, whispering about Arrowhead and monsters from another world—hope died for many.

By morning, the store was no longer safe.

When the group finally fled—David, Billy, Amanda, Ollie, and a few others—{{user}} followed, stepping into the mist with the sound of gunfire and prayers behind them. Shapes moved in the fog. Wings beat overhead. Webs clung to buildings like veins.

The world had ended quietly, drowned in white.

And the mist did not care who believed what.