1057: Story 1057: Fangs in the Fog 1057: Story 1057: Fangs in the Fog The fog arrived before dawn—thick as wool, silent as a corpse’s breath.
It rolled over Grimhollow like a creeping infection, swallowing the moon, silencing the birds, and suffocating sound.
When the sun tried to rise, it simply… didn’t.
And with the fog came the fangs.
No one saw them at first—just the aftermath.
Livestock gutted with surgical precision.
Doors clawed from the inside.
Children’s beds cold and wet with ash.
Blood, but no tracks.
Screams, but no bodies.
Whatever lurked within the mists did not hunt for hunger—it hunted for ritual.
It began with the Vernon twins.
They vanished from their room during a blackout.
Only a claw mark remained, etched into the ceiling, dripping with saltwater.
Then the preacher’s wife turned up walking backward through town, eyes gone, smile too wide.
“The Hollow Ones return,” she whispered, “teeth like tombstones, breath like rot…
and a hunger for sins unspoken.”
She collapsed, and her chest exploded into a swarm of black moths.
The town rallied under torchlight.
Mayor Halver, a scarred war widow, armed the streets.
The gravedigger, Old Man Flint, claimed the creatures were Fogborn Wyrds—feral spirits twisted by centuries of burial under blood-drenched soil.
He spoke of the Fogfang Queen, a beast of bone and shadow, who fed on guilt and exhaled nightmares.
No one believed him.
Not until the teeth began whispering.
At night, the fog thickened like soup, and from it echoed voices—sweet, mocking, familiar.
They mimicked the dead.
They promised warmth.
Then they tore out throats.
The militia’s torches were snuffed one by one, and lanterns refused to stay lit.
Bullets passed through the fog-things, but screams did not.
Every time the town thought the worst had passed, a new silence fell—heavier than the last.
It was Ruthie Bell, the mute orphan, who turned the tide.
She wandered into the heart of the fog, clutching a cracked mirror and the skull of her twin sister, Marn.
The townsfolk watched helplessly as the mist swallowed her whole.
Then came the shriek.
Not of pain, but rage.
The fog recoiled.
Light bled through.
And standing in its place was Ruthie—her eyes black, her teeth longer.
But she held something in her hands:
The head of the Fogfang Queen, crowned in thorns, weeping mist.
The town did not celebrate.
Ruthie never spoke again.
And though the fog cleared, the wounds it left never closed.
To this day, the mist still rolls in from the moorlands once a year.
And if you listen closely, past the wind, past the silence… you can hear a voice whisper:
“Fangs don’t bite what already belongs to them.”