1059: Story 1059: The Ghast of Glenmoor 1059: Story 1059: The Ghast of Glenmoor They say the town of Glenmoor is swallowed by fog twelve months a year.
Not a soft morning haze—no, Glenmoor’s fog is thick, wet, and wrong.
It seeps into skin, into thoughts.
It muffles sound like a wet rag over the mouth.
The sun has not touched its cobbled streets in decades.
It wasn’t always like this.
Before the Ghast came.
The survivors wandered into Glenmoor by mistake, following broken maps and half-remembered trade routes.
The skeletal remains of buildings loomed around them, brickwork crumbling like rotted teeth.
Shops still bore signs: Bakery, Barber, Bookstore—but inside, only mold and silence.
They split up to scavenge.
That was their first mistake.
Niko and Fern entered the town chapel, its bell still intact but frozen in place.
On the altar, they found strange carvings: spirals etched into the wood, bleeding a black sap.
Fern touched it.
And then she screamed.
Not with fear—but as if every grief in her soul ripped itself loose.
Her eyes glazed.
Her mouth stayed open, as though still shrieking, though no sound came.
She was still breathing.
But she was not there.
Niko turned—and saw it.
The Ghast.
A figure of smoke and bones, faceless, tall, moving not through space but within it—folding it, peeling it like skin.
It did not walk.
It hovered.
And it spoke in whispers that sounded like loved ones long dead.
“Remember me?”
It tried to pull him into its shroud.
He ran.
Elsewhere, Ezra and Delia discovered the truth in the town records buried under the constable’s station: Glenmoor had been the site of an Eldritch trial.
A being known only as “The Listener” had come to collect voices—souls silenced unjustly.
The town elders had bound it in the church, thinking themselves clever.
But you can’t trap what was born from silence.
The ritual had backfired.
The Listener split.
And what remained was the Ghast—a remnant.
A soul-eater.
One that wanted to finish what it began.
By the time the survivors regrouped, Fern was gone—wandering the streets like a sleepwalker, whispering things she couldn’t have known:
“He watches through keyholes.
He listens through the fog.”
They made one desperate attempt to break the town’s grip—lighting the chapel on fire, scattering the runes, and carrying Fern out through the back alleys.
But the fog chased them.
And so did the Ghast.
Only when Niko turned and spoke Fern’s name, reminding her of who she once was, did she blink.
The Ghast hesitated.
Just long enough for them to cross the boundary stone, where the fog ended like a blade.
Glenmoor still sits there, behind the mist.
Waiting for someone to listen.
And every so often, voices echo from within—not screams, not cries, but secrets.
Regrets.
Whispers of truths better left buried.
They say the Ghast collects them all.
Waiting for the one voice it still hasn’t heard:
Yours.