echoes of the black mist

The small town of Grayfell was a place where nothing ever happened. Tucked away in the crook of misty hills, it was a haven for retirees and hermits, a sanctuary for those seeking solace from the noise of the world. The most exciting event in recent memory had been the unveiling of a new clock at the town square—a clock whose ticks were now drowned out by the whispers of something sinister. It started with the mist. At first, it was unremarkable—Grayfell had always been cloaked in morning fog. But this mist didn’t fade with the rising sun. It lingered, thick and gray,…