The Fog Calls — Part 2 Welcome to The Enchanted Quill… Maren didn’t sleep. Not really. She drifted in and out of shallow dreams where the mist leaked through her walls and the house no longer had corners—only curves that folded in on themselves. The candles burned down to waxy puddles. The silence had weight now, like breath being held just behind the walls. When the morning came, it didn’t look like morning. Just gray. The fog pressed against every window like a second skin, thicker than ever, and her boarded-up world felt more like a coffin than a home. Her phone buzzed. She lunged for it—but it wasn’t a call or a message. Just a photo. No sender. Just… there. It was of her. Asleep. Taken from the ceiling, directly above her bed. Maren dropped the phone. “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.” The boards on the front door groaned. Not like wood settling. Like pressure. Something was pushing. She ran upstairs, heart in her throat, and stood in the attic—cold sweat slicking her skin. The window where the knock had come the night before now showed nothing but white. But her breath caught when she saw the writing on the inside of the glass. WE ARE INSIDE. Suddenly, the house felt too quiet. The fog had stopped whispering. The stillness was worse. She backed away, tripping over a dusty trunk she hadn’t touched in years. It split open when she hit it. Inside, half-buried in old photo albums and forgotten toys, was a recorder. Bright red. Childish. Familiar. Her fingers trembled as she pressed play. Static. A click. Then her voice—high and small, from when she was maybe seven. “Testing, testing! This is Maren and Ellie. It’s foggy today, so we’re staying inside. Grandma says the mist has teeth.” Pause. Ellie’s voice followed. Cheerful, unaware: “We’re gonna hide upstairs! If the fog finds us, we won’t let it in. Right, Maren?” Then—nothing. Just static. Until the very end. A low whisper, caught faintly in the background. “One stayed… one was taken…” Maren flinched and dropped the recorder. Ellie. Her childhood friend who vanished without a trace one foggy morning. They had hidden together. Only one had come back. Suddenly, the whispers returned—urgent, angry. “You left her…” “You promised to stay…” “It remembers…” Maren clutched her ears, backing toward the stairs, but the attic door slammed shut below her with a violent snap. She was trapped. In the window, a handprint formed—fingers far too long to be human. Then another. Then a face pressed against the glass. No features. Just glowing eyes and skin like fog stitched to bone. The window cracked. Panicked, Maren yanked the trunk upright and dug through its contents. Behind the old recorder, beneath a moth-eaten blanket, she found something else: a journal. Her grandmother’s. The last entry read: “The fog knows what you took. What you forgot. If it calls your name, answer not with fear… but with memory.” Maren looked up. The glass was breaking. She turned to the recorder. Hit record. “This is Maren. I remember now. Ellie… I’m sorry. I left you. I was scared. I thought you were right behind me. I didn’t mean to forget.” Silence. The fog at the window pulsed. Then it receded—slowly, hesitantly. The cracking stopped. The whispers softened to murmurs. The face dissolved into mist. Maren dropped to her knees, breathing hard. The attic air smelled cleaner. Sharper. She made her way downstairs in stunned quiet. Light—actual daylight—was beginning to pierce the edges of the fog outside. But just before she reached the front door, she saw it. A shape in the hallway mirror. A little girl. Wet hair, wide eyes. Ellie. Smiling. And whispering one word before fading: “Remember.” To be continued… If you liked this story and want to hear more, please like, comment, share, and subscribe.