The Iron Fog

Whispers in the Mist

Sodor was not what it once was.

Years ago, the island thrived, with steam engines cheerfully puffing along, the sun lighting their way through lush green hills and bustling stations. Now, the island was a place of fear. A deadly, swirling mist had engulfed everything, turning the once cheerful island into a nightmarish wasteland. They called it the Iron Fog.

Nobody knew exactly where it came from, only that it arrived slowly at first, creeping in from the edges of the island like a predator stalking its prey. Then it began to grow, thick and metallic, blanketing the island and mutating everything it touched. The engines were the first to change. Their once bright and friendly exteriors twisted into rusted, grotesque forms, their faces cracked and warped, their eyes glowing with a malevolent light. They were no longer the friendly engines people remembered. They were something far worse.

Ethan, one of the few survivors who dared venture into the fog, stood on the crumbling platform of Knapford Station, his breath visible in the cold, damp air. His worn-out boots tapped nervously against the weathered wooden planks beneath his feet. Knapford was a shadow of its former self. The once vibrant station, filled with passengers and the sounds of bustling engines, was now silent, save for the faint hum of the fog that clung to the island.

"Where are you?" Ethan whispered to himself, adjusting the frayed strap of his bag. He squinted into the fog, searching for any sign of movement. The air was thick, dense with the unnatural mist that hung over the tracks like a living thing. Somewhere out there, one of the engines lurked. The eerie silence made his skin crawl.

The fog had a way of distorting reality. It twisted sounds, making them echo in strange ways, and Ethan wasn't sure if the faint rumble he heard in the distance was the approach of an engine—or just the fog playing tricks on his mind. He clenched his fists, heart racing.

The distant whistle of an engine pierced the quiet. High-pitched, twisted, and distorted. Thomas.

Ethan's blood turned to ice. The sound was unmistakable, yet wrong—haunted. Thomas had been the first to fall to the fog. His blue paint was now corroded and flaking, his once bright, friendly face cracked and scarred, his eyes glowing an eerie, sickly yellow in the mist. Survivors had started calling him The Wraith Engine. No one who encountered him made it out alive.

"I need to move. Now," Ethan muttered to himself, backing away from the platform. He'd been waiting for a supply drop, a desperate attempt to help the few survivors scattered across the island, but now he couldn't wait any longer. The Wraith Engine was close, too close. The ground beneath him began to tremble as the sound of wheels on rails grew louder.

A static-laden voice crackled through the old station speakers. The sound was warped, faint but still clear enough to make Ethan's heart skip a beat.

"This is the Fog Controller... all units... report. Surrender to the fog."

Ethan gritted his teeth. The Fog Controller. Once known as Sir Topham Hatt, the man in charge of the railway, he had vanished when the fog arrived. Over time, he had become something far more dangerous, a disembodied voice that seemed to control the corrupted engines, bending them to his will. His broadcasts echoed through the island, always urging survivors to give in, to "surrender" to the fog.

Another whistle—closer this time.

Ethan spun on his heel, sprinting towards the old maintenance shed just beyond the station platform. He had hidden an old, barely functional railcar there, something to help him escape if he ever needed to. And he needed to, now. The fog seemed to thicken as he ran, clutching at his clothes and dragging against him like heavy chains.