The Iron Fog

The Ruins of Tidmouth Sheds

Ethan stood at the mouth of the ruined cavern, his body weak and his mind spinning with exhaustion. The eerie silence pressed against him, thick like the fog that still clung to the air. The Deep Engines had been stopped, but the island of Sodor was far from saved. He could still feel it—the pulse beneath the ground, the dark energy that had been there long before the fog rolled in. It was ancient, older than the rails, older than the engines. And it was still alive, waiting for its chance to reclaim the island.

In the distance, beyond the mines and the ruins of the machine, the old railways stretched toward the coast. Tidmouth Sheds lay somewhere ahead, half-buried in the fog and overgrown with the decay of years. It was the heart of Sodor, the place where all the engines once called home. Now, it was a graveyard—abandoned and left to rot. But Ethan knew it was more than just a resting place for broken trains. It was where the final secrets of the Iron Fog waited for him.

He tightened his grip on his pack, adjusted his flashlight, and started toward the sheds.

The journey was long, the landscape twisted by the fog's corruption. Trees, once green and full of life, stood dead and barren. The tracks under Ethan's feet were rusted and warped, the metal groaning in protest as though the island itself was trying to push him away. Along the way, he passed remnants of old signal boxes and derelict stations, their windows shattered and walls overgrown with creeping vines.

As he walked, Ethan couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching him. The air felt thick with unseen eyes, and every distant creak of metal or gust of wind sent shivers down his spine. He was alone on this forsaken island, but it didn't feel that way. The engines, or what was left of them, were still out there—lurking, waiting.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Ethan reached the outskirts of Tidmouth Sheds.

The sight that greeted him was worse than he had imagined.

The iconic roundhouse, once the pride of Sodor, lay in ruins. Its roof had caved in, crushed beneath the weight of years and the relentless corruption of the fog. The tracks leading into the sheds were overgrown with twisted vines, the steel rails disappearing into the dark, thickened mist that clung to the earth. The turntable at the center of the sheds was still, rusted in place, its once gleaming metal now tarnished and broken.

Ethan stood at the entrance, his heart heavy with the weight of what had been lost. This place had been the hub of Sodor's railways, the home to engines like Thomas, Percy, and James. Now, it was little more than a graveyard—a monument to the island's fall.

But he couldn't turn back now. Tidmouth Sheds held the answers he needed, the final piece of the puzzle. Somewhere beneath the ruin and rot, there was a dark truth waiting to be uncovered. The fog, the machine, the corrupted engines—it all led back here.

Taking a deep breath, Ethan stepped forward into the decaying remains of the sheds.

The interior was worse than the exterior. Shadows clung to every corner, and the thick fog seemed to pulse with a life of its own. The walls were cracked and crumbling, and the floor was covered in debris—broken pieces of rail, shattered windows, and bits of machinery that had long since fallen into disrepair. In the center of the room, where the engines once slept between their journeys, were the remains of their berths—empty now, save for the cold, metallic skeletons of a few forgotten engines.

Ethan's footsteps echoed in the hollow space as he made his way deeper into the shed. The fog was thinner here, but there was something far more unsettling in the air—a sense of waiting, of anticipation. He could feel it in his bones.

And then, as if to confirm his fears, he heard it.

A soft, metallic creak, followed by the faintest sound of a whistle.