Nightmare Gallery: A Treasury of Twisted Terror Tales

The Figure in the Fog

The small coastal village of Hollow Bay was often described as quaint, peaceful, and quiet. Tucked between towering cliffs and the endless expanse of the sea, the village was the sort of place where people kept to themselves and life moved at a slow, predictable pace. That is, until the fog rolled in.

No one remembered when the fog first started appearing. At first, it was just a thick, milky blanket that would drift in from the sea at night, wrapping itself around the village like an old, familiar shawl. People would stay indoors during the fog's visitation, their doors locked and windows shuttered. They weren't afraid—just cautious.

Until one night, something changed.

It was a Wednesday when Clara found herself walking back from the pub a little later than usual. She had been catching up with her friend Maggie over pints and laughs, losing track of time. By the time she stepped out into the evening air, the fog had already begun to creep in, swirling around her feet like ghostly tendrils.

"I'll be fine," Clara said, waving off Maggie's concern. "It's only a short walk to my place."

Maggie watched as Clara's silhouette disappeared into the mist, the warm glow of the pub's lights fading behind her. The village had a curfew, an unspoken rule about not wandering outside after dark when the fog came in, but Clara had always been stubborn.

As she walked, the air grew colder. The fog thickened, and soon Clara could barely see her hand in front of her face. She wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck and quickened her pace. It was then that she first saw it—a figure moving in the fog.

At first, Clara thought it was someone from the village, maybe someone out for a late stroll like her. The figure was just ahead, walking in the same direction. She called out, but her voice was swallowed by the dense mist. The figure didn't turn or acknowledge her.

Something about the way it moved unsettled Clara. Its steps were slow and deliberate, almost too slow for someone walking through the thick, cold fog. She decided to walk faster, hoping to overtake the figure and get home more quickly. But as she hurried, so did the figure.

Her heart began to race. She wasn't one to be easily frightened, but there was something wrong. The figure wasn't walking toward anything—it was just pacing in the fog, like a shadow cast by something unknown.

"Hey!" she called again, her voice shaking this time. The figure stopped, frozen mid-step.

Clara's pulse quickened. She wasn't sure whether to run or confront it. Slowly, the figure began to turn toward her, though she couldn't make out any details through the fog—only the dark silhouette that seemed unnaturally tall and impossibly thin.

She took a step back, her foot slipping on the damp cobblestones. The figure moved closer, still cloaked in the mist, but Clara could feel it—feel its presence, heavy and cold, like the chill of the sea on a winter night. Panic surged through her as she turned and sprinted toward her cottage, not daring to look back.

The fog seemed to thicken, pressing in on her from all sides, but she could see the faint outline of her door in the distance. She fumbled with her keys, her hands trembling, as she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps behind her—slow, steady, and growing closer.

With a final gasp, Clara threw open her door and slammed it shut behind her, locking it with shaking hands. She leaned against the door, her breath ragged. The footsteps stopped just outside. Silence fell, but the air in the room remained cold. Too cold.

Clara pressed her ear against the wood, listening. For a moment, there was nothing. But then came the soft sound of breathing—not hers, but something just on the other side of the door. Low and raspy, as though the fog itself had lungs and was exhaling against her.

She backed away, staring at the door, willing it to stay closed.

And then, a knock.

Soft at first, barely audible.

Then louder.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

She screamed, retreating further into the house, but the knocking continued—insistent, as if whoever, or whatever, was outside had all the time in the world to wait. Clara's mind raced, her thoughts muddled by terror. She could hear it now, not just the knocking, but a voice—a whisper that seemed to curl through the fog and seep into the cracks of her home.

"Let me in..."

She clamped her hands over her ears, shaking her head, trying to drown out the voice, but it was everywhere—in the walls, the floor, the very air she breathed.

"Let me in..."

The voice wasn't human. It wasn't natural. It was the fog itself, beckoning her, calling her to open the door, to step outside and join it.

For hours, Clara sat in the center of her living room, huddled in a blanket, waiting for the sun to rise and the fog to lift. Eventually, the knocking stopped. The voice faded. But the cold remained, seeping into her bones, her mind.

When dawn finally broke, Clara dared to peek outside. The fog had receded, as it always did, leaving the village bathed in the soft light of morning. But something was different. The street was empty—eerily so. Not even the usual birds sang in the trees.

That day, Clara learned that others had seen the figure too. And just like her, they had felt its presence, the cold, the fear. But the village's silence returned soon after. No one wanted to talk about it. No one wanted to admit what they had seen.

The fog still rolls in every night at Hollow Bay. The villagers still lock their doors and shutter their windows. And on nights when the fog is particularly thick, Clara swears she can still hear it—the slow footsteps, the soft knocking, and the whisper that haunts her dreams.

"Let me in..."