The Fog Watches

Journal Entry – December 1, 1871

The fog was waiting for me when I woke — gathered at the foot of my bed like a loyal animal, rising and falling with the rhythm of my breath. When I sat up, it lifted in a slow, deliberate swirl and drifted toward the door, pausing as if expecting me to follow.

The house feels thinner today, stretched in places where it shouldn’t be. The beams whistle softly. The floorboards pulse. Even the air has changed — thicker, as if the walls have learned to inhale.

Outside, the fog parted for me as though it recognized my shape. It followed me to the orchard, winding around my boots, humming against the branches. The mark on my wrist has climbed higher; I saw it reflected in the pump handle — pale lines branching beneath the skin, glowing faintly like veins filled with moonlight instead of blood.

Something is watching.

Something is waiting for me to understand.

I think I will.