“There are… things in the fog!” His voice is shrill; almost crazed.
“Stop crying like a scared child,” you chide. There are always shapes in the fog, little shadows and depths. Fog is never a uniform white blanket. You see it every day.
But you’ve never felt it before. There’s a thickening in the fog around you. Your vision clouds. You can still hear him, but muffled as though someone was covering your ears. You can feel a tendril of the fog – an individual tendril – as it fills your mouth.
“Don’t ssscream,” it whispers. “Thisss will only hurt a little.”
And it's early enough; maybe I'll have time for another one today. Or a post about something else. That'd be crazy.