The constant fog over the little seaside hamlet of Eldermoor created a sense of mystery that was both alluring and oppressive to Clara. After a breakdown in her busy city life, she had relocated there three months prior in search of tranquility. She was to be healed by the solitude. It started uncovering things that were better left buried instead. It began with the murmurs. Clara initially assumed it was the wind. In defiance of the salty air, the wooden frame of the old cottage she rented moaned and creaked. The whispers, however, became more definite and clearer—soft voices whispering her name in the darkness.
“Clara…”
Her heart would race when she sat up in bed, although the room was never occupied. In Eldermoor, the only person she had company was Mrs. Hargrove, an elderly neighbor who would occasionally drop by with baked delicacies and tales of the town’s spooky past. During tea one evening, Mrs. Hargrove remarked, “Dear, strange things happen here.”
“Eldermoor has the ability to hold onto people.”
“What do you mean?” Clara tightened her hold on her cup and requested. The elderly woman had a malicious sparkle in her eyes.
“Some claim that the fog prevents people from leaving.” Although Clara laughed uneasily, Mrs. Hargrove’s heavy look persisted long after she had left.
Clara chose to take a stroll along the cliffs one evening in order to decompress. She hadn’t slept for days, and the whispers had gotten worse. As she made her way up the curving path, the chilly air pricked her flesh.
“Clara…” She stopped. The whisper had become closer and louder.
With a quivering voice, she called, “Who’s there?” The dense, oppressive fog whirled about her. When she squinted, she briefly believed she saw a towering, dark figure standing at the cliff’s brink.
It vanished when she blinked. The following day, Clara went to the local library in a desperate attempt to find answers. A dusty piece about the town’s legend was tucked away at the back. A woman named Amelia, who had resided in the same home more than a century prior, had an old notebook that she discovered. Amelia wrote, “The whispers began after my husband disappeared.” “In the middle of the night, they call me and tell me to join him in the fog.” Clara felt her blood chill. The notes became inconsistent and described Amelia’s belief that the fog was living, consuming hopelessness and luring people into its depths.
The last entry said: I can no longer resist it. He is waiting for me in the fog.
Clara shut all the windows and doors that night, but the rumors persisted.
“Clara…” She rocked back and forth on the floor while covering her ears.
“Go away from me!” The murmurs became louder and more persistent. Then another voice—a man’s voice—rose over the clamor.
“It’s me, Clara.” Her breath caught. Ethan’s voice was heard. Two years ago, her fiancé Ethan lost his life in a vehicle accident.
“No,” she shook her head and muttered. “You’re not real.”
The voice begged, “Come to me, Clara.” “I’m waiting.” Clara stood at the cliff’s edge at morning, surrounded by dense fog. Her voice was hardly audible as she called, “Ethan?” He appeared like a silhouette when the fog cleared. His kind grin and extended hand beckoned her, and he was exactly as she recalled. She took a step closer, tears running down her cheeks. “You’ve been sorely missed.”
Softly, he murmured, “Come to me.” The ground was disintegrating under her feet as she took another stride. Mrs. Hargrove discovered Clara’s abandoned cottage two days later. There was a half-empty cup of tea on the table, and the door was open.
She was nowhere to be seen, just the diary she had checked out from the library, open on the floor. With a gloomy face, Mrs. Hargrove picked it up and read the last entry. The muttering has ceased. In the fog, I can see him waiting for me. Looking out the window, Mrs. Hargrove felt she heard her own name whispered in the air, and the fog appeared to swirl purposefully. “Evelyn…” She gave a slight smile. “The lonely ones are always found by it.” After closing the journal, she stepped out into the mist.