The bus dropped Lewis Carter in the middle of nowhere, in front of a rusty sign that read "Black Hollow – Population: 47". The air smelled of wet earth and something else… like rotting flesh.
"—You shouldn't be here," a voice murmured behind him.
It was an old woman, her eyes as opaque as the winter sky.
"—I'm here about the disappearances," Lewis explained, showing his press card.
The woman laughed, a dry sound like bones clicking together.
"—Nobody disappears, sir. The fog takes them."
The Last Refuge hostel was the only place with lights in the town. The owner, a man named Eli, warned him:
"—When night falls, close the windows. Don't look outside. No matter what you hear."
Lewis, skeptical, nodded. But as night fell, something changed.
A thick fog, almost solid, began to creep through the streets. It wasn't natural: it moved as if it were alive.
And then, the screams began.
Lewis couldn't resist. He opened the window slightly and saw shapes moving in the mist: tall, disproportionate figures, writhing like insects.
One of them stopped.
It looked at him.
Two black eyes, without pupils, gleamed in the darkness before the creature lunged at him. Lewis slammed the window shut, but not before hearing a raspy whisper:
"—Tssss… we're hungry."
The next day, the town was empty. The houses, abandoned. He only found Eli, hiding in the church.
"—A hundred years ago, we made a deal," he confessed, trembling. "—We give them the strangers… and they let us live."
"—Who are 'they'?" Lewis asked.
Eli pointed to the altar. Carved into the wood was an ancient symbol: an eye within the fog.
"—The Devourers. They were here before us."
That night, the fog arrived earlier. Lewis ran to his car, but the creatures were already there, crawling from the shadows.
A bony hand emerged from the fog, grabbing his ankle.
"—NO!" he screamed, kicking.
But there were too many.
The last thing he saw was the fog closing in on him, and the sharp teeth of something smiling before dragging him into the darkness.
A week later, another journalist arrived in Black Hollow. The town was full of life, its 47 inhabitants smiling and friendly.
"—Lewis Carter?" the newcomer asked.
The owner of the hostel, a man named Eli, shook his head.
"—We've never heard that name."
As the journalist drove away, Eli looked towards the fog that was beginning to form.
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