The forest loomed ahead like a wall of shadows, its towering trees knitted together in a tangled canopy that scraped the pale sky. Though it was only mid-morning, the light had dimmed to a dusky gray. Mist curled low along the cracked road, thick and cold, swallowing everything a few meters ahead. It was as if they were driving into the mouth of something ancient — not just a forest, but a living thing that breathed darkness and secrets.
The bus's headlights flickered against the fog — a weak, dying glow barely cutting through the haze. Everything beyond the glass was shapes and suggestions, no solid lines, no clear signs of direction. It was the kind of fog that didn't just hide things — it erased them from memory.
Inside the bus, the air buzzed with a mix of chatter, music, and the occasional laugh. Twenty-four students. A school trip. A long drive into the wilderness for some kind of ecology retreat, though no one had really paid attention to the flyer. No one expected anything except boredom and maybe a few scenic selfies. The mood was restless — but normal. For now.
Seated near the front, Ava Kwan clutched her inhaler in her lap like it was made of glass. Her lungs had been tight all morning. Something about the air felt… heavier. It wasn't just the fog. It was in her skin, her chest, her thoughts. It was like the world had shifted slightly off-kilter, and her body was the first to notice. She rubbed her fingers across the smooth metal canister, seeking comfort in its familiar shape.
She pressed her face against the window. Mist clung to the glass like breath. Beyond it, the trees blurred into shapeless shadows. Her reflection stared back at her — pale, freckled, eyes too wide for her face. She looked like a ghost, barely there.
"Creepy, huh?" said Daniel, the boy sitting across the aisle. He was always the first to joke when things got weird. He leaned into the aisle and grinned, earbuds dangling around his neck. "Looks like a horror movie out there."
"It's not funny," Ava muttered. "You ever seen mist move like that?"
He glanced out the window again, frowning slightly. "It's just fog."
But Ava wasn't so sure. No, it wasn't. Fog didn't move like that. It didn't breathe. It didn't lean closer when you stared at it.
The first sign came at the bend.
The road twisted right, but the forest didn't. It pressed in from both sides — trees too close, too identical, too silent. Even the birdsong had vanished. No wind. No rustling. Just the low, steady purr of the engine and the fog, curling like breath around something watching. Something waiting. Something patient.
Then came the thump.
A soft, hollow sound — like the wheels had hit something invisible. The bus jerked. The students groaned. Someone dropped a phone that skittered down the aisle. Laughter faltered into silence.
"Did we hit something?" one student called out, standing to look.
"No," the driver said firmly, peering through the windshield. "Road's clear."
But the bus began to slow anyway. The mist thickened, coiling higher, smothering the windows completely until they were blind. It was like being buried alive in cloud. Sight became useless. Time felt slow.
And then — the engine sputtered and died.
The silence was instant. Unnatural. Even the humming and buzzing of electricity, which most never noticed, was gone. The kind of silence that pressed against your ears until they rang.
Ava's chest tightened again. She reached for her inhaler, raised it to her lips — but paused. Her lungs weren't closing. In fact... they felt open. Clear. Too clear. It was like something had reached inside her and switched her body off and back on again. She pulled the inhaler away, confused, almost unnerved by the sudden absence of struggle.
"I think we're stuck," the driver said, frowning as he turned the key again and again. Nothing. Not even a click. Not even a whine of protest.
The mist outside churned now — like something inside it was moving. Watching. Waiting.
A shape appeared.
A dark outline through the fog — distant but distinct. It wasn't a tree. It was... rectangular. With windows. With intention.
"A house?" Daniel said, squinting.
Ava felt a chill crawl down her spine. The kind of chill that wasn't from the air. It was deeper than that.
It was the only structure for miles. No roads led to it. No signs. No fences. No wires. Just mist... and the house. No one could recall seeing it until now. It had emerged from the fog like a memory, half-formed and already wrong.
Without anyone saying a word, the bus doors creaked open. A mechanical groan that echoed too loudly. The mist rolled in like a whisper, swirling past their shoes and creeping into the seats. The air was colder now — colder than it should've been.
And though no one told them to, they began to step off the bus, one by one, drawn forward by something they couldn't name. Not fear. Not curiosity. Something else. Something older. Something inside the mist that spoke without words.
Ava hesitated a moment longer, then followed, inhaler clutched tightly in her fist.
The ground crunched beneath their feet — frost, not just dew. The temperature had dropped sharply, and the cold clung to their clothes, their breath fogging the air in front of them. Everything was slower here.
They moved like sleepwalkers, past the warped iron gate that groaned as it swung open on its own. No one reached to push it. It simply opened. As if it had been waiting just for them.
The house stood tall and still, shrouded in fog and ivy. Its windows were dark. Its door, slightly ajar. It didn't look abandoned. It didn't look lived in either. It looked... expectant. It was a question waiting for an answer.
There was no turning back. No signal. No road behind them. Just mist.
Toward the house.
Toward the mist.
Toward the game.