The Hollow Mist - Chapter 4

Alex wasn’t planning to show up to the bonfire.

She spent most of the afternoon stacking firewood behind her cabin, the kind of repetitive work that kept her mind quiet. Or tried to. The fog hadn’t lifted all day — hanging low, hugging the grass like a heavy blanket. Too dense for heat. Too stubborn for wind.

Near sunset, music drifted through the woods. Faint, carried by thin mountain air. Laughter followed — light, easy, the way people sounded when they didn’t know the world could change in a single breath.

Alex wiped sweat from her forehead and tried to ignore it.

People meant questions.
Questions meant answers.
Answers required honesty.

She didn’t have that in her anymore.

But the sky darkened faster than it should have, and something about the creeping fog made her skin itch. Being alone suddenly felt more dangerous than being surrounded.

She told herself she was just going for a drive.

But she didn’t drive past the bonfire.

She stopped.

The fire crackled behind the old schoolhouse, throwing sparks into the night. Lanterns swung from branches, casting warm circles of gold across the clearing. A long table sagged under the weight of food — burgers, casseroles, pies — and the smell was nostalgic enough to make something in Alex’s chest ache.

Eli spotted her first. His eyebrows lifted — surprise melting into something like approval.

Bree turned next.

Her smile was small, but real. Like she wasn’t expecting Alex to come, but she was glad she did.

“Hey,” Bree said, stepping over with two cups of cider. “You found us.”

Alex took the cup. “Hard to miss. Music carries.”

Bree laughed softly. “That was part of the plan.”

Alex didn’t drink. Just held the warmth between her palms, grounding herself.

Kids ran in circles. Teenagers flirted by the logs. Older neighbours sat in folding chairs, swapping stories with the cadence of people who’d known each other for generations.

It looked safe.

Eli wandered over with a plate stacked high. “Eat. No one’s letting you starve in this town.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Your hospitality isn’t subtle.”

“Nope,” Eli said. “Worst place in the world to be mysterious.”

Bree elbowed him gently. “Ignore him. He thinks he’s funny.”

“He is funny,” someone said behind them.

A tall man with windswept hair and a mischievous smile offered his hand to Alex. “Mason Reed. Don’t let the sarcasm fool you — he’s our best mechanic and worst cook.”

Eli rolled his eyes. “That’s slander.”

Bree leaned closer to Alex. “He once set spaghetti on fire.”

Alex blinked. “How?”

Mason grinned. “Extreme talent.”

Even Alex’s mouth twitched.

The music shifted — something older, softer. Couples swayed near the fire, movements easy and familiar. Alex stood apart, watching how people fit together without fear.

It felt foreign.

Bree stood beside her quietly. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Some people just like being near other humans.”

Alex glanced at her. “That obvious?”

Bree shrugged. “I grew up around someone who talked with his hands more than his mouth.”

She tipped her chin toward Eli. “We got real good at reading silence.”

A subtle hint.
Truth buried under small talk.

Alex stared at her cider. “Silence usually means something.”

Bree nodded. “Yeah. Sometimes it means you survived something loud.”

Alex froze — not visibly, but inside, where memory flickered like shrapnel.

Bree didn’t push.
Didn’t pry.
She just stayed.

And something in Alex’s chest shifted, quietly and painfully, like a muscle remembering how to work.

A crash near the edge of the clearing snapped heads around. A teenage boy stumbled into a pile of branches, sending chairs clattering across the ground. People jumped. Bree flinched — small, instinctive, gone in a heartbeat.

Eli’s jaw tightened.

Alex didn’t move. She catalogued the sound, direction, exits — automatic reflex.

Mason laughed to cut the tension. “Don’t worry! Chairs took more damage than the kid!”

The boy brushed himself off, cheeks red. The crowd laughed. Warmth returned.

For a moment.

Later, when the fire burned low and conversations blurred together, Alex stepped away. She needed air. Quiet. Space to settle the pulse in her throat that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with belonging she didn’t trust.

Laughter faded behind her as she faced the treeline.

For a heartbeat, she thought she heard something humming under the earth — a low, electric buzz swallowed by soil and fog. When she looked down, the sound vanished.

The woods stood at the edge of the clearing, black and unmoving. The fog hadn’t disappeared — it lingered between the trunks, pale and low, like waiting breath.

Alex stared into it.
Something cold rolled down her spine.

Fog didn’t gather uphill.
Fog didn’t pool against roots.
But this fog did.

And it was close.

Too close.

“Hey,” Bree said softly behind her. “You okay?”

Alex didn’t turn. “The fog. It’s heavier near the trees.”

Bree hugged her arms against the cold. “Gets worse every year. Locals call it the Hollow Mist.”

“Ever come this high?”

“No.” Bree shook her head. “Not until recently.”

Alex studied the treeline. A whisper of movement curled through the white — too smooth for wind, too slow to be an animal.

She blinked. The fog stilled.

Bree stepped beside her. “It’s different tonight.”

Alex finally looked at her. Bree’s eyes were wide — not afraid, but alert. Like someone who had learned to see danger early.

“Stay close to people,” Alex said quietly.

Bree didn’t argue.

The music picked up again. People laughed. No one else watched the woods.

Alex couldn’t take her eyes off them.

And just before she turned away, she saw it:

Something tall and wrong sliding deeper into the fog.

Not walking.
Not running.
Just moving — like it didn’t need legs to do it.

Her heart didn’t spike. Her breath didn’t break. She simply reached for the pistol she didn’t bring — and felt naked without it.

Bree’s shoulder brushed hers, gentle and grounding. “You sure you’re okay?”

Alex took a slow breath.

“I’m fine.”

It was a lie.

But it was the only answer a town like Ridge Hollow was ready to hear.