The Fog Novels & Stories

Leah thought, taking one last look at him from behind the lowered window, before heading towards the closet with the travel suitcase resting at the bottom. Catching fog early in the morning in Mirox is not a tricky thing. In summer and early autumn, a smoky blanket covered the town almost every day. And at first, Leah looked at him with awe, remembering Stephen King’s rather sensational work “The Fog” (later filmed under the title “The Mist,” which in her opinion much better described what was happening in the film). She got out into the street and wandered in this cloud that had fallen to the ground, imbued with the mystical atmosphere to her fingertips and,

“It’s a deal. Oh, by the way…” “Hmm?” “The fog’s coming in again. We spotted it nearby, so I’m assuming that it’s going to spread soon. It’s just the regular fog, but it’s better to be careful. Anyway, just a heads up in case you or Maya will be shifting tonight.” Fog.Thefog. How could he not have thought of it sooner?

Their decomposing bodies further polluted the air, making it even more dangerous. If anyone were foolish enough to traverse countless mountains to arrive here, they would most likely never return. However, when Fleur arrived here, her expression showed no signs of nervousness at all. Instead, she became increasingly excited. She stepped into the fog without hesitation. Although the filthy and toxic fog didn't pose any substantial harm to her, it made her feel nauseous. Fleur held her breath and walked toward the lowest and deepest part.

BENEATH THE FOG Kirrily “Rindy”Cross pov: The first thing I noticed was the cold. It slipped beneath my coat the moment I stepped onto the docks, biting through the fabric and settling against my skin.The second thing I noticed was the fog.It had swallowed almost everything.The shipping containers disappeared into a pale wall of mist. The giant machines for lifting heavy objects stood above the protected place like silent skeletons, their long arms stretching into the darkness.Somewhere beyond them, the ocean moved.Slow,heavy, and restless.

He brought it down to examine it and realised it came out foggy, his eyebrows knotted together in confusion and he looked up at the park, a thick blanket of fog covered the entirety of the park, Asher's heart rate shot up and before he could take a step back, the fog suddenly shot out and wrapped around him drawing him in. He struggled against it grunting with each movement, he could move freely because it felt like actual fog but no matter how much he struggled the fog never released him. After about five minutes of pointless struggling the fog cleared up dropping him right in front of the tree w

The private room was dimly lit, the only light coming from a lone lamp by the floor-to-ceiling window. A woman stood with her back against the door, wearing a black, form-fitting trench coat, paired with four-inch red sole heels. A lady's cigarette dangled between my fingers, the smoke obscuring my features. The silhouette, the way I held the cigarette, and the slight tilt of my head… Luciano's breath caught in his throat. His heart raced, pounding so hard it ached in his ribs. He opened his mouth, but his throat was too dry to make a sound.

My mind, traitor that it was, supplied images from stories I’d written: liminal spaces, foggy platforms, halfway houses for the dead. I wrapped my arms around myself. The air was cold and thick, smelling faintly of wet stone and old metal. The kind of smell underground parking garages had, or tunnels. “Hello?” I called. My voice disappeared into the fog, smothered instantly. No echo. No answer. Alone. I pushed myself to my feet, hugging my arms tighter, and took a careful step forward. The fog curled around my ankles like fingers. Somewhere above, the streetlamp buzzed and flickered again.

Every destination name had been wiped clean — just faint outlines of letters that used to be there. A chill crawled up my spine. What the hell is going on? I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to rub some warmth into my skin. “Hello?” I called out, louder this time. My voice bounced back at me. No answer. I walked toward the entrance — or where it should’ve been — but instead of sliding glass doors or a waiting crowd, there was just… fog. Thick, white fog pressing against the doorway like a wall. I could barely see past it, just faint shadows shifting now and then like the fog itself was breathing.

He was composed, unreadable, and I suddenly realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen his reflection clearly. When we stepped outside, the fog swallowed the road ahead, the world beyond it blurred and uncertain. Somewhere behind us, a faint crack sounded—like glass cooling after fire. I didn’t look back. But I knew the symbol was still there. Watching.

The fog liked him best when he was quiet. Hale stood on the ridge above the river, arms folded, letting the mist coil around his boots and ankles like hounds awaiting command. It slid through the trees, pooled low in the hollows, and drifted along the water’s edge as though it carried his will in every pale strand. To most, fog was formless, nothing but weather. To him, it was an ally—patient, obscuring, relentless. Patience. He’d built his life on it.