Traverse The Fog

That weeping. It hung in the air, almost as if Cyrus could hear it beside him. And it was more than enough to force him to a stop. Pursing his lips, he concluded that they came from the hamlet.

"....No thanks," Cyrus muttered before turning around.

He was crazy, but not this crazy. And yet, when his gaze returned to the forest, Cyrus was greeted by a thick wall of fog surrounding the entire plain.

Of course. It was a thought of impotent fury. After three days of nothing, now it strikes? The ploy brought paralysis to Cyrus for thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of listening to that weeping.

The forest was right there. Cyrus thought. Just walk in.

But something... was lurking within the fog. He was so sure of it—just beyond his periphery. The crushing feeling stilled his movements, forcing him to weigh his options. Run into the fog and whatever awaited, or head into the hamlet.

Gritting his teeth, Cyrus headed toward the stage. Each step seemed to draw the cries closer and closer, shifting into something more twisted and distorted. But what was he supposed to do? Turn around? Something worse awaited within the veil, to which Cyrus had little control.

Slowly, quietly, Cyrus approached the first house. His gaze lingered on the entryway, but only darkness awaited—a violent heat struck his chest. It surged throughout Cyrus' body, forcing him onto his knees. Breathless, nearly choking, he desperately bit his tongue to hold back his screams.

And it was enough for now. In what felt like an instant and eternity, the fire within abated as Cyrus sank his fingers into the dirt.

Just what was that? A heart attack? Something worse? Had it always been a hidden condition, or was he infected with something upon arrival in this new world?

Am I going to die here?

The pain weighed heavily on his mind. But try as he might, Cyrus just couldn't move his body toward the forest. Silently, he pulled some grass and scattered it into the air. What now?

Only one way to go. Quietly, mechanically, Cyrus staggered to a stand and pressed on. Each step brought a wave of warmth pulsing through his body, but it never reached the heights of that borderline death-inducing burst.

Once at the entryway, Cyrus hugged the wall. The weeping had not once abated throughout this while.

It's coming from around the corner. Try as Cyrus might, he couldn't help but slowly creep toward the wall's edge and peer over. There it was. Obscured in haze and mist, something knelt before the pond. It twitched and shook at each weep, lost to whatever despair it suffered.

Cyrus furrowed his brows. Was this another victim of the fog? Or was it a trick itself? Call it intuition or caution, but something told him not to draw close. So, he retreated and entered through the backway.

Darkness was now his friend. His gaze searched the scene before him. It was what he would have expected from some run-down and cramped, ancient house—open windows where the pale, static light seeped in, a rotten and moldy hay bed hugging the corner, and creaking floorboards blanketed by fog that rose to his calves like thick water. And to the far end lay a small opening. A food cabinet?

And what hung over the room was that weeping.

Avoiding the light coming from the front exit, Cyrus slowly scoured the area. And of no surprise, there wasn't anything of use. Just rot and decay. It was disappointing, but he expected such a result.

There was still the small compartment. Forward he went. And after a few quick steps, he peeked into the room. And it was too small, so small that only a small hay-matted bed fit for a child hid inside.

Worthless... unless.

Slowly, he knelt down to peek under—Cyrus silently gasped and stumbled a few steps back, falling to his backside. Something was staring at him.

Oh, it's just a doll. Cyrus relaxed, burying his face in both hands.

With how only half its head rose above the blanketing fog, he could've sworn... Well, the head was too small to be a child's. But the weeping was more than enough to remind him of the situation. Slowly, he reached underneath the layered mist and clutched onto it.

To his surprise, the ceramic doll seemed high quality, or at least it once was. It was now wearing rotted, black-finished metal armor, but he could have imagined the black polished metal proudly shining under the sun in its heyday. Slowly, Cyrus traced a finger on its chest plate. At its center was an intricately golden threaded ring surrounding a white circle. Was it a sort of religious symbol?

Then there's a chance. Cyrus tightly clutched the doll, examining the thin blonde strands that once imitated long hair. Civilization was out there.

At least, that's what he hoped. According to his logic, what kind of medieval family used metal and ceramic to make dolls? Maybe there was a town nearby that sold these. And all he needed was a map.

Before he could take his next steps, the doll's head detached. And from its neck stump oozed out an inky-black substance. Cyrus could not chuck it onto the bed any faster.

With a plop, it landed on the rotten hay, drizzling more and more of that substance. Did the fall attract attention? Freezing still, Cyrus strained his ears to listen to the weeping outside, fearing they had stopped. Thankfully, they remained ever constant in the backdrop, almost faint.

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Drawing his attention back to the doll, Cyrus took note of the substance as it sizzled on the ancient blanket linens. What was it? Some acid? Regardless, he should not waste time and linger here.

It was time to move on to the next house. Slowly, he crept toward the back exit. That was until another heat wave ran across his chest, forcing him to stop and clutch at it. This time wasn't as painful as the previous, but it burned nonetheless.

For a second, despair almost took hold, but he quickly swallowed the feeling and strove forward. The next house seemed virtually identical to the first, yet in far worse condition. Under the wisps of haze, it showed signs of a violent struggle.

But there's nothing here! Cyrus clenched his fists. This really was just a small village. Was he forced here simply to meet that man in the middle? Cyrus refused to entertain such a thought.

Shaking his head, he attempted to leave. But as he moved, Cyrus barely noticed the rim of a bucket slightly above the layers of mist covering the floor. A bucket was a bucket; what could it possibly contain? But as Cyrus peered inside, he found the same black substance that oozed out of the doll's neck, prompting a closer look.

There was something within the ooze—another doll? Whatever it was, it remained half-submerged but utterly inundated by the substance. Cyrus knelt down and scanned it. It almost looked like a man—wait.

Cyrus abruptly stood up. Am I being too paranoid? Why does this all feel... fake? He hesitated and contemplated returning to his gear, but as he spotted the thick veil of fog encircling the hamlet—No, not yet.

With nothing else here of value, Cyrus moved on through the back window he entered. Each step drew another heat pulse as he pressed forward.

Unfortunately, the following two houses yielded no results, and frustration began to build inside him. Was he really supposed to interact with that weeping thing outside?

Such thoughts were immediately quashed. All Cyrus needed was a map, and he would try his luck with the fog. Forward he went. Despite building terror from those distorted cries, as long as they were still voiced from the hamlet's center, Cyrus was willing to investigate the final house.

And there it was. Hugging onto the final house's wall, he noted the house's condition. Larger and even sporting doors, it barely displayed the decay, rot, and fog that plagued the others.

Still, Cyrus searched for and silently climbed through a window. Once inside, he discovered the interior was in a better state than the others, sporting even a kitchen and dining room before leading into a very short hallway of doors. Did they lead into bedrooms?

He hesitated before shaking his head, pressing forward, and investigating the place. After scouting out the main living space, Cyrus entered the hallway, discovering two closed doors opposite each other. Left or right? Without much thought, he chose the left door and slowly turned the handle before walking inside.

It was a bedroom—the first one in this rotten place. It was well-kept, clean, and had enough space to walk around in, even sporting a window for light. But something else drew Cyrus' attention.

There on the bed, a pair of dolls waited for him on a well-kept bed. One was an indistinct woman wearing a worn but still vibrant red dress with only a symbol of fire embroidered on her chest. Sitting beside her was the other one. It depicts another woman with features long rotten away, but in her green dress, she carried branches and twigs neatly interwoven onto her wooden, decayed form.

After a moment's hesitation, Cyrus removed his gaze and began his search.

Again, nothing. What a waste of time. Cyrus closed his eyes in frustration.

Just one more room. If it held nothing of value, then he would leave. Too much time had been wasted on nothing.

Slowly, he left the room and gazed at the last door. With a tentative touch, Cyrus avoided even the smallest creak while pushing forward. It was another bedroom—one far larger than the last one.

He took a step inside and took note of the window. Cyrus froze at the sight of a pair of unblinking black eyes staring directly at him at the opposite end of the room on a small cabinet. Another doll? No, it was far larger, almost the size of a toddler. Wearing a carved swallow-tailed suit and thin-fabric red cape, the puppet stared at him with a wide, uncanny smile. And under the pale light, Cyrus could see silvery threads dangling under its limped limbs.

A puppet? Cyrus relaxed his shoulders. Just a puppet.

But a quick glance yielded nothing. Frustrated by the sight, Cyrus turned to move, but that was until he noticed the puppet sitting on a thin, black notebook.

There it was. As if wishing to be picked up and reveal information about this new world. And yet, Cyrus knitted his brows.

"This all seems" —He stepped back— "Like a stage."

The fog, the body, the hamlet, the dolls, and the puppet; What was the point of all this? Should he just run? But was that a bad idea?

There was only one way to find out. Gritting his teeth, Cyrus cautiously picked up the puppet and gently placed it on the bed, facing away from him. Opening the book revealed some unknown language. And yet...

"I can read this..." he muttered, shocked. But how?

Was it a child or a son who wrote this? Cyrus began reading.

Father has been teaching me how to hunt so I can care for myself, but I think I'll be taking care of him instead—a passage. The woods are scary, and strange things keep happening when I'm alone. Father says I need to respect the woods and fog to live in peace... so I'll try—Another. I've been hearing sounds from deep in the forest. I asked Father if we could go to the city, but he glowered at me. Why won't he listen?—More. I stole Father's map to the city…

It was a diary, one that led to clues about what Cyrus was searching for. Was it a real path to freedom? And as if answering his prayers, there it was on the next page: a neatly folded hand-drawn map.

He wasted no time studying it and soon learned that a city called Gaise was farther in the north. A chance?

Immediately, Cyrus planned his next steps, allowing his excitement to build. And it was crushed at the sight of the very next page.

She's gone. She's gone. She's gone. She's dead. She's gone. She's dead.

Over and over, nonstop, scrawled all over the page. Manic and stabbed into the page with despair and remorse. Something in Cyrus' mind compelled him to turn the pages, reading every word. More and more, growing thicker and rabid. Until the very last page.

I'm sorry.

A sudden thump jolted Cyrus from his reading, and he whipped his gaze to the bed. There, the puppet had fallen over. It lifelessly twisted as it stared at him with those dead eyes and uncanny smile.

Creepy... Wait.. Cyrus' gaze widened in realization. I can't hear the cries—That's when he heard the floorboards creaking from behind.