Traverse The Fog

Cyrus slowly turned. Heart pounding, and eyes widened in horror to witness—So tall that only half of its gaunt torso fit in, holding onto the corners with its long and lanky arms, ripping, tearing through the wood for support. It stared upon him, locked with those empty, pitchless black holes for eyes that dripped a black trail of sorrow down its pallid skin.

And what resembled torn rags clung onto its body, revealing that this thing, this monster, was once a man, like Cyrus himself. Slowly, it opened the black chasm of a mouth without expression, absorbing all light around it.

And then—Crackle.

It opened its mouth wider and wider, accompanied by a cacophony of cracking bones stretching far beyond what any human could achieve. Each crack rang in Cyrus' eardrums as he remained frozen, watching its mouth unhinged like a serpent. For a moment, the two stood silent in a weak equilibrium.

Then, it shattered. The creature let out a sorrowful shriek, and frothing fog bellowed from the abyss that was its mouth.

Under the pale light and fog, the stage had been set. Ready. Set. Action.

A Primal horror coursed through Cyrus. Quickly, desperately, he turned and threw the puppet, hoping it would distract him as he moved toward the window. Heart pounding, He glanced backward as he climbed, watching in shock as it cradled it in worship. But as soon as its empty gaze returned upon him. It wailed in a near-deafening and agonized, crawling, tearing through rotten wood, in an attempt to grab him.

But Cyrus climbed over just in the nick of time and fell over, almost caught within its grasp. There was no time to waste. So he crept, barely eluding the gangly arm reaching out for him. Stumbling into a stand, Cyrus did not look back as he bolted towards the center.

Behind him, the weeping grew louder and louder, along with a crash of splintering and shattering wood.

Meanwhile, Cyrus bolted toward the center. Yet, as soon as he laid his eyes on that tar pit masquerading as water, his nerves screamed to stay away, forcing him to step back.

But another baleful wail brought him back to reality—his reality. Without thinking, Cyrus dashed into the closest house, fighting the urge to glance behind. But the stomps did not stop. They drew ever closer and closer. And that weeping. Just outside.

And Cyrus did not stop. He could not stop. Rushing through the back exit, Cyrus dashed along the walls toward the next building. But mid-way through, he froze into a skid—just when that abomination lunched forward, gnarled claws stretched out from between the house gaps, barely missing him as it moved with momentum.

The surprise attack jolted him, and he lost his footing on the slick ground. Cyrus was frozen with fear and unable to get up. But when another surge of heat pulsed in his chest, it reminded him of where he was. There was no time to think or lie still. He had to move.

Gritting his teeth, Cyrus scrambled to his feet and bolted to the closest window before driving through it. The fall knocked the wind out of him. But there was no time to stay still! Gasping for breath, he got up and bolted to the front door, only to suddenly freeze as it stood before him at the exit.

With his heart in a vise grip, he watched as that horror walked on all fours before him, its soulless pits fixed on him, reaching toward him with a twisted claw. The ever-weeping cries filled the air with despair and pain unlike anything he had ever felt.

Desperate, Cyrus spun around immediately, instincts flaring, making a mad dash toward the back exit. But it was too late. Just before the exit, a cold, pallid claw shoved against his back, toppling him over and onto the misty floor.

He had to run. He had to escape. Why is that heat pulsing so much? The weeping—The Weeper.

Frantically, Cyrus got onto his knees. Yet fear gripped him along the latching cold hand on his ankle! One pull was all it took for him to be back onto the floor. The fog clung to him, wanting to drown him. Then, another yank. It wanted him. Tried to draw him into the abyss.

Chest heaving, Cyrus looked for something, anything, that could save him—the bucket. Swiftly, he clasped its rims and tossed its contents into its face. Then, a howl came as the pallid creature clung to its ooze-covered face. Its face was melting.

Freed from its grasp, Cyrus scrambled to his feet, watching it as it wailed and writhed, stumbling into the wall. But Cyrus wasted no time and sprinted through the backway and down the slope, putting as much distance as he could. His eyes landed upon the wall of fog waiting for him as he drew closer.

Fear crossed his mind, and Cyrus hesitated before it. Should he just throw caution to the wind and run? Delaying, he paced around for a single moment until an otherworldly howl reverberated from inside the house.

Run or die.

Heart throbbing, Cyrus closed his eyes and charged headlong into the fog. His thoughts hoped, prayed, for him to press through and not appear back before the hamlet. But the mist was infinite despite his endeavors. It grew thicker and thicker, wanting to enter his mouth and nose, forcing Cyrus to hold off his breath.

And behind the weeping, drew closer and closer.

Was he about to di—Another heat wave flashed in his chest, nearly crippling him. But there was no time to stop. Wait, the fog was clearing up! Closing his eyes, Cyrus ran with all his might. Was he free from the fog's grasp? Cyrus opened his eyes and found the forest before him.

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So he sprinted, drawing closer and closer; all the while, the searing pain reached new heights. Past the treeline, he took cover, biting his tongue to distract himself from the rising pain.

Then, it came again. A shrill wail far darker and twisted than before reached Cyrus' ears, shocking him into stillness. Against his better judgment, Cyrus peered from behind his cover. His eyes narrowed at the sight of a twisted mass of dripping and seeping darkness breaking through the fog. And with those pitched eyes, it looked around, searching, hunting for him as its oozing claws sank into the dirt as it took to all fours. It then wept, choked with strangled gargling as if in pain, as the tar slowly melted the creature.

Cyrus turned to escape—another flare burned within his chest. It was too much, nearly bringing the man to his knees. Why here? Why now? He tried to hold back the screams, drawing blood on his tongue as he stumbled away.

Another roar. Again, Cyrus turned to the creature, his heart sinking at the sight of him zeroing in on him like a flare in the sky. It broke into a lunge, mouth unhinging as it wailed.

Keep moving. Cyrus fought against the searing pain and charged again. With a pained cry, he zipped through small gaps between thick trees and rough terrain, hoping the limited space would buy him time.

But the weeping, ever the weeping, closed in from behind.

Fear and despair threatened to consume him, but Cyrus kept running. In his desperation, Cyrus began following the marks he left, heading toward his pack. And there it was. Along with it came a second wind as he picked it up in a single motion.

Not that it mattered. He could hear it: the cracking twigs and horrid wails. So close as if he felt breathing on his neck. The gray skies were gone, replaced by the dark and claustrophobic canopy of the forest. But just ahead was a break in the forest! Just a bit more...

Lungs burning, Cyrus broke into a mad dash, running faster and faster until he ran past the forest's line.

"Shiiii—" Cyrus skidded to a stop, arms flailing.

And just before the edge of a cliff.

Beyond the precipice was an endless ocean of gray fog that stretched far into infinity. It churned and crashed against the rocky cliff, reaching higher and higher after each wave.

There was nowhere else to run. Panicked, Cyrus turned, hoping to follow along the cliff's edge. Maybe he could lose it among the trees? But no. The writhing, melting mass of inky despair sprang forth from the dark forest.

In an instant, the abomination locked onto him. Slowly, it skulked forward, stretching its melting claws wide.

But why was his chest burning so much? Why now?

Desperate, Cyrus scrambled into his pockets. Out came his multitool, and he readied his blade. Oh, how small it felt in his hands now. But as it slowly drew close, Cyrus felt despair take hold. And in his horror, he threw his knife.

But it was hopeless. The knife struck true, sinking deep into the inky black mess that was its face. And it did nothing. Less than nothing as it kept so much without a flinch.

Cyrus stepped back, pebbles falling over the cliff. What was left to do? Should he simply fall into dispa—a sudden rumble and quake brought him to a stumble.

Quickly, Cyrus turned to the sound of rushing air. What followed was a cyclone of mist shooting upwards high into the sky. It began to unravel, stretching out into tendrils.

What was happening? Was it the fog—Wait, the monster!

But it was too late. And a sudden explosion of pain tore through his abdomen. Gasping in agonizing silence, Cyrus could not react as the abomination dug its claws deeper into his torso. Blood spilled. Eyes dulling, Cyrus was left limping like his strings had been cut as he hung in the air.

The abomination lifted him in line with its melted face. Those two holes for eyes bore into him, watching, weeping. With it came a pain he'd never experienced before. Something began to burrow through his abdomen, flooding his senses with overwhelming darkness.

There was no escape. Cyrus' vision grew darker and darker, barely registering that the column of fog began encircling the two, moving faster and faster into a vortex.

With it came a puncture on the back of his neck. Vision muddied, Cyrus still barely carried the awareness of the haze digging into his flesh, searching. He could feel both of them squirming, like worms slithering through his muscles.

There was no hope. And the thought brought him to choke.

The world around him darkened as the abomination lowered him, forcing him to stare into those black pits for eyes. It then began weeping as two burning eye rays of darkness struck Cyrus' face, mimicking his own emotions of hopelessness and regret.

There and then, Cyrus broke.

I just wanted to find a reason to live. Two tears streamed down his sun-kissed face.

This was the end. In his final moments, Cyrus gave up. Not that it mattered, as he had no other choice.

Slowly, darkness took hold. It seeped deeper and deeper, searching for something. And Cyrus was lost to everything. Hopeless, he hadn't noticed the searing pain in his chest flare again. It burned hotter and hotter until it couldn't take it anymore. And it exploded with a wave of orange fire. It shot outwards from Cyrus' body, engulfing him in flames.

With its outward spread, the taint within dissolved into nothingness. But these flames weren't done. They stretched as if a shining light, instantly swallowing the abomination in a conflagration.

Before Cyrus knew it, his back was on the cold dirt, dazedly watching the abomination scorch into ashes. He then glanced toward his chest. The flame no longer burned, but cleansed all the impure evil within him.

With it sprang an orange sigil from his chest. The size of it grew larger and larger in a mere instant, far beyond Cyrus' own dimensions. Shining with bright incandescence, its shape fluctuated to a thousand different forms. It floated above him, and with another brilliance, it warmed him to his core, wrapping his body in warm flames.

But why did it feel like Cyrus lost something?

There were no answers. Floating in the air, it shifted into separate patterns, infusing him with images of flame, light, and other dream-like, incomprehensible things.

Meanwhile, the fog went into a frenzy. It twisted into a vortex of insanity and rushed toward Cyrus and the orange sigil as if intending to swallow them—to consume them. But it was all for naught. The sigil pulsed with shining energy, effortlessly pushing back the fog, burning it.

Then, there was a sudden change. Cyrus remained transfixed as the orange symbol rose into the air and shattered into fragments. These pieces then shot forward into the skies, tearing fiery streaks through the haze above in their wake as they flew off into the distance.

Then, there was silence. No more monsters chasing after him. No more searing heat. And the ever-omnipresent fog turned inanimate, aimless.

There was only the battered Cyrus. Still, he waited for something, anything, to occur. When nothing did, a bitter laugh escaped blood-stained lips. He laughed and laughed, finding it all absurd. And kept laughing until his eyes grew heavy.