The fog was thick that night it could take on a life. It wrapped itself around the trees and curled its arms around skeletal branches, swallowing the wind sound. Scarlett had never gotten over how the mist lingered in Hawthorne or it seemed to breathe and shift without being moved by any wind. The air was moist and cool with the fragrance of pine and earth. But whatever she said to Rebecca now gnawed her like that uneasy chest burning her.
She stepped into the wood for a quiet walk while letting the words of the elder sound like a refrain in her. She didn't particularly know why she wished to feel lonely; perhaps the growing feeling of kindling unease in her bosom had simply become too fierce a burning to ignore. As matters were, she perhaps hoped maybe something would shake her head clear though the fog had griped tight. The path felt like she should know it, an old moss-covered trail through the trees she used to take in Hawthorne, coming into summer as a child. Everything felt the same, shadows felt the same, smell the same. Everything was just heavier this time around. She took breath after breath. She automatically reached for her phone, found it in the jacket pocket, and pulled it out. The glow was soft from the screen. If the fog turned worse, then that would be a small source of light. She did not think, however, that it would make much of a difference. Then she heard something. A sound soft, but unmistakable. Footsteps. Her pulse quickened. She stood stock-still, catching her breath and trying to listen. The footsteps again. This time they weren't hers. They were even and deliberate and came from just beyond the veil of mist. Scarlett tensed, gripping the phone tighter. "Hello?".Silence.
Then, low, hushed, almost too soft to hear.
"Don't turn around."
Scarlett froze, her blood running cold. Her fingers were shaking as she clutched her phone.
"I mean you no harm," the voice said now, more deliberate. "But you should listen."
Scarlett's breath came in quick bursts. "Who are you?" she managed, her voice strained.
A shape emerged from the fog. At first, it was just an outline, but as it drew closer, Scarlett could make out a figure—tall, with sharp features and dark clothing. She couldn't see the person's face, but she could feel their presence like a shiver through the mist.
"I've been expecting you," the figure said.
Scarlett Whitmore's chest was tight. Panic clawed at her, and she could not move. "Expecting me?"
She whispered, not sure if she dreamed it.
The figure took another step closer, its voice now even lower. "You have been digging into things you shouldn't, Scarlett Whitmore. Secrets find those who dig for them, especially here."
Scarlett's throat was dry.
The figure didn't answer. There was a silence, the soft creak of wind through leaves and the wet groan of branches overhead.
"I can help you," they said finally. "But only if you listen.".
Now Scarlett's heart was thudding; it could explode at the moment. She did not know if it was from fear or anger, but she just could not move. "What do you mean by 'help'? Who are you?"
This time the figure came closer. Scarlett saw an edge of a hood, dark and smooth, that concealed a face.
"A friend," the voice said softly, as if that alone were enough to make her open up and trust them.
Scarlett took a precarious step backward. "I don't even know if I trust you," she said.
Fair, the voice said, and it almost sounded amused, though Scarlett wasn't sure if she'd imagined it. Trust is earned, Scarlett. But I can give you something: answers. About your father. About the Hawthorne Collective. About why the shadows linger and why you can't shake the feeling that something isn't right here.
Scarlett's breath caught again. She thought of Rebecca's warning, of the shadows and the whispers. This was the kind of meeting she feared most: half-truths and manipulations wrapped up in a stranger's words.
"What do you want?" she asked finally, low.
The figure hesitated. Scarlett could almost feel them weighing their next words.
"I want nothing from you but understanding," the voice said finally. "But first, we need to talk. Not here. The fog is not safe." Scarlett's stomach twisted. "What do you mean, not safe?"
She disappeared into the deep woods pointing a hand to guide him on his way. "The woods are always listening," she said. "And when you dig for secrets, they listen harder. Meet me where the path divides near the old stone bridge. I can give you answers there." Scarlett's mind tumbled: fear and curiosity tugged one way, trust and suspicion another.
"Why should I trust you?" she asked, voice shaking but firm.
The figure stopped. And when they spoke again, it was steady, calm, and resolute.
Scarlett felt a shiver run through her as the words settled into her bones.
"Okay," she whispered at last, her voice shaking in agreement.
She whirled around and disappeared into the fog with some strange ease. Scarlett hesitated, clinging to the tension of the moment; and then she drew her breath, and stepped forward toward the stone bridge.
Of truth, her step seemed to go heavy as any yet since the adventure of these woods into uncertain heart; and though it crawled chilling, the mist as of shutting in upon her so, for here should stand the venerable stone bridge, left of other men's hands when now it is chosen meeting place of answers—or maybe of some truth that she neither desired to learn nor would have listened unto.".
But the loss of her father was in her breast. The Hawthorne Collective sounded real now, more real than some breath in the darkness. Walking into that assembly place which got fogbound to locate itself, Scarlett decided to face whatever awaited her. If it kills her.
Again the fog rolled over her.