With shaking hands, Lena grabbed the journal and flipped it open. The pages were brittle, stained with age. Her grandmother's writing filled every inch, frantic and uneven.
"The fog is not just weather. It is alive. It watches. It waits. It whispers lies."
Lena swallowed hard and turned the page.
"They come when you listen. When you answer. Never answer."
Another thump against the door.
Lena clamped a hand over her mouth.
"The first time I saw it, I was a child. It called itself by many names. It knew my thoughts. It knew my fears. It wanted me to open the door."
Lena's hands trembled as she turned the next page, but this one contained only three words, written in deep, frantic strokes:
"It is here."
The whispering started again.
This time, it was her grandmother's voice.
"Lena, darling… open the door."
Tears burned in Lena's eyes. She had heard that voice so many times as a child, comforting her after nightmares, calling her in for dinner.
But she knew. She knew.
That was not her grandmother.
The handle twisted violently. The whispering became urgent, desperate.
"Lena, sweetheart. Let me in. It's so cold out here."
She backed against the wall, clutching the journal to her chest.
Then, slowly, the whisper changed.
It deepened. Twisted.
"You brought me back."
The door exploded open.
And the fog rushed in.