The fog came without warning that morning. Not in drifts or wisps as it usually did, curling gently over Briarwall's pastures like a sleepy veil. No—this fog was dense, almost alive, spilling down from the hills like an invading tide, swallowing cottages, chimneys, and the graveled lanes in its path. It blanketed the sea in silence, turning waves into suggestion, cliffs into myth.
Dr. Elise Marlowe stepped off the coach with a hand gripping the iron railing, her boots thudding into the damp ground. The chill was immediate, curling around her coat collar and sliding into her sleeves with intimate ease. The air smelled of salt, peat, and something else—something old. Her breath left a ghost before her face as she took in her first view of Briarwall.
Or what she could see of it.
Nothing but haze and the faint silhouette of a gas lamp glowing dimly near what appeared to be a post office. Behind her, the coachman muttered something indecipherable, tossing down her leather suitcase before climbing back onto the seat. The horse shifted uneasily, steam puffing from its nostrils.
"You sure this is where you meant to go, miss?" the coachman called over his shoulder. "You don't look the type for places like this."
Elise didn't answer immediately. Her fingers lingered at her coat buttons, hesitant. Not because of the weather, but because of the feeling—something she hadn't expected.
That she was being watched.
Her eyes scanned the swirling mist. She could see no one, yet the hairs on her neck rose, electric with instinct. A memory surfaced: her mother's voice, telling her as a child that places had moods, just like people. Some were cheerful and some melancholy. And others… others waited.
Briarwall, it seemed, was the latter.
She turned back to the coachman and offered a tight nod. "Yes. This is it."
He grimaced. "Suit yourself." Then, with a slap of the reins, the coach rolled away into the fog, the sound of hooves fading into ghostly echoes.
Alone now, Elise hoisted the suitcase and began walking toward the dim shape of the lamp. The cobbled road was uneven beneath her, slick from the mist. The town slowly took shape around her as she walked—a row of weathered shops with flaking paint, shuttered windows, and thatch roofs dripping with moisture. A butcher's sign creaked lazily above a closed stall. The inn, "The Eel's Tongue," loomed to her left, its door ajar and the scent of fish stew wafting into the street.
But Elise didn't stop there. She had a destination.
The asylum.
Or what remained of it.
Half a mile beyond the village, perched on the edge of a crumbling cliff, stood Briarwall Asylum—a relic of Victorian medical ambition and rumored madness. Once a grand institution known for progressive treatments, it had fallen into disrepair after a fire two decades prior. Officially, it was closed. But unofficially, it still held residents. Special cases. Forgotten people.
And one such person, according to the telegram she received a week ago, had stopped speaking altogether.
"URGENT: GIRL FOUND MUTE ON CLIFFSIDE. UNIDENTIFIED. UNHARMED. APPEARS TRAUMATIZED. REQUIRES PSYCHIATRIC OBSERVATION. YOU WERE RECOMMENDED."
– Dr. Gideon Greaves, Briarwall Holding House.
It hadn't included a signature. Or a return address.
But Elise had come anyway.
She passed the church—its doors closed, its cross leaning precariously—and followed the path that twisted up the cliffs. The mist thickened here, swallowing her every footstep. The sea roared beneath the cliff's edge, but even its fury felt muffled by the fog. A chill ran down her spine. Somewhere ahead, she saw a wrought iron gate, slightly ajar, and behind it, a structure of stone, crooked gables, and broken windows: the Briarwall Holding House.
She entered.
The gate groaned as she pushed it. The gravel crunched beneath her boots. An old statue of St. Dymphna, the patron of mental illness, stood near the entrance, her face weathered into near-erasure. Vines clung to her robes like pleading hands.
The door creaked open before she could knock.
A man stood in the foyer, tall, rail-thin, with a coat that looked too large even for his gaunt frame. His face was pale as bone, his eyes watery gray and oddly unblinking.
"You must be Dr. Marlowe," he said. "I'm Greaves."
His voice was sharp and clipped, the kind of tone Elise associated with cold hospitals and colder men. She stepped inside, immediately enveloped by the scent of mildew, disinfectant, and burning coal.
"It's colder inside than out," she remarked.
He ignored the comment. "Come. I'll take you to her."
The hallways were dim, lit only by gas sconces that flickered with each gust of wind from unseen drafts. Paint peeled from the walls in wide curls. A once-grand staircase loomed to their left, now cordoned off with frayed rope. They passed several closed doors, each marked only with numbers. Somewhere behind one, Elise heard the faint sound of weeping.
"She doesn't speak," Greaves said abruptly, as if resuming a conversation she hadn't started. "No injury. No fever. No wounds. Just… silence."
"How long has she been here?"
"Three days. Found wandering the cliffs by a fisherman. Covered in seaweed. Not a scratch on her. Didn't resist being brought here, didn't speak a word. She's clean, she eats when prompted, but she stares like she's still standing on the edge of something."
They stopped before a door. Greaves looked at her. "You won't get much from her. But you can try."
He opened the door.
The room was small and bare. A bed. A desk. A single high window. And in the center, seated cross-legged on the floor, was the girl.
She looked no older than fifteen. Long dark hair, stringy with moisture. Eyes large and dark, reflecting the gaslight like twin wells. She stared at Elise with an expression that was neither fear nor curiosity.
Only silence.
Elise set her case down slowly. "Hello," she said gently.
No answer.
"I'm Elise. I'm here to help you. I won't hurt you."
Still no reaction. Not even a blink.
Elise sat cross-legged too, mirroring the girl. "Do you remember your name?" she asked softly.
The girl tilted her head slightly.
"Do you remember where you were before you came here?"
Nothing.
Then, a blink. Just once.
It was subtle, but it mattered.
Elise studied her. There was something in the girl's eyes—not blankness, not emptiness—but awareness. And beneath that, terror. Not of Elise. Not of this place.
But of something else. Something unseen.
Elise leaned forward, voice barely above a whisper. "Did someone follow you?"
The girl's lips parted just slightly. A sound—soft, breathy—escaped.
It was a single word.
"Fog."
Then her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed.
Elise lunged forward to catch her, heart racing, pulse thundering in her ears. She shouted for help.
From the hallway, no one came.
Just the wind. And the fog pressing against the window like a hand.