Soon, the first roof appeared — clearer — and disappeared almost immediately behind a curtain of mist.
Then a second one appeared, so close that one could have sworn it had sprung up there just then.
Silas slowed his horse despite himself.
Mireille kept her chin up, but her shoulders were still too high, too tense.
'She's scared.' Thought Silas, watching his travelling companion.
He sighed, lamenting his powerlessness in the situation, and above all, the fact that he could not help erase the horrible memory linked to the mist that haunted the mind of the one he considered his friend.
As soon as they passed through the wooden arch marking the entrance to the hamlet, a strange silence greeted them.
Not the usual calm of rural villages... but a silence that was too heavy, too tense.
No one came to meet them, no one greeted them, no one asked any questions.
Noticing this, Mireille felt a shiver run down her spine, and she instinctively tightened her grip on the hilt of her dagger.
The hamlet was not large — a few houses scattered here and there, whose greater mass was clustered around a stone-paved path — but something about its layout bothered Silas.
It was as if every house he passed had been deliberately turned towards them. As if the windows were eyes, silently spying on their every move.
Suddenly, their horses slowed down of their own accord — breathing heavily, ears flattened — and at one point, simply refused to move forward.
Mireille dismounted, patted her horse and guided it by the reins. She moved forward a little, her hand now resting on the hilt of her blade in an instinctive but reassuring gesture.
The village, however, offered nothing reassuring.
There was no sound. Not a blacksmith's hammer. Not a dog barking. Not even the cackling of a hen.
Just the distorted rustling of the mist and a few leaves, like a muffled whisper.
Then, suddenly, a door creaked open, and a woman came out. Then another, further away. And another, near the well. Soon, the village was magically populated, but there were only women.
They all stopped at exactly the same moment, in a synchrony too precise to be natural.
Silas felt his stomach twist.
"Mireille... it looks like they were waiting for us."
"No, it looks more like they're... assessing us." Mimi corrected in a low voice.
The women stared at them expressionlessly, as if their eyes were not registering the presence of travellers, but something more... profound.
Something disturbing... insistent.
Silas reflexively wanted to greet them.
"Good morn—"
All the women bowed their heads in unison, with the slowness of puppets being lowered by strings that were too heavy. Then they straightened up at exactly the same pace.
Silas closed his mouth.
"That... that's not normal."
"But what a genius you are, young master!" Mireille suddenly said with a giggle.
She scanned the area with her eyes.
"On a more serious note... Nothing here seems normal to me." Whispered the servant, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end as if she could still feel the presence of the black mist from her past.
Despite everything, they continued on. As they moved forward, the pair of travellers encountered other villagers.
None of them was elderly. They all appeared to be between eighteen and fifty years old, with drawn features and pale, almost waxy skin.
Some carried empty baskets, others held motionless brooms, and moved at a pace that would have made a tortoise seem like a master of speed.
There were even a few sweepers standing there as if their movement had been interrupted at the exact moment the pair entered the village.
Mireille looked more closely. ...
Too closely.
She turned her head to the left. A woman was holding a loaf of bread in her hands.
The loaf... was mouldy, almost entirely, but still clutched in the same white grip. As if she had been carrying it for days.
Perhaps even weeks.
Silas, uncomfortable — and understandably so — whispered:
"W-Why... why aren't they talking, Mimi?"
"I don't know, young master... Perhaps they can't." Replied Mimi.
The maid couldn't say whether this idea was comforting or terrifying.
***
At the well, while the horses were drinking, children's laughter suddenly rang out.
They both jumped.
A few metres away, three little girls and a little boy were playing with a hoop. Or at least... they were pretending to play.
The hoop rolled too straight, too long, without their hands really pushing it.
Silas took a step back.
"Mireille, I don't like this."
"...Me neither."
From the way the children were moving — and due to the blurred vision caused by the mist — it was easy to believe that they were almost gliding.
As if they knew every stone on the ground by heart and none of them could make them stumble.
The children laughed, but their laughter sounded... false.
As if disconnected from their movements. Like a pre-recorded, mechanical burst of sound coming from a music box — almost too strange for a living being.
The girl closest to him walked past Silas slowly, without even looking at him. Almost as if he didn't exist.
He felt a cold draught brush against him. As if to reassure himself that he wasn't going mad, the young man stared at his exposed arm.
The hairs were standing on end.
"M-Mireille, this village... You feel it too, don't you?" he whispered.
Mireille gulped.
"Yes."
It was the first time that his servant's response sounded like an admission of weakness.
***
Without further ado, they quickly gathered supplies, taking only what was strictly necessary — a few hard bread rolls, a bag of lentils, a little fat — from a small storeroom that had been left open, without asking anyone.
In fact, no one asked for money. No one spoke, no one objected to them taking what they needed.
...Which made the atmosphere even more suffocating.
When they returned to the horses, a woman was standing right behind them. They hadn't heard her approach.
Her eyes were fixed on Mireille.
No...
They were fixed on her boots, covered in dried mud.
Then, without a word, she raised a trembling finger and pointed it towards the mist behind them.
Mireille instinctively took a step back.
" Master Silas. Let's go."
Without a moment's hesitation, they hurried towards the horses.
They were about to mount up when a small voice interrupted them.
"You shouldn't go that way."
A little girl was standing a few steps away from them. She was small and looked fragile with her pale skin. The girl didn't look to be more than ten years old. She had black hair tied back in poorly made braids.
But unlike all the other villagers they had met so far, her eyes were different, alive. Really alive.
She looked at Mimi first, then Silas.
"The main road, you mustn't. It's impassable when the mist rises."
Silas paled.
"B-but... what are we going to do, then...?"
The girl did not answer.
Mireille stiffened.
"And you, what is your name?"
The little girl lowered her head for a brief moment and grabbed the small glass tube hanging from a necklace around her neck before replying:
"Enalid."
Mimi nodded.
"Right, Enalid... Do you know another way out of this village?"
She pointed a small finger westwards, towards a dark, barely visible grove.
"Take the fork over there. Just before the big pine trees. Otherwise... you may never get out of here."
She hesitated, then moved closer to Mimi, close enough to almost touch her coat. Her voice lowered, as if confiding a secret reluctantly:
"And hurry... That path isn't safe either. So... leave quickly."
Then she turned and ran off, disappearing between two houses as if the mist had swallowed her up.
Silas stood frozen, one hand on his saddle.
"Mireille... we'll listen to her, eh? We'll do that, won't we?"
The maid stared for a long time at the spot where Enalid had fled.
"Yes. We'll listen to her." she finally whispered.
Silas remained motionless for a long moment before murmuring:
"Mireille... that girl, she seemed... alive."
"Yes, she was." replied Mimi, a drop of sweat sliding down her temple despite the coolness.
She tightened the reins, uncomfortable.
"We're taking the fork. Now."