The mist didn't thin as I walked. It thickened. By the time I reached the tree line, the manor behind me was a suggestion, a darker shape in the grey, then nothing. Just me and the trees and the wet air pressing against my face.
The forest wasn't a forest. It was a wall. The trees grew too close together, their trunks slick with moss, the branches overhead interlocking into a ceiling that let through a filtered, greenish light. The ground was soft, spongy with decay. Every step sank an inch, released a smell of rot and earth.
I'd been walking maybe ten minutes when I found the path.
Not a road. Not even a trail. Just a place where the undergrowth was pressed flat, the ferns bent, the mud showing the faint impression of feet. Small feet. Bare.
Followed it.
The mist moved between the trees in strands, like something alive, coiling around trunks, drifting across the path. My trousers were soaked to the thigh. A branch caught my sleeve, held, released. Water dripped from the leaves onto my head, down my neck, cold trails running under my collar.
The boy's tracks led to a stream. Narrow, maybe two feet across, the water clear over stones, dark in the deeper pools. I stopped. Looked both ways. The tracks disappeared at the water's edge. No sign of them on the other side.
Kneeled. The water was cold, the stones slick with algae. I cupped my hands, drank. It tasted of iron and cold. Better than the well water. Probably safer.
Stood there for a moment, listening.
The forest had its own noise. Dripping. The creak of branches. A sound like breathing, but that was just the wind in the leaves. Just the wind.
I crossed. The water went over my ankles, the cold shocking, then numbing. On the other side, I found the tracks again. Faint, but there. Leading deeper.
Another ten minutes. The path widened. The trees thinned. Light filtered through, grey but brighter, and then I was at the edge of a clearing.
The village.
Calling it a village was generous. Five huts, maybe six, arranged around a muddy common area. The huts were timber and thatch, the roofs sagging, the walls patched with mud and whatever else was at hand. A well in the centre, the bucket overturned beside it. A fire pit with cold ash. No livestock. No dogs. No children playing.
No people.
I stood at the edge, waiting. The mist hung over the clearing, low, hiding the tops of the huts. A door creaked somewhere, swinging on its hinges. The sound of wind through a hole in a roof.
Walked to the nearest hut. Pushed the door open.
Inside: a bed frame, a table, a stool. A hearth with cold ash. A pot on the floor, cracked. A small shrine in the corner, the wood splintered, the offering bowl empty. Clothes hung on a peg, a man's coat, a woman's shawl. Both still there.
No one had packed. No one had left in a hurry. They'd just... stopped.
Checked the next hut. Same. A child's toy on the floor, a carved bird, the paint worn off. A bowl with dried porridge still in it, the surface cracked, mould growing in the fissures. A blanket on the bed, pushed back, as if someone had gotten up and never returned.
Third hut. Larger. A table with four chairs. A hearth with a pot still hanging over it. I lifted the lid. Inside, something dark and solid, once stew, now a lump of carbonized matter. The smell when the lid came off made me turn my head, gag rising in my throat. Rotten meat. Old rot. The kind that stays in your nose for hours.
Put the lid back. Breathed through my mouth.
Went outside. Stood in the common area. The mist was lifting slightly, revealing more of the clearing. A garden behind one of the huts, overgrown, the vegetables gone to seed. A pile of wood for the fire, the top layer dry, the bottom rotting. A cart without wheels, sunk into the mud.
Four huts. No. Five. I'd missed one. The farthest, set apart, half-hidden by a willow tree.
Walked toward it. The ground here was wetter, my feet sinking deeper. The willow's branches hung to the ground, a curtain of green. I pushed through. The leaves were wet, slapping my face, my arms.
The hut was smaller than the others. A single room, from the look of it. The door was closed. A rope hung from a branch above, tied off at the trunk. I looked at it. Looked at the door.
Pushed it open.
Inside: a bed, neatly made. A table with a single cup. A hearth, cold. And in the corner, a woman. Sitting. Her back against the wall, her knees drawn up, her arms wrapped around them. She didn't move when I entered. Didn't look up.
Her hair was grey, thin, pulled back. Her skin was the colour of old paper. Her clothes were clean, patched, folded neat at the cuffs. She was breathing. I could see the rise and fall of her shoulders, slow, deliberate.
"Hey."
Nothing.
I stepped closer. The floorboards creaked. She didn't react.
"Are you," Stopped. What was I going to ask? Are you okay? Obviously not. Are you alone? The village answered that.
I crouched down. Put myself in her line of sight. Her eyes were open. Dark. Fixed on something I couldn't see. Her hands were clasped around her knees, the knuckles white, the skin stretched tight over bone.
"There was a boy," I said. "He brought food to the manor. Do you know him?"
Her eyes moved. Just a fraction. A flicker toward the door, then back to the wall.
I waited. The silence in the hut was different from the silence outside. Heavier. Like the air was thicker here, harder to breathe.
"He's gone," she said. Her voice was dry, the words scraping out. "They're all gone."
"Where?"
She blinked. Once. Twice. Her hands unclasped, clasped again.
"The mountain," she said. "They went to the mountain. To ask." A pause. Her jaw moved, a grinding motion, teeth against teeth. "The lord said no. The mountain said no. Now they're gone."
I looked at the door. The rope outside. The way her eyes wouldn't meet mine.
"Who went? The men?"
A sound came from her. Not a laugh. Something lower, drier. A sound of air being pushed out.
"The children went first," she said. "Then the men. Then the women." She looked at me then, her eyes finding mine for the first time. They were wet, but not with tears. Something else. A brightness that wasn't right. "You're new. You don't know."
"Know what?"
She looked past me, toward the window. The willow branches moved outside, brushing the glass, soft and constant.
"The house," she said. "The house at the edge. You came from there."
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
She nodded. A slow motion, her head tilting forward, then back.
"You'll see," she said. "You'll see what it wants."
I opened my mouth to ask what she meant. But she closed her eyes. Her hands unclasped. Her shoulders relaxed, the tension draining out of her like water from a cracked vessel. Her breathing slowed, became the breathing of sleep. Or something like sleep.
I stayed crouched there for a long moment. Watched her chest rise. Fall. Rise. The rhythm was steady. She wasn't dead. Just... elsewhere.
Stood up. My knees cracked. The sound was too loud in the small room. She didn't stir.
I left. Pushed through the willow branches, back into the clearing. The mist was burning off now, patches of blue sky visible through the grey. The huts looked smaller in the light. Poorer. The kind of place that was barely surviving before something came along to finish it.
The mountain. She'd said the mountain. I looked north, where the ground rose, where the trees thickened, where the mist still clung to the slopes. I couldn't see anything. Just the green-black wall, the same in every direction.
Something moved. At the edge of the clearing.
The boy.
He was standing by the well, half-hidden behind it, watching me. His hands were at his sides this time. No basket. No food. Just him, in the same dirty clothes, the same bare feet.
I walked toward him. Slow. He didn't run. He watched me come, his head tilted slightly, his eyes tracking me the way a stray cat tracks a hand reaching out.
Stopped ten feet away. Didn't want to spook him.
"Your mother?"
He didn't answer. His eyes went to the hut with the willow. Then back to me.
"She doesn't eat," he said. His voice was small, flat. The voice of a child who has said the same thing many times, to no one, to anyone. "She doesn't get up. She just sits."
I nodded. Didn't say I'm sorry. Didn't say it would be okay. Those words were useless here. He knew it. I knew it.
"The others," I said. "The people from the village. They went to the mountain."
A nod.
"When?"
He shrugged. "Before the snow."
Before the snow. That was months. Months since the village emptied. Months since the boy had been alone with a woman who sat in a corner and stared at walls.
"You brought food to the manor."
Another shrug. "We had some. Then we didn't." He looked at his feet. The mud was caked between his toes, the nails cracked. "I found the garden. The one behind the big hut. There's still roots. If you dig."
I looked at the garden. Overgrown, yes. But there were things growing there that weren't weeds. I'd worked in kitchens long enough to know the look of vegetables gone to seed. Turnips, maybe. Something in the cabbage family.
"You're not from here," the boy said. Not a question.
"No."
He looked at me then. Really looked. The way children do when they're trying to figure out if you're safe. His gaze went to my hands, my face, the knife at my belt.
"The house," he said. "You sleep there."
"I do."
He was quiet for a moment. A bird called somewhere in the trees. A sharp, repeated note. The boy's eyes flicked toward the sound, then back.
"It calls at night," he said. "From the woods. My mother says don't listen. She says don't go."
"To the mountain?"
He shook his head. His jaw tightened, the muscles in his thin face working. "To the house. She says the house calls. At night. Before." He stopped. Looked at the hut with the willow. "Before, she said the house wanted something. And now everyone's gone."
I let that sit. The mist was almost gone now, the sun breaking through, casting long shadows across the clearing. The boy's shadow stretched behind him, thin and small.
"I'm going back," I said. "To the house. I'll dig in the garden. There'll be food. You can have some."
He didn't respond. Didn't move.
I turned. Walked back toward the path. Got to the edge of the clearing before I heard his feet behind me. Small, quick steps in the mud.
I didn't look back. Just walked. He followed. Close enough to hear him breathing, the slight wheeze of a child who didn't get enough to eat. The path was narrow, the branches close. I pushed them aside, held them for him, let them fall behind.
We crossed the stream. I went first, testing the stones, my feet slipping on the algae. He crossed behind me, light, quick, his steps sure. He'd done this before.
The trees began to thin. Light filtered through. The mist was gone now, the sky a pale blue, the air warmer. I could see the edge of the forest ahead, the field beyond, the grass moving in the wind.
The manor rose out of the field like a bruise. Dark against the sky, the roof sagging, the windows empty. In the daylight, it was just a house. Old. Broken. Nothing more.
But as we walked toward it, I felt something. A pressure. Behind my eyes, in my chest. The way you feel someone looking at you when your back is turned.
I stopped. Looked at the house. The windows were dark. The door was open, the way I'd left it. Nothing moved. No one stood in the frame.
But the pressure was there. A weight. A presence. The feeling of being watched by something that didn't need eyes.
"Don't stop," the boy said. His voice was quiet, close behind me. "Keep walking."
I looked at him. His face was pale, his eyes fixed on the house. His hands were fists at his sides.
"Why?"
He shook his head. "Just don't stop. Not in front of it. Not when it's looking."
"It's a house."
He looked at me then. His eyes were too old for his face. "It's not."
We walked. I kept my pace steady, my eyes forward. The grass brushed against my legs, wet, cold. The house grew larger as we approached. The door was a dark rectangle. The windows were empty. The walls were stained with rust and time.
At the threshold, I stopped. Turned to the boy. He stood a few feet behind me, not coming closer.
"Where will you go?"
He looked at the well. At the paddock. At the hut where the old man had stayed.
"The garden," he said. "You said you'd dig."
I nodded. "I'll dig. You can stay. In the house."
He shook his head. A small motion, quick.
"No."
"Why?"
He didn't answer. He looked past me, into the dark of the doorway. His expression didn't change. But something in his posture shifted. A tension. A readiness to run.
"Your mother," I said. "She said the house wants something."
He looked at the ground. His bare feet in the grass. The dirt under his nails.
"She didn't say what."
"Did she say how to stop it?"
He was quiet for a long time. The wind moved through the grass, a sound like breath. The house creaked, a slow, settling sound.
"The people who went," he said finally. "The ones who went to the mountain. They didn't come back. But sometimes, at night, you can hear them. In the trees." He looked up at me. "They call. And the house listens."
He turned. Walked toward the garden. His feet made no sound in the grass.
I stood in the doorway. The dark behind me was cool, smelled of ash and stone. The pressure was still there, against my chest, behind my eyes. The feeling of something waiting.
I didn't look back at the house. I looked at the boy, small among the weeds, kneeling by the garden, his hands already in the dirt.
Then I went inside.