"Crimson Fog"

 

⟡ A Veil Over the City ⟡

The fog outside Zane Faulkner’s apartment didn’t just roll in — it crept, like a living thing. Through the tall bay windows, the London skyline had vanished behind a wall of pale gray, tinged faintly with crimson from the dying glow of street lamps. The silence was too complete, as if the city itself was holding its breath.

Zane stood with one hand in his pocket, the other holding a porcelain coffee cup, his posture relaxed — infuriatingly relaxed to Eli, who was pacing in the living room.

“This isn’t normal fog,” Eli said for the fourth time in ten minutes. His voice was taut. “It’s thick enough to choke on. And it smells… metallic.”

Lyra, curled on the arm of Zane’s leather sofa, raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been smelling imaginary things since last month’s case. I told you—”

“I’m telling you,” Eli interrupted, “this is—”

Zane turned his head slightly, his eyes on the fog. “This is the sort of night,” he murmured, “where the wrong person could vanish without leaving a shadow.”

His voice had that low, amused lilt — but there was something else under it, something that made Lyra glance at him sharply. She had known him long enough to sense when his casual tone was a mask.

⟡ The Call That Cut Through ⟡

The shrill ring of the desk phone broke the stillness. Zane set his coffee down, crossed the room, and answered.

“Faulkner,” he said simply.

The voice on the other end was a trembling whisper. “You don’t know me… but you will. If you want to stop the killing, you have less than an hour. Pier Seven. Come alone.”

Zane’s eyebrow twitched. “And if I don’t?”

There was a pause — just enough to suggest the caller was smiling. “Then you’ll hear the scream from where you stand.”

The line went dead.

Eli’s eyes were wide. “Was that—?”

“Yes,” Zane said, slipping into his overcoat. “We’re going to the pier.”

“You were told to come alone,” Lyra reminded him.

“I was,” he replied, his smile faint but sharp. “But we all know I rarely do what I’m told.”

⟡ Streets Swallowed by Fog ⟡

The drive should have been a ten-minute journey. Instead, the fog turned every road into a shifting maze. Headlights cut no further than a few feet, revealing wet cobblestones, distorted shadows, and occasional shapes that dissolved before they were close enough to identify.

Eli sat forward in the passenger seat, muttering under his breath. “Feels like the whole city’s gone… hollow.”

Lyra’s gaze never left the side streets. “Someone’s out there,” she said softly.

Zane, at the wheel, didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed ahead, and though his mouth still carried that faint smirk, his mind was locked on patterns — the kind that only appeared when danger was close.

⟡ Pier Seven ⟡

They arrived at the waterfront, where the crimson fog was thickest. The pier loomed ahead, its wooden planks slick with condensation. The water below was invisible, the sound of gentle waves muffled, as though even the river was subdued.

A single figure stood at the far end, facing away.

Zane motioned for Eli and Lyra to stay back, then walked forward, each footstep dull on the damp wood.

“Interesting weather for a meeting,” he called out.

The figure turned. It was a man in a gray coat, his face pale and drawn. His eyes darted past Zane, to the shadows, then back. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“You invited me,” Zane replied.

The man’s voice trembled. “It’s already here.”

Before Zane could respond, the man’s chest convulsed — a thin, wet gasp — and he collapsed to the pier. A dark stain spread quickly under him, the color indistinguishable in the crimson mist.

From somewhere deep in the fog came a sound — low, almost inaudible, like the hum of distant machinery, or a voice whispering in a language no one present recognized.

⟡ The Thing in the Fog ⟡

Eli was the first to break from cover, rushing toward Zane. Lyra followed, her eyes darting to the shifting shadows at the pier’s edges.

“What happened to him?” Eli asked, his voice breaking.

Zane knelt beside the man, checking for a pulse. “Dead.”

“But… there’s no wound—” Eli froze mid-sentence. The fog behind Zane seemed to move against the wind, coiling upward like a living ribbon.

Lyra grabbed Eli’s arm. “Back. Now.”

The shape in the fog dispersed as quickly as it had formed, leaving only that low, mechanical hum — closer now.

⟡ Vanishing Streets ⟡

They didn’t speak until they were back in the car. But leaving the pier didn’t bring relief — if anything, the fog seemed to be moving with them, curling through alleys and swallowing landmarks.

“This isn’t just weather,” Lyra said finally. “It’s… covering something. Or hiding it.”

Zane’s hands stayed steady on the wheel. “Covering, hiding — or guiding.”

Eli gave a hollow laugh. “Guiding? Fog doesn’t guide people. People get lost in it.”

“That’s the point,” Zane murmured.

⟡ The Empty Block ⟡

The address on the dead man’s ID led them to a block of identical row houses. All dark. All silent. Even in the fog, the absence of sound was wrong.

They entered the man’s house. Dust coated the furniture. A single candle burned in the living room, the wax fresh, the flame still quivering.

On the wall above the fireplace, a message had been scrawled in black ink: “When the crimson fog comes, the city forgets.”

Eli swallowed. “Forgets what?”

Before Zane could answer, they heard it again — that low, almost subsonic hum, coming from the street outside.

Lyra moved to the window. “Zane…” Her voice was tight. “There’s someone standing in the road.”

⟡ The Watcher ⟡

Through the fog, they could just make out a tall silhouette. It didn’t move. It didn’t breathe. It was simply… there.

Zane stepped closer to the glass, his expression unreadable. “Stay here.”

“Not a chance,” Lyra said, following him to the door. Eli trailed reluctantly behind.

The street was colder than it had been moments ago. The fog swirled in lazy circles, revealing the figure in brief, distorted glimpses — a man in an old-fashioned suit, his skin the same pale hue as the mist.

When Zane took another step forward, the man’s head tilted slowly, like a predator assessing prey.

“Evening,” Zane said lightly.

The man didn’t answer. Then, with no more than a blink’s worth of time, he was gone. Not walked away. Gone — as though the fog had swallowed him whole.

⟡ Back to the Beginning ⟡

Back inside the house, Zane studied the scrawled message again. His fingers traced the words, then paused on the final one — “forgets.”

“What do you think it means?” Lyra asked quietly.

Zane’s gaze flicked to her, then to Eli. “It means,” he said slowly, “we’re in the middle of something that erases itself. Evidence, witnesses… memories.”

Eli’s face paled. “So if we stay—”

Zane’s faint smile returned. “We won’t remember we were here.”

Outside, the hum deepened, the fog pressed against the windows, and the crimson tint grew darker — almost the color of blood.

⟡ The Map No One Drew ⟡

The fog didn’t lift by morning. It had thickened, heavy as if the sky itself had dropped onto the streets.

Eli had dozed off in a chair, jerking awake when Zane placed a steaming mug of tea beside him. “Sleep well?” Zane asked lightly.

Eli blinked. “Barely. That hum… it never stopped.”

Lyra stood at the window. “I saw something last night.” Her voice was firm. “Figures in the fog. More than one. Just standing there, facing the house.”

Zane’s eyes didn’t change, but something in his posture tightened. “Then it’s time we find the center of this.”

He spread a hand-drawn diagram on the table — not a real map, but a web of lines and dots. “Every place the fog has been densest in the last twenty-four hours… and where the deaths occurred.”

Eli leaned in. “This looks… like it’s circling something.”

“Not circling,” Zane corrected. “Closing in.”

⟡ Into the Heart ⟡

By noon, they were driving again, following streets that seemed to dissolve as soon as they passed. Road signs were blank. Windows of nearby houses reflected nothing but the red mist.

They stopped in front of an abandoned warehouse near the river. The hum was loud here, vibrating through the air like a heartbeat.

Inside, the light was dim, filtered through slats in the boarded-up windows. In the center of the floor was something unexpected — a circle of old photographs, each one showing different parts of the city… but in every single one, the streets were empty.

Lyra crouched to pick one up. “These are all… recent. Look at the cars. The clothes.”

“And yet,” Zane murmured, “no people.”

Eli’s breath caught. “What if that’s what this thing does? Not just kill… but remove. Erase.”

⟡ The Missing Hour ⟡

Zane’s attention shifted to a desk in the corner, where a dusty reel-to-reel recorder sat beside a stack of tapes. He pressed play.

A man’s voice crackled through — urgent, frightened. “…fog moving faster now… not natural… saw faces in it, faces I knew… they called to me…”

The recording stopped mid-word, tape still spinning.

Eli stepped back. “I don’t like this. Feels like we’re walking inside someone else’s nightmare.”

Zane’s faint smile returned. “Or perhaps we’re walking in ours.”

⟡ The Trap Tightens ⟡

They left the warehouse, but the fog outside had changed. It was thicker, heavier, the crimson hue deepened to a dark, almost black red.

Lyra’s hand tightened on Zane’s sleeve. “Do you hear that?”

The hum was louder now — layered, almost like chanting beneath the tone.

Figures emerged from the mist. Not fast, not aggressive — just silent, moving closer in slow, measured steps.

Eli’s voice shook. “They’re… they’re not breathing.”

Zane stepped forward, placing himself between the shapes and his companions. “Back to the car. Now.”

⟡ The Chase That Wasn’t ⟡

They drove fast, but the fog seemed to follow, curling in from side streets, filling the air vents, pressing against the glass.

At one intersection, Zane slammed the brakes. The road ahead was gone — not blocked, not hidden — gone. Just an expanse of swirling red nothing.

Lyra’s breath hitched. “Zane… where are we?”

His hands tightened on the wheel. “Between where we were… and where they want us.”

Eli’s voice was barely a whisper. “Who’s ‘they’?”

Zane didn’t answer.

⟡ The Forgotten District ⟡

The road reappeared without warning, leading them to a neighborhood that looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades. Street lamps flickered weakly. A dry fountain stood in the square, its stone cracked.

They got out. The fog was thinner here, as if they’d reached an eye in the storm.

In the center of the square was a statue — a man in an overcoat, his face strikingly similar to the figure they’d seen watching them last night. At the base, an inscription read: Elias Ward, 1892 – 1931. The Last to Remember.

Eli stared. “Last to remember… what?”

Zane was silent, tracing the engraved name with gloved fingers.

⟡ The Story in the Shadows ⟡

A voice came from behind them. “He tried to warn them.”

They turned to see an elderly woman standing in a doorway, her eyes pale and glassy. “Tried to tell the city the fog was alive. They laughed at him.”

Lyra stepped closer. “And now?”

The woman’s smile was sad. “Now they’re all gone. And soon, so will you.”

Before they could question her, she stepped back inside and closed the door. When Zane opened it moments later, the room beyond was empty — dust, cobwebs, no footprints.

⟡ Back Into the Deep ⟡

They returned to the square, but the fog was closing in again.

Eli pointed. “There — movement!”

Shapes slid between the buildings, circling.

Lyra drew a breath. “Zane… this isn’t random. They’ve been herding us.”

“Which means,” Zane said, “they’re afraid we’ll find something they’d rather erase.”

⟡ The Final Clue ⟡

At the far side of the square, hidden behind an iron gate, they found an entrance to an underground tunnel. The air inside was colder than ice.

The walls were lined with old photographs, yellowed and curling — each one showing people in the city, smiling, unaware.

Zane stopped at the last one. It was dated two days ago. And it showed him. Standing in his apartment window. Watching the fog roll in.

Lyra’s hand went to her mouth. “That’s… impossible.”

Eli backed away. “Zane… what does this mean?”

“It means,” Zane said quietly, “we’ve already been seen.”

⟡ The Choice ⟡

The chanting hum grew louder. The tunnel ahead dissolved into red mist. Behind them, the exit was gone.

Lyra’s eyes searched Zane’s face. “What do we do?”

He looked at her for a long moment, his faint smile still there — but his eyes… his eyes were hard.

“We keep walking,” he said. “Because if we stop, we’ll forget why we started.”

They walked into the mist.

⟡ The Return… Almost ⟡

When the fog finally thinned, they found themselves back in the city. People bustled on the streets, cars passed, and the sun was breaking through the clouds.

Eli blinked. “We made it?”

Lyra turned to Zane. “We should tell someone—” She stopped. “Tell them… what?”

Her brow furrowed. “Why are we here?”

Zane watched her, the faintest shadow crossing his face. Eli was looking at him too, frowning, as if trying to recall something that was already slipping away.

They didn’t remember.

⟡ The Weight of Memory ⟡

That night, Zane sat alone in his apartment, watching the street below. The fog was gone. The city was alive.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the photograph from the tunnel — the one showing him at the window. He traced the edges, his jaw set.

The clock ticked softly behind him.

He spoke into the quiet, almost to himself.

“In the end,” he murmured, “the worst fate isn’t death… it’s knowing the truth, and being the only one left to carry it.”

He slid the photograph into a locked drawer. Outside, far off on the horizon, the faintest wisp of crimson fog drifted — unseen by everyone but him.