The fog in Laurel Heights was like nothing Dana had ever seen.

It swallowed everything—trees, roads, distant hills—leaving only gray shadows and outlines. She’d been driving the same stretch of cracked asphalt for over an hour, but nothing felt right. Her headlights cut through the fog in weak beams, revealing only more of the same hazy nothingness ahead. Beside her on the passenger seat, her duffel bag lay slumped, barely containing the last remnants of her life packed up from her old town.

The map had promised her Laurel Heights was a straight shot from the interstate, but either she’d missed a turn or the map was lying. She checked the clock on the dashboard: 3:12 p.m., though it looked like twilight outside. She hadn’t seen another car for miles. No street signs, no roadside shops. Nothing but fog and her own thoughts for company.

Her mind wandered back to why she’d come here in the first place—a fresh start, a chance to leave behind everything she couldn’t face back home. Laurel Heights was supposed to be the place where she’d finally pull her life back together, a town where nobody knew her, where her mistakes wouldn’t follow her. The whispers about Emily, the broken relationships, the strange looks from people who knew too much about her business. All of that was supposed to be behind her.

But as she rolled into Laurel Heights, a strange unease settled over her. The fog thickened, as if it were alive, watching her approach.

She almost didn’t notice the “Welcome to Laurel Heights” sign, its paint chipped, letters barely readable beneath layers of grime and rust. She slowed the car to a crawl, squinting to make out the details. The letters were scrawled in faded white, but there was something scratched underneath them, something illegible, like someone had tried to carve a message into the metal with a knife. She felt a shiver pass through her as she accelerated, steering her car deeper into the gray, empty streets of the town.

The houses were old and sagging, paint peeling from the sides in long strips like dead skin. She caught sight of a row of empty storefronts, their windows dark, filled with dust and cobwebs. Occasionally, she thought she saw movement—a shadow shifting behind a curtain or a figure retreating into a doorway. But every time she looked closer, she found only emptiness.

Dana pulled up outside a small apartment building that looked like it hadn’t seen a visitor in years. The address she’d scribbled down matched the rusted numbers on the doorframe, but for a moment, she wondered if she’d made a mistake. It looked like the kind of place people left behind, not somewhere new arrivals moved in.

Just temporary, she reminded herself, cutting the engine and sitting in the stillness. She closed her eyes, trying to shake off the nagging unease that had settled in her chest since she crossed into Laurel Heights. She could practically feel the weight of the town pressing down on her, like hands she couldn’t shake off.

Finally, she grabbed her bag and climbed out of the car, the fog clinging to her as she made her way toward the door. Inside, the building smelled faintly of mildew and dust, like it had been sealed up for decades. Each step echoed off the cracked walls, her footsteps loud against the emptiness.

Her apartment was on the second floor, a tiny one-bedroom at the end of the hallway. She jiggled the key in the lock until it finally gave way, revealing a space that looked no better than the building’s exterior. The wallpaper was peeling, showing layers of faded patterns underneath. A single light bulb swung from the ceiling, casting long, eerie shadows across the room.

As she set her bag down on the sagging couch, she felt the prickling sensation of being watched. She glanced at the cracked window, peering out into the street below. The fog was thicker now, practically pressing up against the glass. She thought she saw a figure standing across the street—a vague, dark shape that looked too solid to be a shadow. Her pulse quickened, but when she blinked, the figure was gone, leaving only the fog in its place.

Dana tried to shake off the feeling and started unpacking, but her movements felt slow, heavy. The silence was thick, almost suffocating. She could hear the tick of her own heartbeat, and each small noise seemed amplified in the stillness.

Then, from somewhere within the building, a door creaked. A slow, deliberate sound, as if someone was opening it just enough to peek through. She froze, every muscle tense, listening for the sound of footsteps. But nothing followed. Just silence.

“Get it together,” she muttered to herself, rubbing her hands over her face. She was already jumpy, feeling the weight of Laurel Heights creeping under her skin.

But even as she tried to shake it off, something else nagged at her—something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. A memory she’d tried to bury, long and deep. A face she tried to forget.

Emily.

The name drifted into her thoughts like a whisper, soft and insistent, leaving a chill in its wake. She hadn’t thought about Emily in months. Hadn’t let herself. She pushed the memory away, hard, focusing on unpacking, willing her mind back to the present.

That night, after she’d turned off the light and curled up on the couch, she couldn’t sleep. The silence of the building pressed in on her, thick and heavy, like the fog outside. She closed her eyes, but every time she began to drift, she heard faint sounds—footsteps, whispers, the scrape of something against the walls. She kept telling herself it was just an old building settling, but the noises seemed to follow a rhythm, an unsteady beat that matched her own pounding heart.

Finally, when she couldn’t take it any longer, she sat up, staring into the darkness of her apartment. She glanced at the cracked bathroom mirror across the room, barely visible in the dim light. In the shadows, she thought she saw something—a face, faintly reflected, one she hadn’t seen in years.

But when she blinked, it was gone.

She sat there, alone in the dark, wondering if coming to Laurel Heights was the biggest mistake of her life.