The sun was just barely rising over the Bay of Fundy, casting a faint, pale light that struggled to penetrate the dense fog rolling off the water. It was that time of year when the weather was just right for the sea to breathe out a thick, ghostly mist over the land, swallowing everything in its path. The fog seemed alive, moving in swirling patterns, tendrils stretching inland as if reaching for something—or someone.

An old car, an Oldsmobile from the late seventies, its heavy frame rusted in spots but still solid, turned off the main highway. The engine grumbled, tires crunching against the gravel as it veered onto an old dirt road that wound down toward the unseen coastline. The headlights, dulled by age but still potent enough, cut a narrow path through the fog, revealing only a few feet ahead at a time before being swallowed again by the swirling mist.

Inside, Jeff tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed ahead, squinting into the thickening haze. He smirked, lips curling into a confident grin as he felt the hum of the engine under his seat. The car was his father's old ride, a beast of a machine that had seen better days, but it still had enough muscle to outrun any trouble—if it came to that.

Jeff glanced at the dashboard clock again. 5:47 AM. The Bloodied Brotherhood should be there by now, or at least on their way. He knew he was early, but he liked it that way. Being the first on the scene meant he could scope out the territory, feel the pulse of the place. And besides, he had nothing to fear. Port Morning was just an old ghost town—empty, abandoned, forgotten.

He had driven a long way, but it would be worth it. Crossing the Canadian border had been dicey, but he had managed it with a mix of smooth talk and a little luck. Hidden in his trunk was enough product to make a mint—months of work distilled into the most potent drugs on the market. The deal he’d cut with the Bloodied Brotherhood had taken him quite a distance from Rhode Island, but the cash they had offered for his quality supply was undeniably good. The risk was worth the reward.

And he thought he deserved it. After all, he was putting the chemistry degree his rich father had paid for to good use. Jeff had dropped out of his Ivy League school in his junior year, tired of the classes and professors who had nothing to offer him but dull lectures and tedious assignments. He figured he’d found a better way to apply his skills, turning his lab knowledge into a lucrative, if dangerous, trade.

He grinned, his teeth gleaming in the dim light of the dashboard. "Thanks, Dad," he said with a snicker. His father had always told him he’d never amount to anything, never make a name for himself. Well, he was about to prove the old man wrong—multiply his resource investment by leaps and bounds. No one could cook drugs like he could, and tonight, the Bloodied Brotherhood would pay handsomely for that talent.

An old, weather-beaten sign loomed out of the mist, the wood splintered and gray with age. The paint was mostly faded, but he could still make out the word "Port Morning." Someone had defaced what remained of the letters, scrawling "Port Mourning" over it in red paint that had run like blood in the rain. Below, the faint words "Established 1805" were barely legible at the bottom of the sign.

"Charming," Jeff muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. But he couldn't deny the appeal of the place—remote, isolated, a forgotten corner of Nova Scotia where no one in their right mind would go. There was no risk the cops or anyone else unwanted might show up and ruin the deal of Jeff's life. Just him, the Brotherhood, and the kind of money that could set him up for a long time, maybe even forever.

Jeff drove past the sign, his car’s tires crunching over the gravel, sending small rocks skittering into the fog. The headlights barely cut through the thick mist ahead, revealing only slivers of the road. He leaned forward, squinting into the gray, when suddenly—a figure appeared right in front of him, small and pale, like a child standing in the middle of the road.

"Shit!" Jeff swore, instinctively jerking the wheel to the side. The old Oldsmobile lurched violently, its worn-out suspension groaning in protest. The tires skidded across the loose gravel, losing traction. For a moment, everything seemed to hang in the air—his breath, the car, the fog. He felt the rear end fishtail, the car spinning sideways as if on ice, and his heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline surging.

The next instant, there was a bone-jarring thud as the front of the car slammed into an unseen ditch. The impact sent him flying forward, his head snapping back against the headrest with a crack. He felt the seatbelt bite hard into his shoulder, knocking the wind out of him. The sound of crunching metal and splintering wood filled his ears as the car came to a sudden, shuddering halt. The steering wheel wrenched out of his hands, and the engine sputtered and died with a final, wheezing cough.

For a moment, there was silence. Jeff's hands trembled on the wheel, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The fog swirled around the car, thick and cold, seeping in through the open window. He blinked, trying to steady himself, his mind racing. What the hell had he just seen? A kid? Out here?

He fumbled for the door handle, his hands shaking as he pushed it open. The door creaked and stuck, and he had to shove it with his shoulder to get it to budge. He stumbled out, his boots crunching on the gravel as he looked around, peering into the fog. His heart still hammered in his chest, his breath visible in the cold air.

"You… you okay, kid?" he called out, his voice shaky, cracking with a mix of fear and adrenaline. He took a few unsteady steps forward, his eyes scanning the road. "Hey! You hear me? You okay?"

There was no response. Just silence. The fog was thicker now, a solid wall of gray that seemed to swallow sound. He took another step, stumbling slightly as his foot caught on a loose rock. He turned, trying to see through the mist, but there was nothing—no movement, no shape, just fog and shadows.

Jeff’s heart thudded harder against his ribs. He swore under his breath, trying to keep himself calm. He must have imagined it. The fog was playing tricks on his eyes, making him see things that weren’t there. Just nerves, that’s all. He hadn’t slept well; he’d been driving for hours. Yeah, that had to be it. There was no kid.

Feeling a rush of embarrassment and anger, he turned back to his car, his eyes widening as he saw the front end buried deep in the ditch, the front bumper cracked and leaning at an awkward angle. Steam hissed from under the hood, mingling with the fog in wispy tendrils. He kicked the ground in frustration, a new wave of curses spilling from his lips.

"Great," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. "Just fucking great." His voice was louder now, but it still felt small against the silence pressing in around him. He glanced around again, almost hoping to see someone, but there was nothing—only the mist and the sound of his own breath.

He felt a wave of stupidity wash over him. He had freaked out and swerved like a damn rookie, all because he thought he saw a kid in the fog. Now his car was stuck, the front end smashed in, and he was going to have to ask for help—from the Bloodied Brotherhood, no less. A gang of hardened bikers, and here he was, stuck in a ditch, looking like a fool.

Jeff cursed again, louder this time, kicking the loose gravel with his boot. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. "Okay… okay, think, man," he muttered, rubbing his hands together. Maybe he could come up with a story, something that didn’t make him sound like a complete idiot. Maybe he could say he’d swerved to avoid a deer or something cool like that—anything other than admitting he's freaked out over a hallucination in the fog.

He laughed nervously to himself, shaking his head. "Yeah, that's it," he said, feeling the chill creep up his spine again. "Just a damn deer… nothing but a deer."

But even as he said it, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching him from the mist, just beyond the edge of his vision. Something that wasn’t a deer or a trick of the light. Something that was waiting.

Jeff moved to the back of the car, his boots crunching on the gravel as he circled around to the trunk. He still felt the sting of embarrassment from his little stunt, but he pushed it aside. The deal was what mattered now, and he wasn’t about to let a ditch or some fog get in the way of his payday.

He popped the trunk, the hinges creaking loudly in the cold air. A plume of fog seemed to spill inside, curling around the edges like smoke. He reached in, lifting the old mat that covered the bottom of the trunk, revealing a hidden compartment beneath. His fingers found the latch, and with a click, the panel swung up.

There it was—a heavy black briefcase, sitting snugly next to a revolver, a box of bullets, and a worn leather shoulder holster. He hesitated for a moment, staring down at the gun. He doubted he would need it—after all, the Bloodied Brotherhood were here to do business, not start a firefight. But he knew what these guys were like—hardened, rough around the edges, and not ones to respect a guy who showed up unarmed.

“Can’t hurt to look the part,” he muttered to himself, reaching for the revolver. The metal felt cold and heavy in his hand, the weight of it oddly reassuring. He slipped the bullets into his jacket pocket, then picked up the holster, strapping it over his shoulder with a practiced motion. He slid the gun into the holster, feeling it settle against his side.

He picked up the briefcase next, feeling the weight of it in his hand. Inside was his true ticket to freedom—the product he’d been cooking up for months, the best stuff anyone had seen in years. It was his way out of the small-time, his way out of the life that had been chosen for him. With the kind of cash he was going to make today, getting his car towed was a small price to pay.

Jeff closed the trunk and took a deep breath, the cold air biting into his lungs. He adjusted the briefcase in his grip, making sure the revolver was secure under his jacket. He glanced around, the fog still thick, pressing in like a living thing. For a second, he thought he heard something—a whisper, a rustle in the fog—but he shook it off.

“Just nerves,” he muttered, taking a step forward. He had to get to the Old Cannery, had to get the deal underway before anything else went wrong. He’d come too far to back out now.

As he walked down the road, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching him from the fog. The air felt colder, heavier somehow, each breath turning to mist in front of his face. He tightened his grip on the briefcase, forcing his legs to keep moving. He had a job to do, and nothing was going to stop him.

Not the fog. Not the ditch. Not some imaginary kid in the road.

He kept his eyes ahead, focused on the dark shape of the Old Cannery looming out of the mist. The building seemed to rise from the ground like a beast waking from slumber, its rusted frame groaning in the breeze. He could make out the broken windows, the gaps where the roof had caved in, the dark door gaping like an open mouth.

He felt a shiver run down his spine, but he ignored it, pushing forward. “Let’s get this over with,” he muttered, steeling himself for the meeting ahead. Whatever weirdness the fog had in store, he wasn’t about to let it ruin his day.

Jeff started to trudge down the old road into the abandoned whaling town, his boots crunching against the gravel with every step. The fog seemed to pull back slightly, as if retreating just enough to reveal the silhouettes of the town's buildings, their dark forms looming against the dim, grey sky. The sun struggled to break through the thick, misty veil, casting a pale, muted light over everything. The world around him looked like it had been painted in shades of cool greys, every color drained away, leaving only shadows and shapes.

The fog clung to the ground in wispy tendrils, curling around his legs like fingers trying to pull him back. He could see the outlines of old, weathered buildings lining the street—the remnants of a time long past. A Chapel sat to his left, its tilted spire pointing crookedly toward the sky like a broken finger. An old Tavern stood further down, its sign swinging slightly in the breeze, the paint faded and peeling. The Old Cannery loomed at the end of the street, a hulking, rusted giant with windows that gazed out like empty, hollow eyes.

Jeff kept his pace steady, but his heart hammered in his chest, the sound loud in his ears. The fog gave everything an unnatural stillness, a silence that felt heavy, almost suffocating. His breaths came out in quick puffs of mist, hanging in the air before dissolving into the grey. He adjusted his grip on the briefcase, feeling the weight of it pulling at his arm. The revolver under his jacket felt heavier now, pressing against his ribs like a cold lump of metal.

As Jeff moved forward, his breath coming out in quick puffs that hung in the air before fading into the grey, he adjusted his grip on the briefcase, trying to ignore the growing weight of the revolver under his jacket, pressing cold and solid against his ribs. He kept his pace steady, but his heart hammered in his chest, the sound growing louder in his ears with each step. The fog seemed to swallow everything around him, creating an unnatural stillness, a silence that felt heavy and suffocating.

Then he heard it.

A faint, distant sound, almost like children’s voices, singing in soft, eerie harmony. The tune was slow and lilting, carrying through the fog like a whisper on the wind. His breath caught in his throat as the words reached him, old and familiar yet somehow wrong, echoing with a sinister innocence:

"Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,

Go to sleep, little baby.

When you wake, you shall have,

All the pretty little horses."

Jeff froze, his eyes darting around, searching the misty streets. He knew he had heard that—knew it sounded like kids singing some creepy, old song. His skin prickled with goosebumps, and he felt a chill creep up his spine. His mind raced, trying to make sense of it. Was it just his imagination? A trick of the wind?

But the singing continued, faint and distant, growing louder for a moment before fading again into the fog, as if the voices were moving, circling around him.

"Blacks and bays, dapples and grays,

All the pretty little horses.

Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,
Go to sleep, little baby."

Jeff's gaze snapped to the misty streets, his breath quickening. He saw nothing—only the shapes of old, crumbling buildings, the shadows stretching long and dark. His heart pounded harder, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. His hands tightened on the briefcase, his knuckles white.

“Who’s there?” he called out, his voice shaky, echoing back at him from the fog. There was no answer—only the soft, fading echoes of the song, disappearing into the thick mist. He strained his ears, listening, but the silence returned, heavy and complete, pressing in around him like a suffocating blanket.

He shook his head, trying to clear it, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. "Get a grip, man," he muttered to himself, but his voice sounded small and hollow in the empty street.

He turned slowly, looking for any sign of movement, any hint of where the voices had come from. But there was nothing—just fog and shadows, shifting and twisting like they had a life of their own.

Jeff's breath came in shallow gasps, each one hanging in the air before dissolving into the cold, grey mist. He shook his head, trying to convince himself that he was just hearing things, maybe even seeing things. There were no kids here—no people at all. Just old buildings and shadows, maybe rats or stray animals. Yeah, that had to be it. Rats. Singing rats… He snorted at the thought, but it didn't help. His hand tightened around the grip of the revolver under his jacket, but it wasn’t giving him the courage he’d hoped for. The cold metal felt like dead weight pressing against his ribs.

The fog seemed to pulse around him, almost breathing. Then, slowly, it began to thin, pulling back like a curtain being drawn, revealing more of the town’s decayed remains. Jeff watched as the shapes around him took form, shifting from blurry silhouettes into the sharp, distinct outlines of the abandoned whaling town.

Port Mourning emerged from the fog like a ghost from the grave, its faded buildings slouched and leaning, roofs sagging under years of neglect. Cracked wooden walls were stained dark by rain and salt air, the paint peeled away in long strips like old skin. Windows were broken or boarded up, gaping like empty eye sockets in skulls. The fog continued to recede, revealing narrow cobblestone streets winding between the decaying structures, twisting and turning like arteries through a long-dead body.

To his left, he saw the Whaler’s Chapel, its spire crooked and threatening to collapse, reaching upward as if pleading for salvation. The large wooden door hung on a single hinge, swaying slightly with a creak that set his teeth on edge. The chapel's broken bell, stained green with age, loomed in the tower above, as if ready to toll again for the damned.

Further down, the Mariner’s Rest Tavern stood with its shattered windows and its sign barely hanging from a single rusted chain. The sign rocked back and forth in the faint breeze, the faded lettering just barely legible: "Welcome, Sailors." Jeff could imagine the ghosts of its former patrons inside, huddled around empty tables, their voices lost to time.

Ahead, the Old Cannery towered over the square, a hulking mass of rusted iron and splintered wood, its vast doors sagging open like a mouth about to speak. Jeff could see the roof was partially collapsed, exposing darkened beams that jutted into the sky like broken ribs. The windows were coated in grime, making them look like dead eyes staring out over the desolate town.

His gaze shifted to a long, low structure beside the cannery—a storage building, perhaps. But it wasn’t the building itself that caught his eye; it was what lay beside it. Stacks of bleached whalebone, piled high against the weathered walls, gleamed in the dim light like the bones of giants. Massive rib bones and vertebrae, carefully arranged in rows, stood like eerie monuments to the dead. The bones seemed unnaturally white, their surfaces smooth and polished, as if recently cleaned by hands unseen. They created a stark, skeletal line that ran the length of the building, as if guarding the town from something—or perhaps holding something in.

Jeff felt a shiver run down his spine. The bones seemed to glow in the half-light, almost luminous against the dull, grey backdrop of the town. The sight of them was unsettling, their pristine whiteness too bright, too perfect, in a place where everything else was decayed and dying. His grip on the briefcase tightened, and he felt his fingers twitch against the cold metal of the revolver.

He turned slowly, taking in the rest of the town, and noticed something odd—something that made his skin crawl. Even though the buildings were clearly abandoned, left to rot for decades, there were no signs of nature reclaiming the town. No vines creeping up the walls, no grass pushing through the cracks in the cobblestones, no birds nesting in the eaves or even a single weed in the gutters. It was as if the earth itself was reluctant to touch this place, unwilling to take back what had been forsaken.

The only thing that moved was the fog, lifting just enough to reveal the forgotten town in its entirety, then settling back like a heavy, damp blanket, pressing in close around him again. Jeff swallowed hard, feeling the dryness in his throat. He tried to steady his breathing, tried to remind himself that it was just an old town, a relic of another time. But there was something about the way the town stood there, untouched by time yet decaying all the same, that made him feel like he was intruding… like he wasn’t supposed to be here.

The whispers came again, softer now, almost inaudible beneath the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. A child's laugh, high and faint, danced on the edge of his hearing. He spun around, gun hand twitching, his eyes darting from one shadow to the next.

“Come on… get a grip,” he whispered to himself. But his words seemed to fall flat in the thick air, swallowed up by the silence.

He took another step forward, forcing his legs to move, forcing himself to keep going. He had a job to do—a deal to make. He wasn’t about to let some spooky old town get in his way. But as he moved deeper into the heart of Port Mourning, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the town was watching him… waiting for him… and that whatever was out there in the fog wasn’t done with him yet.

Jeff blinked, his vision blurring for a moment as he continued down the road. The fog seemed to shift and twist around him, the cold air pressing tighter against his skin. He felt a strange, dizzy sensation, like he’d spun in circles too fast, his heart skipping a beat. He stumbled slightly, reaching up to rub his eyes, and when he opened them again, the world looked different—brighter, clearer.

The grey fog seemed to dissolve before his eyes, lifting like a veil being pulled back. The sun shone down warmly, the air suddenly filled with the salty scent of the sea and the distant cries of seabirds. The buildings around him were no longer crumbling ruins but freshly painted structures, vibrant and bustling with life.

The Whaler’s Chapel stood tall and proud, its spire straight and glistening in the sunlight. The wooden door was whole, and the sound of a bell tolling cheerfully rang out from its tower, filling the air with a lively, welcoming chime.

He turned to see the Mariner’s Rest Tavern alive with activity, its doors wide open, men and women laughing and talking, mugs clinking in a toast. The old sign hung brightly above the door, the words "Welcome, Sailors" freshly painted in deep blue, swaying gently in the sea breeze. A horse-drawn cart trundled down the cobblestone street, loaded with barrels, the driver tipping his hat as he passed.

The Old Cannery was busy with workers, its doors wide open, the rhythmic clatter of machinery and the scent of freshly caught fish wafting out. A group of children played nearby, laughing and chasing each other around the square, their voices carrying joyfully on the wind. Their bright clothes and smiling faces seemed to glow in the morning light.

Jeff felt a surge of panic rising in his chest. His breath quickened, and he rubbed his eyes hard, trying to clear them. "What the hell…?" he muttered, his voice catching in his throat. He blinked again, harder this time, squeezing his eyes shut and then opening them wide.

The brightness faded, and the vision of the bustling town wavered, like a mirage disappearing in the heat. Slowly, the scene around him darkened once more. The sun dimmed, the vibrant colors drained away, and the warm air turned cold and damp. The laughter and voices faded, replaced by the soft, eerie whispers and the distant groan of the wind through the old buildings.

The town was back to its ruined state—the grey, decayed, abandoned husk he had first seen. The Whaler’s Chapel stood crooked and broken, the bell silent and still. The Mariner’s Rest Tavern was dark and empty, its sign barely hanging by a thread. The Old Cannery loomed over the square like a rotting giant, and the fog crept in close again, wrapping around him like a cold, wet blanket.

Jeff's heart pounded in his chest, his mouth dry. He stumbled back a step, one hand going to his head. Had he hit it when he crashed the car? Was he seeing things? He reached up, feeling for a bump or a bruise, his fingers shaking. Nothing. He felt fine… but then why was he seeing… that?

"Get it together, man," he muttered, his voice unsteady. "Just… just the fog. Just nerves. You didn't hit your head that hard, did you?"

He hoped it wasn’t serious, but his pulse wouldn’t slow down, and he could still hear the faint echo of the children’s laughter, as if it were trapped somewhere just beyond the fog, teasing him.

He tried to push the thought away, forcing himself to breathe slowly, deeply, like he’d learned to do whenever he got too spun up. He needed to focus—focus on the deal, focus on the money. He’d been driving too long, been too tense. That was all it was. Just a trick of the light, a momentary lapse. Nothing to worry about. Nothing that was real.

But as he glanced around, the feeling that he wasn’t alone, that the town was watching him with unseen eyes, only seemed to grow stronger.

Jeff took a deep breath and ran his hand over his head, feeling for any sign of injury. There was no blood, no pain—nothing to suggest he'd taken a hit. He blinked a few times, still feeling slightly dazed, the strange vision of the town in its heyday lingering in his mind like a fading dream. What the hell was going on?

As he tried to steady himself, a sound pierced the heavy silence—a voice, soft at first, almost drowned out by the whispering fog. It was a woman’s voice, clear and beautiful, cutting through the cold air like a knife. She sang slowly, with a haunting melody that seemed to drift out from the depths of the mist, growing louder and clearer with each passing moment.

"There once was a ship that put to sea,
And the name of the ship was the Billy of Tea.
The winds blew hard, her bow dipped down,
Blow, me bully boys, blow."

Jeff froze, his breath catching in his throat. The voice was captivating, almost hypnotic, each note carrying an eerie, mournful quality that sent chills down his spine. It was a sea shanty—one he recognized, though he couldn’t place from where. It wasn’t just any song; it was a whaling song, the kind they’d have sung here, long ago. The words seemed to rise up from the very bones of the town, carried on the wind, echoing off the broken walls and crumbling roofs.

"Soon may the Wellerman come
To bring us sugar and tea and rum.
One day, when the tonguin' is done,
We'll take our leave and go."

The voice grew stronger, filled with emotion, each word vibrating in the air around him. It was beautiful, haunting, filled with a sadness that seemed to sink into his bones. Jeff’s hand tightened on the grip of the revolver, his knuckles white. He turned slowly, trying to find the source of the singing, but there was no one there—only the fog, thick and heavy, swirling around him like a living thing.

He took a cautious step forward, his boots crunching on the gravel. "Who's there?" he called out, his voice wavering despite himself. The singing continued, ignoring his question, the woman's voice rising and falling with the melody, almost as if she were standing right beside him, whispering the words into his ear.

"Before the boat had hit the water,
The whale's tail came up and caught her,
All hands to the side, harpooned and fought her
When she dived down below."

Jeff’s heart pounded faster, his pulse thundering in his ears. The voice was so close, so real… but there was no one. He felt a prickling sensation at the back of his neck, like he was being watched, like someone—or something—was just beyond his sight, hidden in the fog. He swallowed hard, trying to push the fear down, but the singing only seemed to grow louder, more intense, filling the empty spaces around him.

"Soon may the Wellerman come

To bring us sugar and tea and rum.

One day, when the tonguin' is done,

We'll take our leave and go."

He turned in a slow circle, his eyes wide, searching the mist for any sign of movement. But there was nothing—nothing but the fog and the bones and the empty, staring windows of the town. His skin crawled, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He was sure now—this was no trick of the light, no product of his imagination. Someone was here. Someone was singing, watching.

He gripped the revolver tighter, his hand slick with sweat, his mind racing. “Show yourself!” he shouted, the words sounding desperate in his own ears. But the voice did not answer—it only continued, the melody twisting in the air like a ghostly wail, winding around him, binding him to this place.

"For forty days or even more,
The line went slack then tight once more.
All boats were lost, there were only four,
But still that whale did go."

His chest tightened with a sense of dread, the kind that settled deep in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know whether to stay put or run, to fight or flee. But one thing was certain—Port Mourning was not as empty as he had thought.

That’s when Jeff saw her through the mist.

She seemed to materialize out of the fog, her form becoming clearer with each passing second. His breath caught in his throat as he took her in. She was stunning—her long red hair cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall of flame, contrasting against the mist and the dull greys of the town around her. Her skin was pale, almost luminous, with the smoothness of a porcelain doll, and her figure… it was something else, the kind that would turn heads wherever she went.

But it was her eyes that held him captive—an intense, vivid blue that seemed almost unreal, a blue so deep it felt like it could pull him in, like looking into the ocean's depths. He didn’t think human eyes could be that color. She wore a simple white dress that clung to her form, delicate and old-fashioned, almost like something from a hundred years ago. The fabric flowed around her like it was part of the mist itself, fluttering slightly in the wind.

Jeff blinked, half-convinced he was seeing things again, but she remained, standing still, her eyes locked onto his. She was close enough now that he could see the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, the subtle movement of her hair in the breeze. Her lips were curved in a faint, knowing smile.

“Must be some local,” he muttered to himself, trying to find a rational explanation. Yeah, that had to be it. Some backwoods girl from one of those little towns scattered across Nova Scotia, out here for… whatever reason. Maybe she was behind everything, some trickster messing around, enjoying the thrill of freaking him out.

But that raised a new problem. She couldn’t be here—not when the Bloodied Brotherhood arrived for the deal. Jeff felt a twist of anxiety in his gut. These guys weren’t exactly the friendly type, and if they found her here… well, things could get ugly fast.

He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see the Brotherhood’s headlights cutting through the fog, but the road remained empty, shrouded in mist. He turned back to the woman, feeling a strange mix of relief and urgency. Maybe he could convince her to take her leave, get her to move along before things got complicated. And, hell, she was a knockout—maybe he could catch her name and number while he was at it. A girl like that didn’t just fall into a guy's lap every day.

He put on his best grin, the kind he thought was charming, and took a cautious step toward her. “Hey there!” he called out, trying to sound casual, like he hadn’t just been scared out of his wits by the fog and the voices. “You, uh, you okay out here? Kinda weird place to be wandering around alone, don’t you think?”

She didn’t respond right away, just kept watching him with those impossibly blue eyes, her expression calm, almost serene. Jeff felt a flicker of unease, but he pushed it down, reminding himself that he was the one in control here. He took another step closer, keeping his tone light. “What’s your name? I’m Jeff. You from around here?”

The woman tilted her head slightly, her red hair cascading over one shoulder, and for a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of amusement in her eyes, like she was in on a joke he didn’t understand. She opened her mouth, as if about to speak, but instead of words, a soft, melodic hum emerged, the same haunting tune she’d been singing before.

Jeff’s grin faltered, his confidence wavering. “Hey… look, I don’t mean to scare you or anything, but this… this isn’t a safe place, okay? I’ve got some business going down here, and it’s best if you clear out before—”

She took a step closer, still humming softly, her eyes never leaving his. The sound seemed to echo in the air, bouncing off the old buildings, filling his ears. He felt a strange pull, like an invisible hand drawing him toward her. The world around him seemed to fade, the fog thickening at the edges of his vision.

“Hey, come on, stop playing games,” he said, but his voice sounded weaker than he intended. “You need to leave. Now.”

But she just smiled wider, her hum turning into soft, wordless singing. The sound was beautiful, almost mesmerizing, and Jeff felt his heartbeat slow, his body relaxing despite himself. He tried to speak again, but his mouth felt dry, his tongue heavy.

He took another step back, trying to shake off the feeling, his hand tightening around the grip of his revolver. “Please,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if he was pleading with her or himself. “Just… go.”

But she kept coming closer, her eyes never leaving his, her song filling the air around them like a spell.

She slowly stopped singing as the last verse of her song drifted past her lips, the melody lingering in the air like a fading echo. Her eyes, those impossibly deep blue eyes, regarded Jeff with a calm intensity that seemed to pin him in place. He felt an odd sensation wash over him, like he was being held in place by those eyes, unable to move or speak, transfixed by their depth.

“Sorry,” she said softly, her voice carrying the same haunting, melodic quality as her song. “I’m Eunice.” Her words were calm, almost gentle, yet they seemed to hang heavily in the air. “I’m waiting for my fiancé to come home. He set to sea half a fortnight hence, and I fear a northwest storm caught him and the ship unaware…”

Jeff blinked, trying to process her words. The way she spoke, the old-fashioned cadence, didn’t quite match her youthful appearance. It felt out of place, like she’d stepped out of another time altogether. He shook his head slightly, trying to shake off the odd sense of disorientation that clung to him.

“A fortnight?” he repeated, his voice unsteady. “Who talks like that?” He laughed nervously, but the sound felt hollow in his own ears. He glanced around, the fog swirling around them, pressing in close. “Look, lady, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but… there’s no ship coming in today, alright? This place has been abandoned for… a long time. You sure you’re okay?”

Eunice’s smile faltered for a moment, a flicker of something like confusion passing over her face. She blinked, then shook her head slightly, as if brushing away a stray thought. “Oh,” she murmured, almost to herself, “but I’ve been waiting so long… it’s hard to keep track of time here.”

Jeff felt a chill crawl down his spine at her words, the way she said them with such a calm, serene certainty, like she truly didn’t know how long it had been. His hand tightened on the revolver beneath his jacket, the weight of it suddenly feeling like a lifeline in the growing strangeness.

“Listen, Eunice,” he began, trying to keep his voice steady, “I think you might be a bit lost. This… this isn’t a good place to wait. I’ve got some people coming, and they’re not the friendly type, you know? You should… you should head back, wherever you came from.”

She didn’t seem to hear him. Her eyes remained locked on his, a strange sadness passing through them. “He promised he’d come back,” she whispered, almost to herself. “He promised he’d bring me a pearl as white as the moon, a gift from the sea itself.”

Jeff’s mouth went dry, and he felt a tightness in his chest. “A pearl?” he repeated, almost incredulous. “Lady, I think you might be confused… Look, there’s no ships coming back here. There haven’t been for years. This place… it’s—”

But Eunice shook her head slowly, her hair flowing like liquid fire around her shoulders. “No,” she said softly, but firmly, her voice carrying a strange authority that made Jeff’s skin crawl. “He will come. The sea cannot keep him from me. Not forever.”

The fog seemed to thicken again, swirling closer around them, the air growing colder, almost biting. Jeff could feel the moisture on his skin, his breath visible in quick, shallow puffs. The chill settled deeper into his bones, and he shivered despite himself.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble, okay?” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “I’ve got business to take care of. So why don’t you just—”

But before he could finish, Eunice took a step closer, her bare feet seeming to glide over the ground, and he felt that strange pull again, like an invisible force drawing him toward her. Her eyes remained fixed on his, and he felt the world around him begin to dim, the fog closing in tighter, the shadows growing longer.

“You shouldn’t be here, Jeff,” she said softly, her voice carrying a warning that sent a shiver down his spine. “This is no place for the living.”

Jeff’s heart pounded in his chest, and for a moment, he felt an overwhelming urge to run, to turn and bolt back to his car, even if it was stuck in a ditch. But something held him in place, a force stronger than fear, stronger than reason.

“Why?” he whispered, his voice barely audible, his breath fogging in the cold air. “Why can’t I be here?”

She looked at him with a deep sadness in those haunting, impossibly blue eyes, the kind that seemed to see right through him. Her gaze felt heavy, pulling at something inside him, something primal and fearful. Her voice, when she spoke again, was soft, almost tender, yet it carried a weight that seemed to settle over him like the fog itself.

“The old captain doesn’t like strangers,” she said, her words slow and deliberate, each syllable hanging in the cold, damp air. “And when strangers stay too long… he keeps them here, just like the sea keeps me here…”

Jeff felt a shiver crawl up his spine, his mouth suddenly dry. He tried to swallow, but his throat was tight, a knot of fear forming in his chest. “Keeps them?” he managed to stammer, his voice cracking. “What… what do you mean, ‘keeps them’?”

Eunice’s expression didn’t change; the sadness remained, etched into her delicate features like it had been there for a lifetime. “The captain… he has a way of knowing when someone doesn’t belong. When they’ve come too far, when they’ve seen too much.” She paused, and for a moment, Jeff thought he saw a flicker of something—a shadow, a glint of fear?—cross her face. “He doesn’t let them leave. Not ever. Not once the sea claims them.”

Jeff's hand tightened around the grip of the revolver, the cold metal biting into his skin. He felt the weight of her words settle deep in his chest, heavy as an anchor. “The sea… claims them?” he echoed, trying to make sense of what she was saying, but his mind felt clouded, the fear creeping in like the fog itself.

Eunice nodded slowly, her gaze drifting away from him for the first time, looking somewhere past him, into the fog. “The sea is the old captain's domain. It’s where he rules, where he waits. He’s always waiting, watching. And when strangers come to his town, he makes sure they stay… just like he made sure I stayed, even after…” Her voice trailed off, the words hanging like unfinished sentences in the cold air.

Jeff felt his pulse quicken, the sense of dread clawing at his insides. “Even after… what?” he pressed, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

She turned back to him, her blue eyes filled with a sorrow so deep it seemed to stretch back through the years. “Even after the sea took me,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. “It took him, too… my fiancé. But he never returned. The sea never gave him back.”

Jeff felt a chill crawl through his veins, colder than the damp fog that surrounded him. Her words seemed to hang in the air, lingering like a ghostly whisper. He swallowed hard, trying to shake the feeling, but the eerie calmness in her voice sent a shiver down his spine.

“My heart was lost,” she continued, her voice softer, almost drifting, “so I went for a long stroll down the Widow’s Walk…” The last part of her sentence grew quieter, her words fading into the mist as if the fog itself swallowed them whole. The air around Jeff grew colder, so cold he could see his breath misting in front of his face, and a realization struck him with a sudden, jarring clarity—this beautiful young woman, standing before him, had met some sad and untimely fate.

His mouth felt dry, and his hand instinctively tightened on the grip of the revolver under his jacket. He wasn’t sure if it was fear or disbelief that made him want to pull it out, to have something solid to hold onto. But something kept him still, frozen in place.

"But what matters is the old captain," she said, her voice growing urgent, the sorrow replaced with a warning edge. "The man who once owned this town… who still owns it, in ways you can’t imagine. He won’t accept any trespass here!”

She moved closer, her footsteps light and silent on the damp ground, her white dress fluttering slightly in the unseen breeze. Her eyes, wide and imploring, seemed to pierce through him. “You have to go,” she pleaded, her voice urgent now, almost desperate. “He and his will be on their way soon! They don’t like strangers, Jeff. They never have. You don’t know what they’ll do when they find you here.”

Jeff felt his pulse quicken, his heart racing in his chest. Every instinct told him to run, to turn and bolt down the road, but he stood frozen, caught between the fear in her voice and the strange pull of her eyes. “What… what are you talking about?” he stammered, his voice shaking. “Who… who is this captain? And who are ‘his’?”

Eunice’s face grew more serious, her expression a mix of fear and urgency. “The captain was the master of this town, once,” she said. “A hard man, a cruel man, but a just one in his own way. He kept the town alive… he kept it under his rule. And when he died… he never truly left. The sea kept him, like it kept me. But his spirit… it’s restless. It’s vengeful. And he has those who serve him still, those who wait to do his bidding, those who—”

She broke off, her head snapping to the side as if she’d heard something, her body tensing. Her eyes darted back to Jeff, filled with a new urgency. “Please, you have to leave now!” she whispered fiercely. “You have to go before they come! Before you’re trapped here, like all the others.”

Jeff’s mind raced, the fear clawing at his insides. He wanted to ask more, to understand, but every second felt like it was slipping away, like time itself was running out. “But… my car,” he blurted out, almost without thinking. “It’s stuck… I can’t just—”

“You must!” she insisted, stepping closer, her face inches from his now, her breath cold on his skin. “Run, Jeff! Run and don’t look back! The road is still open, but not for long… if you don’t leave now, you’ll never leave.”

Jeff felt panic grip his chest. He turned to look back down the road, but the fog was so thick now, he could barely see a few feet ahead. The thought of running blind into that grey void, without any idea where he was going, filled him with dread… but the fear of staying here, of facing whatever was coming, felt worse.

He turned back to Eunice, but her figure was already fading into the mist, her eyes still fixed on him, her voice a whisper on the wind. “Go… now…” she urged, her form growing less distinct, blending into the fog like she was part of it.

Jeff hesitated for a split second, his body torn between flight and fight, but he felt the cold creeping deeper, the sense of something moving in the fog, something coming. He didn’t wait any longer. He turned and bolted back toward the road, his feet pounding on the gravel, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps.

Behind him, he heard her voice one last time, faint and far away, echoing through the mist: “Run, Jeff… before it’s too late…”

The fog seemed to roil and shift around him, thickening with each step he took, as if it were alive, moving with purpose, conspiring to hold him back. Jeff’s breaths came in short, panicked gasps, each one visible in the cold, clammy air. His feet pounded against the gravel road, but it felt like he was running through molasses, like the earth itself was dragging at his legs, pulling him down.

He glanced back over his shoulder, half-expecting to see Eunice still standing there, her figure ghostly in the mist, but she was gone. The road stretched out before him, winding and narrow, but it felt different now—twice as long, twice as rough. The ground seemed uneven, the gravel shifting beneath his boots like it was trying to trip him. The more he ran, the farther away the edge of town seemed to get.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, wiping the cold sweat from his brow with a trembling hand. The fog swirled thicker around him, wrapping him in its cold embrace. Every step felt heavier, every breath more labored. The world was closing in, squeezing him tighter and tighter.

He swore under his breath, his panic rising as he pushed himself harder, faster. “This deal… this stupid deal,” he muttered, his voice shaky. Was it really worth this? Was any amount of money worth the feeling that crawled in his stomach, the cold dread that gripped his chest like a vice?

He had thought he was smart, had thought he was making the right move by coming here, by meeting the Bloodied Brotherhood in this forgotten ghost town. But now… now he wasn’t so sure. There was something here, something he couldn’t see, couldn’t understand, and it was watching him, waiting for him.

He stumbled over a loose stone, nearly falling, catching himself just in time. The briefcase banged against his leg, and he cursed again, gripping it tighter. It suddenly felt heavier, like it was filled with more than just the drugs he’d cooked. Like it was dragging him down.

He looked around frantically, trying to make out the road, to find any sign of a way out. But the fog was so thick, so dense, it was like trying to see through a wall. He couldn’t even hear his own footsteps anymore—just the faint, distant sound of the fog shifting, like a whispering sea.

The knot in his stomach tightened, a gnawing, twisting sensation that made him feel like he might be sick. He wanted to stop, to take a breath, but the fear pushed him forward. He had to keep moving, had to get out of here, had to—

The road seemed to stretch on endlessly, every step bringing him no closer to escape. His legs felt like lead, his chest burned with every breath. Was he running in circles? Was the fog playing tricks on him? He swore again, louder this time, his voice cracking with desperation.

“This… isn’t… worth it,” he panted, his grip on the briefcase so tight his knuckles were white. “None of this… is worth it…”

But even as he said it, he felt the coldness creeping deeper, the sensation that he wasn’t alone. That something was moving in the fog, getting closer, following him. He could hear it now—soft footsteps, almost imperceptible, but growing louder, closer. His pulse quickened, and he broke into a sprint, ignoring the pain in his legs, the burning in his lungs.

Whatever was out there, whatever was coming for him, he didn’t want to wait around to find out. He just needed to get back to the car, to get out of this godforsaken place, to leave Port Mourning and never look back.

But the fog thickened, the road seemed to twist and turn, and the footsteps… they were still behind him, closer than ever.

The footsteps grew louder, joined by a distinct sloshing sound, like something heavy wading through water. And then the smell hit him—the sharp, briny scent of the sea, mixed with the stench of decay. Jeff’s stomach turned, the acrid taste of bile rising in his throat. He wanted to keep running, to push forward without looking back, but something drew his gaze over his shoulder, an instinctive need to know what was behind him.

He regretted it the moment he did.

Figures emerged from the fog, their forms taking shape in the murky half-light. At first, they seemed like ordinary men—rough, rugged, the kind you might expect to find in an old whaling town. But as they drew nearer, the details became clearer, and Jeff's breath caught in his throat. They were armed with harpoons, gaff hooks, and heavy wooden oars, like a motley crew of whalers from some old history book.

But their skin… their skin was sallow and bloated, hanging loosely on their bones, slick with moisture as if they’d been soaking in water for far too long. Their clothes were tattered and stained, clinging to their bodies, dripping with seawater that pooled around their feet. Their eyes, sunken and hollow, seemed to glow faintly in the mist, and their faces were contorted in grimaces of pain, anger, or some other emotion too dark to name.

They moved slowly, their footsteps heavy and deliberate, each one accompanied by that sickening slosh of waterlogged boots sinking into the soft ground. Jeff’s heart hammered in his chest, his skin prickling with fear. He realized with a jolt that these men—if they could still be called men—were not alive. They were walking drowned, trapped between the sea and the shore, their bodies moving with the steady rhythm of the tide, their expressions twisted into grim, eternal scowls.

The leader of the group, a tall figure with a patchy beard and one dead, unseeing eye, brandished a harpoon in his hand, the point glinting dully in the fog. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and Jeff could see dark veins running beneath it, like the roots of some withered tree. His mouth hung open, and as he drew nearer, Jeff could hear a low, wheezing sound, like a man struggling to draw breath through waterlogged lungs.

Jeff’s heart pounded so hard he thought it might burst. He stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet. “No… no, no, no…” he muttered under his breath, his voice barely more than a whimper. He forced himself to turn, to keep running, but the sight of those figures burned in his mind, a haunting image he couldn’t shake.

They kept coming, their steps slow but relentless, never faltering, never pausing. The slosh of water accompanied every step, growing louder, more insistent, as if the very sea was walking with them. Jeff could feel the cold moisture creeping up his legs, soaking through his boots, chilling him to the bone.

He pushed himself harder, adrenaline surging through his veins, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. His legs burned, his lungs ached, but he didn’t dare slow down. He could hear the whispers of the drowned men behind him, low and guttural, like voices carried on the wind, voices that had not spoken in years.

“Keep… moving,” he told himself, his voice strained, his feet slipping on the slick ground. “Don’t stop… don’t look back…”

But he could hear them, the splashing footsteps, the sound of water sloshing against waterlogged boots, growing ever closer. The smell of salt and rot filled his nostrils, stinging his eyes, making him gag. The figures in the fog didn’t hurry, didn’t rush—they simply advanced, slow and steady, like a tide rolling in, inevitable and unstoppable.

Jeff’s mind raced, trying to think, trying to make sense of what was happening. He couldn’t stay here. He had to get to his car, had to get out of this town before—

A loud, sharp sound pierced the fog, like a whistle cutting through the mist. The figures stopped, their heads turning in unison toward the source of the sound. For a brief moment, they seemed to pause, waiting, listening.

Jeff didn't dare stop to find out what it was. He turned back toward the road, his feet pounding against the uneven ground. He had to get out, had to escape before the fog closed in completely, before these men—or whatever they were—caught up to him.

The fog thickened, swirling and shifting like a living thing, cutting off Jeff's path and forcing him to a sudden halt. He skidded on the slick ground, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and felt a deep, primal fear grip his heart. He now understood why the drowned men behind him had slowed, their waterlogged steps pausing, their heads turning in unison like a pack of wolves scenting their prey.

Out of the mist, a figure emerged, cutting through the dense fog with an eerie clarity. An older man, towering and broad-shouldered, stepped forward, his presence larger than life. He wore a long mariner’s coat, the dark fabric heavy with moisture, and a captain’s hat perched on his head, shadowing his face. But it was his eyes that drew Jeff’s attention—cold, piercing, with a sharpness that cut right through the mist, through the fear, and right into Jeff's soul.

In the man’s hands, he held a wide-bladed whaler’s spade, the metal stained dark with what could only be old, dried blood. The handle, made from polished whalebone, gleamed with a dull, sinister shine in the grey light. It was not just a tool, but a weapon—a weapon that had seen many lives ended, many debts collected.

“A smuggler, I see,” the captain spoke, his voice deep and resonant, filled with a cold authority that froze Jeff in his tracks. His words were laced with a dark menace, every syllable seeming to carry a weight of command that brooked no disobedience. “Best we shanghai you for the crew and make an honest seaman out of you, boy.”

The captain took a step forward, the ground seeming to tremble beneath his heavy boots. His presence was overwhelming, a force of nature, like the sea itself had taken human form. He loomed over Jeff, his eyes narrowing with a dark amusement, a cruel smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Jeff felt his legs turn to jelly, his hand trembling around the grip of the revolver under his jacket. He tried to speak, to shout, to say something, anything, but his throat was dry, his voice caught somewhere deep in his chest. The captain’s gaze bore into him, cold and unyielding, like the depths of the ocean.

“I—I’m not a smuggler,” Jeff finally stammered, his voice barely more than a whisper, fear gripping his heart like a vice. “I’m just… I’m just here for a deal… I don’t want any trouble…”

The captain chuckled, a low, guttural sound that sent a shiver down Jeff’s spine. “Trouble, you say?” he murmured, his grin widening. “Oh, but you’ve already found trouble, boy. Trespassing on my land, sneaking through my waters…” He leaned in closer, the whaler’s spade glinting in the dim light. “There’s a price to pay for such things… a debt to be settled. And here in Port Mourning, we settle all debts.”

Jeff’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing. “Look, I’ll leave, okay?” he pleaded, taking a step back, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. “I didn’t mean to trespass. I’ll just… I’ll go. Right now. No need to—”

But the captain raised the spade, pointing it at Jeff’s chest. “No need?” he interrupted, his voice booming like thunder. “No need, he says! You’re already here, boy. You’ve crossed into my waters, set foot in my town… There’s no leaving now.”

Jeff’s stomach twisted in terror as he watched the captain’s expression darken. The fog seemed to swirl thicker around them, the air growing colder, the smell of salt and decay filling his nostrils. The captain took another step forward, his boots sinking into the wet earth with a deep, echoing thud.

“An honest seaman’s life awaits you, boy,” the captain continued, his smile turning cruel. “The sea always hungers for new blood, for new hands to haul the lines, to man the sails… And you, boy, will serve well enough. Your place is here, among my crew, until the sea itself spits you out.”

The drowned men behind Jeff began to move again, their waterlogged footsteps advancing slowly, purposefully. He could feel the cold radiating from them, feel the death in their wake, and panic surged through him like a cold wave. He needed to get away, needed to run, but his legs felt like they were rooted to the ground, his body frozen in fear.

“No!” Jeff shouted, finding his voice at last. “No, I won’t go with you! I’m not staying here! I’m not—”

The captain’s eyes gleamed with a dark, unnatural light. “Oh, but you will, boy,” he said softly, his voice carrying a deadly calm. “One way or another, you will.”

Jeff’s heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins. He had to make a decision—run, fight, or face whatever fate this cursed place had in store for him.

In the distance, the sharp crack of a revolver echoed through the fog-laden morning air, the sound cutting through the eerie silence like a blade. Once, twice, three times—each shot rang out louder than the last, reverberating against the skeletal remains of the old town. The noise was jarring, almost out of place amidst the quiet dread that hung over Port Mourning, like an animal's cry in a place where no animals should be.

Jeff’s ears rang with each blast, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. His hand gripped the revolver tightly, his knuckles white, the weight of the gun trembling in his grasp. He felt the recoil with each pull of the trigger, a violent jolt that jarred his arm, sending a sharp pain up to his shoulder. He fired again, the last bullet leaving the chamber with a final, desperate crack.

And then, only silence.

Jeff’s chest heaved as he sucked in breath after breath, his eyes wide and frantic, scanning the fog for any sign of movement. But the figures that had been creeping closer were no longer there. The drowned men, the captain with his terrible smile and cold eyes—they were gone, swallowed up by the mist, leaving nothing but the stillness of the town and the oppressive quiet that pressed in from all sides.

The silence was deafening, a void that seemed to stretch on endlessly. The fog wrapped around him, thicker and heavier than before, closing in like a shroud. Jeff's heart thudded loudly in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears. He realized with a sudden, chilling clarity that he could no longer hear the footsteps, the sloshing of water, or the faint, ghostly whispers that had been chasing him moments before.

He took a step back, his legs shaky, feeling the weight of the empty gun in his hand. The cold metal was slick with sweat, and he could feel his pulse throbbing through his fingers. He looked down at the revolver, his breath catching in his throat as the reality of his situation sank in. No more bullets. No more chances.

“Is… is it over?” he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible. He dared to hope for a moment that maybe, just maybe, the shots had scared them off, whatever they were. That maybe he had a chance to escape, to get out of this place before the captain and his crew returned.

But as the fog closed in around him, Jeff felt a creeping dread settle in his bones. The silence wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t peaceful. It felt like the moment before a storm, the heavy, suffocating calm that pressed down on everything, waiting for something to break.

And then he heard it—a faint, distant sound, barely more than a whisper, but unmistakable. The soft, mournful singing of a woman’s voice, drifting through the fog like a lullaby for the dead.

"There once was a ship that put to sea…
And the name of the ship was the Billy of Tea…"

Jeff’s blood ran cold, the fear clawing back up his spine. The voice was familiar, haunting, filled with the same sorrow and longing he’d heard before. Eunice. The beautiful woman with the impossibly blue eyes, who had warned him to run. Her voice grew louder, stronger, carrying through the mist.

"Soon may the Wellerman come
To bring us sugar and tea and rum…"

Jeff’s heart pounded in his chest, his hands shaking. He turned in a circle, looking for her, for any sign of life, but there was nothing—only the thick, oppressive fog, and the echo of her voice weaving through the air, growing fainter and fainter.

He realized, with a sinking feeling, that he might never find her again. That he might never find a way out of this place. The deal he had come for, the promise of money and success—it all seemed so far away now, so pointless in the face of whatever nightmare he had stepped into.

And then, as if in answer to his thoughts, the captain's voice boomed out from the mist, dark and cold and full of menace: "You cannot run from the sea, boy. It always takes what it’s owed."

Jeff’s breath caught in his throat, and he felt his legs give out beneath him. He fell to his knees, the revolver slipping from his grasp, clattering uselessly to the ground. The fog closed in tighter, the cold seeping into his very bones, and he knew, deep down, that there was no escape. Not from here. Not from the captain. Not from the sea.

Only silence and fog remained.

The bikers rolled into town slowly, their engines rumbling as they crossed into Port Morning, the fog finally burned away by the bright morning sun. In the daylight, the town seemed almost ordinary, just another place forgotten by time. Plants pushed their way up through cracks in the cobblestones, small trees grew stubbornly in the gutters, and birds flitted among the eaves of collapsing roofs. A raccoon, startled by the noise, scampered away, disappearing into a darkened alley.

At the head of the group, a fine motorcycle, black steel and chrome gleaming in the light, rolled to a stop. Its name, "Witch Queen," was cast in silver across its frame. The woman riding it, clad in worn black leathers, put down the kickstand and swung a leg over the bike with a practiced ease. She pulled off her helmet, shaking free a wild mane of jet-black hair that cascaded down her shoulders like a stormy wave.

Around her neck, a series of amulets and pendants clinked together, each one bearing pentagrams and strange symbols of Babylonian and Canaanite origins—protective charms, warnings, perhaps. She glanced down at the ground and noticed a revolver lying in the dirt, beside a black case.

"Looks like that dumb kid didn't know the local rules," said one of the bikers behind her, his voice tinged with a kind of weary expectation, as if he had seen this all before.

"Too damn eager for his own good," she replied, her voice low and measured. They called her Sister Cyn, and her words carried a quiet authority. She bent down and picked up the gun, turning it over in her hand, then kicked at the black case with the toe of her boot.

“Everyone around these parts knows the old rhyme,” she continued, shaking her head with a mix of pity and annoyance. She looked up at the others, a knowing smile on her lips as she recited the words, her voice taking on the rhythm of a chant:

"Fog or shine, day or night,
Step in Port Mourn, lose your sight.

The sea will claim, the town will bind,
Those who enter, none will find.
Leave behind all hope and cheer,
For those who stay shall disappear."

The other bikers nodded along, murmuring the familiar words under their breath, their faces grim with understanding. The rhyme had been passed down for years, a warning from those who knew better, who had seen too much, who had heard the tales of the old captain and his restless crew.

Sister Cyn pocketed the revolver and slung the case over her shoulder, her dark eyes scanning the empty streets, now bathed in sunlight. "Guess he learned the hard way," she said, almost to herself. "But it's not our business now. We take what he left, and we leave before the sun starts to set."

One of the bikers, a grizzled man with a scar running down his cheek, chuckled. "Ain't no one with sense stays here longer than they have to, Sister Cyn."

She nodded. "Right you are," she replied. "This place has a way of keeping what it wants."

She swung back onto her bike, the Witch Queen purring to life beneath her. "Let's ride," she called out. "Before the fog decides it wants us, too."

The bikers revved their engines and began to roll back out of the town, leaving behind the quiet streets and the heavy stillness that seemed to cling to every shadow. As they rode away, the fog on the horizon seemed to stir, as if waking, waiting for its next chance to reclaim what belonged to it.