The air felt heavier than usual, like the whole world was holding its breath. Every breath I took felt damp and thick, the fog seeping in through every crack and seam of the camper. Even though Dad had said it was probably just an animal, I knew it wasn't. Not because I thought Dad was wrong-he's usually pretty smart about these things-but because the sound didn't feel right. It wasn't the kind of noise you could explain away with raccoons or coyotes or anything like that. It was deeper, more deliberate, like something was calling out from the fog itself, low and guttural, resonating in my chest.
I turned to Bailey, my voice a whisper. "You heard it too, right?"
Bailey rubbed their eyes, sitting up slowly. The dim lantern light cast long shadows across their face, making their unease more visible. "Yeah, but it's probably nothing, Riley. Maybe a big bird or something," they muttered, though their voice didn't have its usual confident edge.
"Since when do big birds sound like... like that?" I whispered back, clutching the blanket tighter around me as if it could shield me from whatever was out there.
Bailey didn't answer right away. They leaned toward the window, squinting into the swirling white mist outside. Their breath fogged up the glass, but it didn't matter-you couldn't see anything through the thick, milky haze. "It's so dense out there," Bailey murmured, their voice barely audible over the faint creaking of the camper as it settled. "You can't see anything. Not even the trees."
"What if something's in the fog?" I asked, my voice trembling despite my best effort to sound calm. My hands gripped the edge of the blanket so tightly my knuckles turned white.
Bailey turned back to me, their expression more serious now, their dark eyes meeting mine. "We don't know that. Let's not freak out, okay?" Their voice was steady, but I could see the tension in the way their hands fidgeted with the hem of their pajama sleeve.
But I could tell they were just as uneasy as I was.
We decided to move closer to our parents, who were already awake and quietly arguing near the camper's small kitchenette. Mom's worried face was lined with shadows, her lips pressed into a thin, nervous line. She had the same expression she always got when something was beyond her control-like when the car wouldn't start last winter, or when Bailey broke their arm falling off the jungle gym. Dad, on the other hand, was pacing, running his hands through his hair and muttering under his breath like he was trying to piece together a puzzle without all the pieces.
"Phones don't just stop showing the time," Dad said, his voice low but tense, almost like he didn't want us to hear. "Even if there's no signal, the clock should still work."
"It's got to be the fog," Mom suggested, though her tone didn't sound convinced. She glanced at her phone again, as if the display might miraculously fix itself. "Maybe it's interfering with... I don't know, satellites or something."
Bailey, leaning against the back of the kitchenette booth, snorted. "Satellites don't control clocks, Mom," they said flatly, though I could hear the quiver in their voice.
"Well, then what do you think it is?" Mom snapped, a sharpness in her tone that made all of us flinch. She wasn't usually like that, but the fog was starting to gnaw at all of us, and I couldn't blame her.
Bailey shrugged, not meeting her eyes. "I don't know," they muttered, folding their arms across their chest.
The camper fell silent after that, except for the strange noise outside. It came again, low and rumbling, like a growl mixed with a groan. The sound was so deep it seemed to vibrate through the walls, making the pans on the small kitchenette rack rattle softly. It wasn't constant-it faded in and out, like the fog itself was breathing.
I pressed myself closer to Bailey, clutching their sleeve. My heartbeat thudded in my ears, and I barely registered that I was holding my breath until Bailey gently shook my hand free and squeezed it for reassurance. They didn't pull away, and that told me more than anything else that they were probably just as scared as I was.
"It's getting louder," I whispered, staring at the thin metal door of the camper as if it might burst open at any moment.
"I know," Bailey whispered back, their voice tight.
The fog swirled outside the windows, a ghostly white wall that seemed alive, pressing closer with every heartbeat. In the back of my mind, I couldn't shake the thought that it wasn't just a fog bank. It felt like the mist itself was watching us, waiting.
Finally, Dad stopped pacing, his shoulders slumping like he'd been carrying the weight of the entire camper on his back. His voice was firm, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his tone. "Okay. Here's what we'll do. We'll wait until sunrise, then we'll pack up and head out. Whatever's going on, we're not staying here another night."
Mom looked up from her spot near the kitchenette, clutching her phone tightly as though it might suddenly spring to life and offer her some clarity. "Do you think it's safe to wait?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. There was something in her tone I didn't hear often-fear.
"It'll have to be," Dad replied, crossing his arms and glancing out the small window near the door. His face was lit by the pale glow of the fog outside, and for a moment, he looked older, more tired than I'd ever seen him. "I'm not risking us stumbling around in that fog. We'd get lost-or worse."
The plan made sense, and part of me wanted to believe Dad had it all figured out. But there was another part, a louder, jittery part, that couldn't shake the feeling the fog wasn't going to let us leave so easily. It wasn't just the strange noise-it was the fog itself. The way it curled and twisted, pressing up against the windows like it was trying to get in. The way it seemed to move with purpose, like it was alive. Like it was watching us.
I glanced at Bailey, who was sitting cross-legged on the lower bunk, their head tilted as they stared at the window nearest them. They must've been thinking the same thing because, after a moment, they leaned over and whispered, "Do you think the fog is... like, weird?"
Their voice was soft, careful, like they didn't want anyone else to hear. Or maybe they didn't want the fog to hear.
I nodded, pulling my knees to my chest. "It's like it's... hiding something," I murmured, stealing a glance at the swirling mist outside. Every time I looked at it, I felt like I was going to catch something moving just out of the corner of my eye-but when I turned to look, there was nothing there. Just the endless white.
Bailey didn't laugh at me, which made my stomach twist. They usually teased me about stuff like this, told me I was imagining things or being dramatic. But now, they just stared at the window, their brows furrowed. It made me feel even more nervous. If Bailey wasn't making a joke, then maybe they thought I was right. And if I was right...
"What do you think it's hiding?" Bailey asked, their voice so low it was almost drowned out by the faint creak of the camper as the wind shifted outside.
"I don't know," I admitted. "Something big."
Bailey's eyes flicked to the window, then back to me. They didn't say anything, but the look on their face told me they were imagining the same thing I was: shadows moving in the fog, shapes too big to be animals. The kind of shapes you don't want to see up close.
The night stretched on, a long, unbroken stretch of silence and tension. None of us could sleep, even though we were all exhausted. Dad stayed by the door, gripping his flashlight like it was a weapon, his jaw set and his shoulders squared. Every so often, he'd glance out the small window near the door, his face unreadable in the dim light. It was like he was guarding us against something-something he couldn't quite see but knew was out there.
Mom sat on the edge of her bed, her posture rigid. She was staring out the opposite window, her arms folded tightly across her chest, her phone clutched in one hand. Her reflection in the glass looked ghostly, distorted by the fog that pressed up against the windows. It was so thick now that it looked almost solid, like a wall that had formed around us, cutting us off from the rest of the world.
Bailey and I stayed close, our voices hushed as we whispered to each other, trying to fill the unbearable silence. We didn't talk about the fog or the sound or the way the camper creaked every so often, like something was brushing against it. Instead, we talked about home, about our vacation, about the things we'd do when we got back. It felt like a lifetime ago, and the more we talked, the more it felt like we were trying to convince ourselves that we'd actually make it back.
It was almost dawn when the sound came again. This time, it was louder-so loud that it wasn't just something you heard. It was something you felt. It started low, a deep rumbling that seemed to rise up from the ground itself. The whole camper vibrated, the pans hanging in the kitchenette clinking softly together. The sound wasn't natural. It was too deep, too steady, like something massive was stirring in the fog, trying to break free.
Bailey grabbed my arm, their fingers digging into my sleeve. Their wide eyes met mine, and for the first time that night, I could see raw fear there. Not just unease or worry-fear. The kind that made your stomach drop and your chest tighten.
"What is that?" I asked, though my voice was barely audible over the noise. My words felt small, useless, like they'd dissolve into the air before anyone could hear them.
Dad stood abruptly, his flashlight cutting through the dim interior of the camper. Without a word, he shone it out the window, sweeping the beam back and forth through the swirling mist. But the light didn't reveal anything. It just bounced off the fog, illuminating the endless white that surrounded us. Whatever was out there, it was staying hidden.
"Stay here," Dad said finally, his voice steady but low. He didn't sound scared, but he didn't sound confident either. He sounded like someone trying very hard to keep it together. "I'm going to take a look."
"No way!" Mom snapped, springing to her feet and grabbing his arm. Her voice was sharp, but there was a tremor in it that gave her away. "You are not going out there alone."
Dad hesitated, glancing between her and the door. His grip on the flashlight tightened. "Someone needs to figure out what's going on," he said, his tone softening, but Mom wasn't having it.
"Not alone," she said firmly. "If you go, we all go. We stay together."
For a moment, Dad looked like he was going to argue, but then he sighed, his shoulders sagging just a little. "Okay, fine. We'll all go. But stay close to me, and don't wander off. Got it?"
Bailey and I nodded, though I wasn't sure my legs would even work if I tried to wander. My hands felt cold and clammy, and my heart was thudding so hard I was afraid it might give me away. Bailey squeezed my arm lightly, a silent reassurance-or maybe they needed the reassurance too.
Dad opened the door slowly, and the sound of the fog hit us immediately. It wasn't just quiet out there-it was too quiet, the kind of silence that makes your ears ring and your skin crawl. The fog spilled into the camper like smoke, curling around our feet as we stepped outside. It was colder than I expected, the dampness clinging to my clothes and skin.
"Stay close," Dad whispered, his voice barely louder than a breath. He led the way, flashlight sweeping the ground in front of us. The beam barely cut through the fog, illuminating only a few feet ahead. Mom followed him, her hand gripping the back of his shirt like she was afraid to let go. Bailey and I brought up the rear, huddling so close our shoulders touched.
The sound had stopped again, but the silence was worse. Every step we took seemed too loud, our feet crunching on the gravel path like thunder. My heart pounded in my ears, and I kept glancing over my shoulder, half-expecting to see something moving in the mist. But there was nothing-just the fog, stretching endlessly in every direction.
We hadn't gone far when Dad stopped abruptly, holding up a hand to signal us to stop. "Wait," he said, his voice barely audible. His flashlight beam was fixed on something up ahead-a shape, dark and blurry, standing motionless in the fog.
"What is it?" Mom whispered, her voice trembling.
Dad didn't answer right away. He just stared, the flashlight shaking slightly in his hand. "I don't know," he said finally. "It's... it's not moving."
We all stared at the shape, frozen in place. It was tall-taller than a person-and its edges seemed to ripple and blur, like the fog was wrapped around it, hiding its true form.
"Back to the camper. Now," Dad said, his voice sharp and urgent.
We didn't argue. We turned and hurried back, our steps quick and uneven. The fog seemed thicker now, pressing in closer, and I swore I could hear the faintest whisper of movement behind us. I didn't dare look back.
By the time we reached the camper, my chest was heaving, and my legs felt like jelly. Dad slammed the door shut behind us, locking it and pulling the curtains tight. For a long moment, none of us said anything. We just stood there, the sound of our breathing filling the small space.
"What was that?" Bailey asked finally, their voice trembling.
"I don't know," Dad said, sinking into the seat by the table. He looked at Mom, then at us, his face pale. "But we're not waiting until sunrise. We're leaving. Now."
