The fog in water

It was late at night, and the village streets lay silent, blanketed in a thick, creeping fog. Every house seemed abandoned, their windows like dark, unblinking eyes staring into the emptiness. The wind whispered through the narrow lanes, carrying with it an unsettling chill that made the hair on Ali’s arms stand on end. He had just moved to the village, inheriting the old family house from a distant relative. The house was old, worn down by decades of neglect, and yet Ali had been drawn to its strange charm, unaware of the dark secrets it held.

Ali stepped cautiously onto the roof, lantern in hand. The wooden planks groaned under his weight. The flickering flame barely pierced the fog that curled around the houses like ghostly fingers. He paused to listen, and in the silence, he thought he heard soft footsteps echoing somewhere below. “Who’s there?” he called, his voice cracking in the cold night. No answer came, only the sigh of the wind through the chimney.

As he moved forward, a shadow flitted across one of the windows. His heart thudded violently in his chest. Summoning all his courage, Ali raised the lantern and shone it toward the glass. The fog distorted the light, twisting it into eerie shapes, but there was nothing there. Just the cold whisper of the wind. He exhaled shakily, telling himself it was only his imagination.

Then, from behind him, came a faint whisper, barely audible:

*"I’m watching you..."*

Ali spun around, but the rooftop was empty. The lantern trembled in his hands, and a sudden gust of wind blew it to the ground. Darkness swallowed him instantly. He stumbled, his palms scraping the rough wood, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. Somewhere far below, the sound of his own screams echoed off the empty houses, twisted by the fog into something unrecognizable.

Hours—or maybe minutes—later, Ali managed to stand, heart pounding, drenched in sweat. He could see vague shapes moving in the fog, the outlines of houses distorted and unfamiliar. Each step he took seemed heavier than the last. A door creaked somewhere, though no one was inside. Shadows flickered unnaturally along the walls. Ali realized he was not alone, but he couldn’t see who—or what—was there.

*"Do you see me now?"*

The whisper seemed to come from inside his own mind. The shadow grew closer, and with it came a stench of decay and something older, something ancient. Ali’s vision blurred, and he stumbled backward. The edge of the roof came into view, and his foot caught on a loose plank. He fell, lantern shattering beside him. Flames danced for a moment before dying, leaving him in absolute darkness.

The next morning, villagers came to check on the house. They had heard nothing but silence and assumed all was well. But as they pushed open the creaking front door, a chill swept past them. The house was empty. Not a single sign of Ali remained, save for the broken lantern lying in splinters on the floor. Outside, the fog had lifted, and the streets were quiet once more.

Some say, when the wind blows through the village at night, you can hear faint footsteps on the rooftops. Others claim a shadow still moves silently among the houses, watching, waiting. And those brave—or foolish—enough to approach Ali’s old home say that if you stand still in the fog long enough, a whisper reaches your ears:

*"I’m watching you..."*

The village keeps its secrets well, and the watchers never rest. Ali’s story became just another warning. But the lantern still lies broken, and sometimes, just sometimes, it flickers as if touched by an unseen hand, a reminder that some presences never leave.