CHAPTER TWO: The Man in the Mist
1017 Words
The mirror remained stationary. The hand is gone. Lena moved away slowly, her heart pounding as if attempting to escape her chest.
The cellar pulsed with a faint, repetitive hum, almost like breathing. The words rang in her head: "The Hollow is watching." He knows you are here.
The Hollow. What was it? Who was "he"? She couldn't wait to find out. She dashed up the stairs, nearly tripping over the decaying boards, before slamming the cellar door shut. She put her back into it, breathing rapidly and shivering all over. It could not have been real.
Nonetheless, the picture of the pale clawed hand and the mist in the mirror burnt like a mark behind her eyelids.
By daybreak, the fog outside had not lifted. If anything, it had become thicker. Lena wrapped herself in a shawl and went outdoors to get some fresh air, since she needed some distance from the house.
The cold hit her like a slap, stinging and immediate, but she didn't mind. The pastures surrounding the mansion had gone feral. Weeds clogged the gardens. The hedge maze had become a wall of tangled thorns. Trees leaned up close, their gnarled branches resembling outstretched fingers.
Ravenmoor was intended to be a town, but from her perspective, it appeared to be a memory buried too deeply to die.
She made it to the rusting gate and paused, her fingers brushing on the metal bars. The cab wouldn't return. There's no mobile service. There's no Wi-Fi. There are no neighbours for miles.
She was absolutely alone. Or so she thought, until she saw him. A man in the mist. At first, he was only a form, more shadow than flesh, standing between the tree line and the fog. Tall, broad. Still. I am watching her. She blinked. He was gone.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She turned back towards the house. And there he was again. Closer.
She staggered backward, her pulse racing. "W-Who's there?" Her voice came out unsteady and barely louder than the wind.
No response.
The mist shifted, and he emerged. Damien Voss didn't meet her expectations. He did not float, fade, or flicker. He proceeded steadily and slowly, like a hurricane inspecting its next wreck. He stood nearly 6 feet 4 inches tall and wore a dark cloak that swirled around his boots like fog. His shoulders were massive, and his jaw was cut like stone. His hair was dark, unkempt, and moist with fog. And his eyes—gray, piercing, almost silver—locked on hers, as if he knew her soul.
Lena froze.
He paused a few feet away, staring down at her as if she were a thread in the fabric of fate.
"You shouldn't be here," he stated.
The voice was low, rich, and strangely peaceful.
Lena gulped. "I… live here."
"No. You're surviving here.
"There is a difference." She blinked.
"Do I know you?"
"No. "But I know you." He looked her over—not in a lecherous way, but as if he were perusing the pages of a book she hadn't yet opened.
"You touched the book," he said softly.
"Didn't you?" Her mouth became dry.
"What book?" He tilted his head slightly.
"Do not lie. "It has already marked you." She stepped back.
"Who are you?" He barely paused for a moment.
"Damien." "Damien what?"
"No one's said my surname in over a century." His lips twitched, nearly in a smile, but not quite. "And you are Lena Morwyn."
"How do you know that?"
He didn't respond. Instead, he stared at the home.
"She awakened it," he said, more to himself than to her.
"She?" Lena echoed.
"The Hollow."
There it was again: that term. "What is the Hollow?" He eventually looked her in the eyes again.
"Something that hungers." Before she could react, the wind shifted. The woods rustled, and Lena felt it again. That presence. Watching. Not Damien. Something else. He turned rapidly into the trees. His eyes narrowed. "It's too soon."
"What is?"
He didn't respond. Instead, he stepped by her and walked purposefully towards the manor. She followed, barely keeping up.
Inside, the temperature plummeted again. "Where is the book?" he enquired without turning. She paused. "In the study upstairs."
"You kept it close."
Smart." He moved as if he belonged in the home, and the shadows made room for him. She followed him back to the upstairs study. The door was open. The book remained on the desk, precisely where she left it.
Damien approached it cautiously and almost respectfully. When he touched it, the lamps came back to life. He did not flinch.
"It recognises me," he explained.
Lena stood behind him, her arms wrapped around herself. "What is that book?" "A ledger of blood," he said. "Your family's sins." My orders. The town's history. "Everything is written in flesh and magic."
She stepped back.
"That's… insane."
"No." He turned.
"That's Ravenmoor."
Then the windows trembled. A deep growl came from somewhere beneath the flooring. Damien stiffened. "It's coming through."
"What is?" He gazed at her, his eyes suddenly filled with horror.
"Something that should still be sleeping." The power went off. The lamps died. The room fell into darkness. Lena grasped Damien's arm reflexively. His body was hot beneath the coat, like if he were burning from the inside out.
A door creaking open could be heard in the hallway. Slow. Groaning.
Lena's breath was trapped in her throat. Damien took something from his coat: a long, curved sword black as obsidian. It buzzed softly in the darkness.
"Stay behind me," he instructed. Lena obeyed.
They went into the hall. Down the passage, the mirror she had seen in the cellar was now erect in the centre of the floor. It'd followed her. She could not breathe. The surface of the mirror rippled like water, and a figure passed through. No eyes. Skin woven together with shadow and ash. There are three more behind it. Lena gave out a little gasp. Damien lifted the blade, his voice as steely as steel.
- Writer
