The shortcut between the old oak and the leaning fence post—the one you'd taken a hundred times, the one that shaved ten minutes off the walk home—had never seemed menacing. It was just trees. Just shadows. Just the familiar crunch of fallen leaves under your sneakers.

But tonight, something felt different.

The air changed first. It was colder, somehow, carrying a faint sweetness like blooming flowers that shouldn't exist this late in the season. The crickets had gone silent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

And then you saw it.

Between two ancient pines, a circle of pale mist hovered just above the ground, spinning slowly, glowing faintly like captured moonlight. It wasn't fog—fog didn't shimmer like that, didn't pulse like a heartbeat, didn't seem to watch you.

You should have walked away.

You really should have.

One step.

Two.

The mist curled around your ankles, soft as silk, and the world tilted.