A House in the Mist

On a quiet, gray evening, nestled within the mangrove forests of Duwallen's central wetlands, surrounded by a thick, white mist, you come across a small cottage. With a dry, moss-covered foundation lifting it above the muck and a tidy brick chimney rising out of the neatly thatched roof, it looks like something out of a painting, all inviting and warm in the midst of this dreary swamp. You had gotten a bit lost, much to your chagrin, so this is a welcome surprise. Thought it will bruise your ego, it will be wonderful to be able to ask someone for more concrete directions back to civilized society. And, perhaps, to grab a bite to eat and stay the night if they happen to be the hospitable sort!

You knock. No response, so you knock a bit louder. Still nothing. You even put your ear to the doorframe to perhaps pick up on movement inside, but there's nothing to be heard but the sounds of nature at your back. No one is home.

Well that's just unfortunate...

And yet, as you wait by the door, pondering whether it might make your would-be host uncomfortable to find you loitering outside their door, a strange sense of unease comes over you. You can't put your finger on why, exactly. You haven't seen any threatening wildlife in these parts in weeks, and your trusty rifle could deal with any that might show up anyway. Still... your heart is thumping oddly quickly in your chest. You aren't eager to stay outside any longer, and the lengthening shadows around you are only making the feeling worse. Already planning the apologies you'll have to give the homeowner, you try the doorknob. It's unlocked.

The inside of the place would seem almost quaint, if it weren't so dusty. The furniture is hand-crafted. Wood carvings and other knick-knacks dot the shelves. The paintings covering the walls seem to steadily increase in quality as they depict clearer and clearer views of the land outside. As you shut the door behind you and walk deeper into the abandoned home, you leave deep footprints behind you, and the door latching shut with a thud causes a light sprinkling to descend from the rafters.

Your unease has a much more reasonable foundation, now, but it is getting dark, and even unnerving shelter is better than none at all.

Just to be safe, you dutifully search the place for any obvious reasons it might have been left vacant long enough to build up the layer of silt it has, but you find no real clues. Two empty bedrooms, a kitchen with the remnants of what might have once been a bowl of fruit... In the pantry, there are quite a few stains and piles of detritus that suggest the previous occupants had kept it well-stocked at some point - they even had a few refrigeration runes on the inside doorframe that have long since run dry - but unless they were poisoned, that doesn't shine much of a light on the situation... And even if they were, it's not as though you're going to eat any of the gunk that food has since become.

Satisfied you aren't in immediate danger, you move into the larger of the two bedrooms and begin cleaning up a bit so that you can at least get a restful sleep. Maybe - you ponder while shaking the dust off the blankets - the house is haunted, and the occupants were simply chased out by a spirit who wished to be alone. Or maybe whoever lived here simply wasn't able to return one day after a trip into town! You come up with a number of more harmless scenarios like this to ease your mind, when suddenly you notice something.

On the desk in this room, there is a book. A journal, apparently, as there's a pen still caught between the closed pages.

You find yourself suddenly caught in a three-way tug of war between propriety, curiosity, and fear. Could this book explain why the house is empty? Why does it appear that it was left in a significant hurry? What are the chances that the book itself is what doomed the previous tenant?

Naturally, curiosity wins.

What good fortune! Ernest and I had gotten a bit lost - you know Ernest, never the best with that whole navigation business - but just when all seemed lost, we discovered this lovely little house in the middle of the swamp! The door was wide open and there was no one to be seen, so we let ourselves in. It's a nice place, location aside. Though I suppose the location makes it particularly nice for us at this juncture. We're not sure when the true owner of this place might return, so we've talked it over and decided to do a bit of fishing in the area tomorrow morning. If they've not returned by then for us to explain ourselves, then at least we'll be able to provide them with the pleasant surprise of some fresh supplies!

The waters here seem unnaturally devoid of fish. Very few birds, as well. It's strange, and I've let Ernest know as much, but he shrugged me off. Seems dedicated to the idea of leaving this house with more than was here when we arrived. Noble, sure, but...
Something has set me on edge since early this morning. I haven't mentioned this to Ernest, as I'm sure he'd ignore it as well, but I feel as though I saw something out amidst the trees today, but for the life of me I cannot recall what it might have been. Maybe I've just been out in this swamp for too long. Need to get back to some good city air for a while...
I should probably start charting the course out of here. I know full well I can't trust Ernest to find us proper heading.

It's the strangest thing. Ernest went quite a ways afield yesterday, and finally managed to come back with a few small perch from a deeper part of the wetlands to the south. It wasn't much, and it was too late in the day to properly prepare them when he'd come back, so we strung them up over a pot in the kitchen and turned in for the night.
Well, this morning, we wake up to find the things... well, 'eaten' is probably not quite the right word. Looks more like some giant man crushed the things in his hands to wring every last drop of water from them. Bones splintered, scales everywhere, flesh dry as jerky. I can safely say I've never seen a thing like it, and Ernest says the same. I want to up and leave this very instant, but he's been starin' at the fish for a while now. Seems to have other plans.

Ernest said the plan has changed and left the house without a word.
Damn fool, Ernest...

He's back, and brought more fish with him. Says we'll trade off watching them this time. Try to catch whatever did this to them in the act and really help the owner of this house by removing the pest. I thought about mentioning the fact that we've been here for most of three days now and no one's shown - that whoever owned this place once is probably long gone, likely chased out by this very pest - but I've seen him get like this before. This thing bloodied his lip, metaphorically speaking. Now it's him or it.

It...
I just...
I must have dozed off. It's the only explanation.
It was my turn to watch. Dead of night, a small candle on the table in front of me while I watched those damned fish for hour after hour. And then... I found myself ass-up on the floor with the candle out and the fish destroyed, same as last time. I don't remember a damn thing. All I can think is I must have conked out, fell forward, and knocked over the candle on my way down. I guess that'd be the time the thing chose to strike. Is this thing smarter than your average vermin? Was it just attracted to the noise? Or was it all by chance? I don't know how long I was out...
I let Ernest know the moment I was back to my senses. He's swearing up a storm, digging through the kitchen for 'clues' like he's some kind of detective. I'm just trying to keep myself awake. I don't have any obvious lumps or cuts from my fall, but my head feels like it's splitting open. It hurts to keep my eyes open, but I hear its bad luck to sleep after knocking your head too hard. Figure it's in my best interest to stay up a while longer.
Besides... maybe Ernest'll find something after all.

Damn fool's wandered out into the night to scream at the creature now. I'd say he's gone mad, but I know him too well for that. This is just his frustration boiling over, as it always does. It's half the reason we were out here in the first place! He'll cool off in a half hour or so and then we

The entry cuts off suddenly. When the next segment picks up, the handwriting is significantly messier. Panicked. Riddled with ink-splotches.

He's gone. I don't know how, I don't even know how I know, but Ernest is dead.
Why can't I remember how? Why do I know this?!
He started screaming about... something? There were words, but they're gone now, too. I ran to check on him, and... that's all I've got. There are flashes. Moments of him struggling with something. Or someone? Gods above, why can't I remember anything?
There's a sound at the back of my mind. A horrific crunching noise. Popping and twisting and cracking all at once. Is that...
Is that the sound of Ernest dying?
Quietu keep me, the oil on this lamp is running out. My light is sputtering. I feel as though it's keeping me safe. But what else can I do? I write to keep myself calm, but I can't write in the dark.
I need to hide.
I need to

It ends with a thick splatter of ink and a trail to the bottom of the page. You look up, your eyes wide with panic and strain as you suddenly realize just how dark it's gotten. You hold your breath, listening for any sound that might betray the presence of the unknown horror from the journal's tale, but there's nothing. You need something to defend yourself with. You carry a small handgun and a knife with you on expeditions like this, but in the darkness, those feel inadequate. And worse, you can't remember where you left your pack while you were cleaning out the bedroom. Maybe there's a pan in the kitchen you could use? It's not much, but in a pinch it might double as a shield. You step out of the bedroom into the dark hallway.

The next thing you know, you're stumbling into a patch of moonlight filtering in through the window in the kitchen. Your dominant hand is numb and unresponsive. It - and most of the rest of you - is covered in blood. Something is definitely broken, but your brain seemingly doesn't have time to process the pain you should be feeling right now.

What happened? Why don't you remember receiving such a grievous wound? You can't have passed out, or you obviously wouldn't have made it to the kitchen! In your heart, you know what happened. You just spent the last several minutes reading about it happening. The creature has come for you, just as it came for Ernest and his friend. Just as it no doubt came for whoever built this cursed house.

In the darkness, you can't see anything. There's nothing but you and the square of god-given light sent to you by the moon. Light that seems to be shrinking by the moment. You look behind you in terror, only to see clouds slowly rolling in front of the moon outside. The light is fading. Soon it will be gone.

You wait. There's nothing else you can do, now.

The light finally dims completely.

You're alone in the dark.

A cloying fog settles over you. It reeks of iron.

A pressure grows. A familiar feeling, yet you do not know why.

It's unbearable, now.

Something cracks inside you.