When the fog creeps in, the nightmare begins.
Over here. Don't be afraid. You seemed a little
lost out there in the fog. Good thing I found
you. Welcome, traveler. Step out of the mist
and warm yourself by the fire. Browse my wares,
if you like. Stories, mostly. I'm a teller of
them. I'm Bragi. I'm sure you've heard of me.
You haven't? Well, surely you've heard my stories.
No? Hmm. Then you're in luck. Tell me, would
you like a story? You would like a story. How
exciting. Now, would you care for a drink while
you listen? Ale? Tea? Something to steady the
nerves? Tonight I bring you five tales of the
macabre. Of the past, the future, and the trembling
now. All born from the same fog in this city
of gold. Yes, yes, the shining city on the bay.
Built on greed, broken dreams, and the ghosts
left behind. If you listen closely, you can still
hear the pickaxes echoing under the streets.
Now take a respite, rest your feet, and if you
dare, listen. The first tale is a tale of obsession.
When Mira died, she left her best friend only
one thing, a small red comb. Mira's friend treasured
it dearly. She combed her hair with it constantly.
Sometimes for hours at a time, the teeth scraped
her scalp. Scritch, scratch, scritch, scratch.
It became an obsession, a ritual. And then one
night, in the quiet, she froze. She swore she
heard it. A whisper so faint it could have been
the wind. Bring me back. Mira? She whispered
back, trembling. Mira, is that you? From then
on, she combed harder. longer. When she styled
her hair just right, standing before the mirror,
she could almost see Mira's face looking back
at her. Her hands blistered, her scalp bled,
her hair fell out in clumps, and when it grew
back, it didn't match her old color or texture.
It grew in black, thick, and glossy, just like
Mira's. Soon, it wasn't only the hair. She changed
everything. First her makeup, then her clothes,
then her voice. Day by day, she stopped looking
like herself and started becoming Mira. Her family
begged her to stop. Mira's parents slammed the
door in her face when she came to visit, both
in anger and terror at what they had seen. But
nothing reached her. She no longer remembered
who she was. Now she was just Mira. Scritch,
scratch. Scritch, scratch. One night, As she
combed in the mirror, her reflection paused.
It did not move when she did. It only smiled.
Her hand dropped, but the reflection kept combing,
and in Mira's voice, it whispered, Finally. Hey,
you alright there? You look a little pale. Can't
blame you. Obsession's a scary thing. It digs
in and won't let go. Hold on a moment. Your face!
Mira? No, no, sorry. Thought you looked like
her for a moment. The light must have tricked
me. Anyway, back to the stories. This next tale's
older. Comes from the forest. Or what's left
of it. There was once a boy who lived in a fine
house with land that rolled out in every direction.
He could run through the meadows and across the
pastures till his lungs burned and still not
reach the fences. It was the perfect place, save
for one thing. Thud! He ran headlong into a tree.
When he looked up from the dirt, a great weeping
willow bent above him, its branches swaying in
the wind. Everything else around his home was
flat, from his window to the pond. From the pond
to the hill, the ground stretched smooth and
clean. Only that tree spoiled the view. The boy
began to hate it. Wherever he turned his eyes,
there it was, hunched and hanging, always in
the way. Ugly thing, he muttered. I'll kick you
down. He kicked the trunk again and again, but
the tree did not stir. Its thin leaves trembled,
and when the rain came, they dripped like tears.
That made the boy laugh. He came to love the
sound of it. his boot striking bark, the soft
patter of water dripping from its leaves. Day
after day he kicked and scratched and tore the
bark away, until one morning his mother caught
him at it. What's wrong with you, boy? she cried.
Leave that tree be. We'll have no shade if you
ruin it. But mother, I hate this tree. If you
gave me father's axe, I'd fell it in one good
swing. You'd cut your own foot before the first
chop, she said. No more of this talk. You are
not to touch that axe, do you hear me? The boy
groaned, but his mother only sighed and ran her
hand over the willow's bark. See how it droops?
She said softly. It carries more weight than
it should. Don't make it worse by tearing at
its skin. Now off with you, before your father
hears. For a time, he listened. But before long,
the thought of that tree crept back into his
mind. The way it spoiled his view. The way it
seemed to watch him. He could run to the top
of the hill and dive straight into the pond,
he thought, if only that tree were gone. Thud!
Crash! He broke into the shed and found his father's
axe hanging on the wall. He grinned. At last
he would have his space. The boy marched to the
willow and raised the axe high. Something dropped
from above and struck his head. He looked down.
A strange fruit lay at his feet. It was long,
fuzzy, and pale, but it smelled sweet as honey.
His stomach growled. Trying to get on my good
side, are you? He sneered. You can't fool me,
you stupid tree. Still, the scent drew him in.
He lifted the fruit, sniffed again, and took
a bite. The taste burst on his tongue, soft and
syrupy. He swallowed greedily. Maybe I'll let
you live, he said. For now. But one bite was
not enough. He ate another, and another, until
his belly was full. When his mother called him
in for supper, he staggered toward the house,
steps heavy as stone. Mother, my stomach hurts,
the boy groaned. Did you eat something? I ate
the fruit from the willow tree. You what? she
cried. That's no fruit, you foolish boy. It's
called a catkin. It'll make you sick. The boy
coughed until his ribs ached. That night, his
mother sat beside him, cooling his brow and wiping
his sweat. By morning, he was pale and weak.
and when he stepped out, anger stirred in him.
You did this to me, you wretched tree, he rasped.
I should have chopped you down the first day
I saw you. He snatched his father's axe and stumbled
toward the tree. Rage gave him strength. He swung
and swung until the willow split and folded to
the ground. Only a stump remained. The boy laughed
out of breath, wiping the sweat from his brow.
He drove the axe into the trunk and leaned upon
it, proud of his work. The air around him grew
sweet, heavy with the scent of sap. He licked
his lips. The taste of the fuzzy catkin clung
to his tongue, though none were left. Still sick,
he muttered, uneasy. He took a step, but his
legs felt heavy as stone. He looked down. The
skin of his calves had hardened and turned the
color of bark. He tore open his sleeves. His
arms were green and veined like leaves. No, no,
he whispered. What's happening? His voice broke.
From his mouth spilled not words, but a sharp
crack, as if something inside him split. Tiny
twigs pushed through his skin. Bark crawled up
his neck. He mouthed a scream as branches burst
from his back, and his fingers stretched into
slender shoots. The pain was terrible. He felt
his bones twist, his blood thicken, the wind
fill his lungs. He tried to run, but his feet
had rooted fast in the soil. The sun rose and
set, and by the next morning, the boy was gone.
In his place stood a young willow, its leaves
trembling, weeping. When his mother and father
came looking, they found only the fallen tree
and the axe buried in its trunk. Where'd that
boy run off to now? His father grumbled. I told
him not to touch this tree, his mother said.
They searched a while, then went home. The new
tree swayed and shook, but no words came from
it. The old willow was hauled away, and the boy
was left alone. No longer a boy, only a young,
weeping willow swaying in the wind. Years passed.
The house changed hands, and a new family moved
in. They had a little girl. One afternoon, she
came running down the hill. Thud! She struck
the willow and stumbled back. It shivered, and
the leaves made a sound almost like crying. Stupid
tree, the girl said, kicking its trunk. You're
in the way! What an annoying tree, she hissed,
ripping off a branch. The young willow wept and
wept, but no one heard, and no one cared. Hmm,
you look a bit green. Still with me. Good. You're
safe here with me, so long as you stay a little
longer. You hear that? The voices calling out?
Don't answer them. That's how they find you.
They can't reach us by the fire. Now let's continue.
Let them in. You ever hear of Manifest Destiny
Boy? The old miner asked his son, Sam. Sam nodded.
He'd heard of it before. The push west, the promise
of land and gold, no matter who was in the way.
There's a reason we came here, his father said,
tugging on his boots. This land's our God -given
right. But, Sam said softly, what about the people
who were here first? His father's head snapped
around. Who told you that? They did. Sam pointed
to the closet. The miner yanked the door open.
Empty. He slammed it shut. Every step you take
on this ground is ours now, he barked. I don't
want to hear that kind of talk again. He sighed,
pulling on his coat. I'm off to work. Pray I
strike gold, or dinner's just soup and crackers.
Then he left. Sam sat in the big drafty house.
It was supposed to be for the whole family, but
Ma hadn't survived the trip west. Now it was
just him and Pa. When night came, he started
hearing what might have been voices inside the
walls. He pressed his ear against them. If he
listened closely, the whispers were there, too
faint to understand, but full of something that
didn't want him there. That night, Pa didn't
return. Sam peered out the window. In the darkness,
eyes glimmered. Knock! Knock! Sam froze. He crept
to the door and pressed his face to the peephole.
A tall figure loomed outside. Panicked, Sam opened
the door. But no one was there. He shut it again.
Breath brushed the back of his neck. He spun,
but the house was dark. Too dark. He struck a
match. A whisper came from somewhere below the
floorboards. At first, it was only a hiss, like
wind sneaking through the planks. Then it shaped
itself into words. Get out! Sam froze. Who's
there? He crouched and peered through a narrow
crack in the wood. A single red eye stared back.
A small voice drifted up. This is our home. You
stole it. Sam gasped and stumbled backward. The
match fell and went out. Whispers rose again.
From the windows, the floorboards, the tiny seams
of the walls. Dozens of voices pleading. Let
us in. Let us in. Sam bolted. He crashed into
his father outside. What the devil are you doing,
boy? Get back inside. But Sam screamed, Ghosts!
They say we stole their home! His father's face
hardened. That's enough. He dragged Sam back
into the house and shoved him into the closet.
Stay put. Sam trembled in the dark. Through the
cracks, he saw his father slump into a chair,
a bottle of liquor spilling at his side. The
liquor spread across the floorboards. Sam's match
dropped earlier, still smoldered weakly, from
the crack beneath the floor. The small voice
whispered again, We told you to get out. And
with one puff of cold, dead breath, the house
ignited. Flames devoured the walls, the ceiling,
the miner snoring in his chair. Sam screamed
as the flames closed in. They say if you come
near that old house, you can still hear him.
The screaming never stops, and if you look through
the peephole, they'll be waiting. Listen, do
you hear it now? Not voices anymore, just a sound
circling us, round and round. Can't quite tell
where it began. You can run, you know. Most people
do. But running won't save you. You'll only end
up lost, and right back where you started. For
better or for worse, you're stuck with me. On
an ordinary afternoon, a mother drove her two
children home. The fighting in the back seat
was relentless. Kicking, scratching, shrieking.
She should have pulled over. She should have
taken a breath. She should have kept her eyes
on the road. Instead, exhausted, she turned and
snapped. Enough! Her daughter screamed, Mom!
Stop the car! The mother whipped her head forward
and saw her daughter standing in the street.
Her real daughter was still behind her. She slammed
the brakes too late. Glass burst. The figure
bent over the hood. Its face, her daughter's
face, stared at her blankly as it slid off the
car. From the backseat. Mom? Why aren't you stopping?
But the mother kept driving, numb, unable to
understand what she'd seen, or what she thought
she'd done. She turned onto a street she didn't
recognize. A quiet cul -de -sac. Perfect houses.
Empty windows. She circled once, then again.
Each lap brought her past the same mailbox, the
same cracked curb. The street seemed to narrow
around her, every turn tighter than the last,
the loop closing like a noose. She got out, dragging
her confused children with her. They knocked
on doors. Every home was open, hollow, deserted,
uncanny. Wallpaper peeled in strips. Chairs lay
overturned, as if everyone had vanished mid -breath.
Every back door led straight to the same winding
street. Her son collapsed first, too tired, too
scared. She tried to lift him, but her arms trembled
violently. Go, she told her daughter, voice splitting.
You have to keep going. Find help. Her daughter
shook her head, crying. Mom, I don't want to
leave you. Go. The child ran, wiping tears with
the back of her hand. The mother sank beside
her unconscious son. guilt eating through her
like rot. She watched her daughter grow smaller
and smaller in the distance, and saw a road open
ahead of her. Headlights. Her own minivan approached.
A different version of her sat behind the wheel,
her hands steady, unaware. In the passenger seat,
her healthy son. In the back, her daughter. All
alive, all whole. The mother gasped. No, no,
please. Up ahead, her daughter stepped into the
road, oblivious. Mom! Stop the car! The minivan
did not stop. The mother screamed as her daughter
was struck again, bones twisting, body folding
into the pavement. The minivan sped on, rounding
the corner once more. And suddenly, she understood.
This place wasn't trapping her. It was making
her watch. For every time she didn't look at
the road, For every moment she thought she could
handle everything, the loop punished her again,
and again, and again. Her daughter dying, her
son watching, her own hands on the wheel. Over
and over. Forever. Poor mother. Round and round
she went, trying so hard to escape, and still
ended up right where fate wanted her. What does
it mean to be human? All that stumbling forward
only to end up where you started. All that trying.
All that wanting. Oh, me? I'm human too. Of course
I am. Just like you, friend. Humans are fascinating,
aren't they? The things we do for love or greed.
Now then, one last story for the night. Stop
looking so frightened. I believe in you. Ready?
Let's begin. There's gold in them waters. This
gold's driven everyone mad, Tommy's mother said,
squinting into the dying firelight. One thing's
for darn certain. The earth gives enough, but
man wants more. What did she mean by that? wondered
young Tommy. Little Tommy lived alone with his
mother, and they took care of each other. Their
little patch of land had fruit trees, a coop,
a shelf of old books, everything they needed,
except fresh water. They lived by the sea, but
the town was four miles yonder, and the wells
had run dry. Now, little Tommy, she said, handing
him a bucket, go down to the river and fetch
what water you can. We ain't got enough for washing
or drinking. And be careful of those minor folk.
You can't trust them. If they offer you gold,
you hear me? Don't take it. We don't need that
to take care of ourselves. Yes, ma 'am. Get on
now, and remember what I told you. Greed knows
no bounds. Tommy nodded and started down the
dusty trail, past the orchard, over the hills,
to where the sunlight burned between the valley
ridges. Plenty of folk had come west chasing
gold, but Tommy and his ma had no use for it.
They had each other, and that was enough. When
he reached the river, voices stopped him cold.
Three rough men circled an old prospector. This
post here marks my claim, the old man shouted,
pointing to a crooked sign. The mustache banded
in the middle grinned. Well, I think you are
mistaken, good fellow. Funny thing, this whole
stretch is mine, from the mountain down. He kicked
the post clean over and stepped across it. See?
No man's land now. And look what I find standing
on it. A trespasser. He whistled. More shadows
moved in the brush. Bandit stepping out. Guns
drawn. Well now, the leader said, handing the
old man a dented bucket. Put this bucket over
your head, or so help me I'll send you to meet
your maker. Please. Oh, I feel ill. The prospector
stammered. You're well enough to stand. the bandit
said, raising his gun. Now raise that bucket
high. A hole punch cleaned through the bucket.
The old man yelped and danced aside as the bandit
shot more bullets at his feet. The bandits laughed,
the sound echoing through the hills. Get to work,
the leader ordered. If you dig up something shiny,
maybe we'll let you keep your hide. One of the
men snorted. We really gonna pay him, boss? The
leader spat into the river. We'll see how useful
he is. The bandit heard rustling in the brush.
He rested a hand on his gun. Show yourself! Young
Tommy trudged out, bucket in his hands. The bandit
grinned. Ooh, well look what we got here. Get
over here, boy! Tommy stepped forward. Now, are
you trying to take our land too? No, sir. I'm
just here for water, sir. Water, huh? Well, I'll
tell you what. Come stand over here, boy. Now,
Tommy froze. Lift that bucket over your head,
boy. Don't make me ask twice. Tommy obeyed. Two
holes tore clean through the bucket. The bandits
burst into laughter. Tommy set the bucket down,
trembling. Please, sir, I need the water. We
don't have any and this is the closest river.
And how's that my problem? I'll do anything,
sir. The bandits' grin widened. Well then, boy,
come with me. We got a job for you. In the hot,
grueling sun, they made him work the rest of
the day. He stood knee -deep in the shallow river,
swirling a pan of gravel and muck hour after
hour, waiting for gold flakes to settle at the
bottom. Don't breathe this stuff here, one warned,
holding up a jar of white crystals. Cyanide or
potassium, one whiff will drop you dead. Tommy
didn't know much about mining. but he could tell
it was poison. By sunset, his hands were raw.
The mustache bandit tossed him a nugget. Here,
boy, you work hard. That's enough to buy you
all the water you want from town. Thank you,
sir, but I don't need gold. I just want some
water for my ma. Water? You don't want gold?
Gold can buy you buckets and buckets of water.
No, sir, it's just water. The bandits laughed.
Suit yourself. We'll take care of your gold for
you. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. Now
hurry up and get gone, or maybe we'll pay your
ma a visit. Tommy ran home. His mother was waiting
on the porch. Where have you been, Tommy? Say
something. Tommy's eyes watered. I listened to
you, Mama. I didn't take no gold. Oh, Tommy.
She hugged him tight while he cried. I can get
the water next time, she murmured. No! Tommy
barked, startling her. Don't go! All right, Tommy,
all right, soothed his mother. We'll find another
place for water, she said. But Tommy didn't sleep
that night. The next morning, Tommy went back.
The old prospector was barely holding on, the
bandits kicking him on the ground. Rage burned
through the boy. He slipped to the shed where
the cyanide of potassium was stored. grabbed
the biggest barrel he could carry, and poured
it all into the river. The water shimmered pale
and strange. Later, he brought the men tin cups.
Boiled it for you, he said. They sniffed. Smells
funny. Must be a fish died upstream, Tommy said
with a grin. The bandits laughed and drank. A
minute later, one coughed. Then another. Choking.
Gasping. They dropped one by one. Tommy watched,
unmoved, until the river was quiet. Then he ran
home. He approached his mother and sighed. Out
of breath, he said, I stopped those miners, Ma.
They won't trouble us no more. That's good, son.
Sit, eat your supper. I got water from town,
so you don't need to go back there anyway. Tommy
sighed in relief. He sat down at the table. His
mother told him about her trip into town, all
the gossip, and the bothersome folks she'd met
along the way. For a while, they ate and laughed
together. The sound of their voices fill in the
small house. Then a cough broke her laughter.
She clutched her throat. His mother coughed harshly.
Tommy froze as his own chest tightened. Ma, where'd
you get the water? The river downstream, by the
town. She collapsed. Tommy coughed and coughed.
He struggled to breathe and clawed at his throat.
But nothing came. Outside, the poison river shimmered
gold under the moon. Fascinating. You listened
to every word. Did you enjoy yourself? Good.
How wonderful. The clock is ticking. The fog
is thinning. The lights in the city of gold are
flickering awake again. Calling you back to your
world. I must take my leave, but the city the
city never truly sleeps This place calls for
souls who love a good story if you ever want
to hear more You know where to find me just step
into the fog