Harsh, frigid air stung in Clara’s nose as she took in a sharp breath. 

 It was a dreary afternoon in late March, with the kind of ambiguous weather that caused people to question whether it was truly raining at that moment, or if the fat, dewy drops that brushed against their faces were simply an echo of a previous storm.  A snakelike mist crept steadily over the blurry horizon, and wind whipped clouds blanketed the sky in a heavy, white coat.  Clara had to shuffle her rain boots along the slippery, stone path as to keep from falling, and the fog was so thick that all she could see around her was a few meager feet of bleached grass, dead leaves, and rotting branches with castles of fungus blooming from their cracked corners.  All the same, she didn’t mind much—the bleak trail offered a far better atmosphere than her aunt’s stuffy house, with its soupy dust that choked the air and its hundreds of antique collectibles clogging each free nook and cranny.

It really was like drowning, being cooped up in there.

She pressed forward, pulling her threadbare, gray cardigan tight around her shoulders.  After spending the whole day inside helping her aunt with housework, she’d almost forgotten how cold, how dark it could get.  It wasn’t far to get back; she considered going to grab a flashlight or find a warmer jacket to throw on.  But the thought of returning to that suffocating house, even for a small minute, was more than she could possibly bear.  And the chill was almost thrilling, with the way it sharpened her senses and caused the hair on her neck to stand up as if charged by static.

She might have said it felt like a riveting panic.

Thirty minutes passed. Then an hour. The mist continued to grow in coiling drifts, clinging to every surface it could find. It licked Clara’s fingers, writhing and twisting as if it were alive—something about it made her feel sick. Thoughts of turning back again filled her head, but before she could take another step, she noticed with dread that the path was no longer under her feet.

She had no idea where she was. And the ghost-gray mist was crawling closer and closer with each passing second. It couldn’t be possible, but Clara thought she saw a toothless grin in its deathly, amorphous form.

A yelp escaped her trembling lips. She tried to run, with no real direction, but the fog spiraled around her until she was dizzy and seasick and struggling to keep her balance.  Hazy tendrils of it reached out, grasping her ankles and wrists and covering her face.  Her heart raced as she gasped desperately for breath, clawing pointlessly at the smothering, invisible wind.  She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to convince herself this was just a dream, that she’d wake up on her aunt’s awful plaid couch any second now, but her vision just got blurrier and blurrier as she sank to the ground, mind going numb, thoughts fading to black. A sharp ringing filled her ears as she glanced around wildly, screaming, flailing her arms, but there was nothing around but miles of dead grass and a glaring carpet of mist.