Fall arrived gradually; a clairvoyant forecasting months to come-gentle breezes steadily increasing in their persistent nature.

Birch and Alder bathed themselves in brilliant shades of gold and orange, weaving tendrils of color through the unchanging evergreens, prominent groups undisturbed by their unsleeping brethren ,painting the hills sunny slopes, rustling in the breeze - relinquishing some of their ornamental dress to adorn the ground, free to dance around the air in swirls of color.

Wood smoke from neighboring chimneys slowly began to perfume the air in growing number as the days shortened, causing a sort of busy energy to move people into finishing tasks in preparation for the anticipated first snow.

Through this town nestled among the rolling hills, was a path.

At its widest in the center of town, it was surrounded by the once lively shops, eateries, and other go to places for residents day to day, eventually branching off in two directions.

One end of the path stayed in its wide form, morphing from the worn bricks laid long before to smooth dark tarmac, having once led the inhabitants to larger roads and cities, it now only disappeared among the mist that none came through, and none left.

It had been many years since the townspeople had grown resolute in their plight and stopped attempting escape.

On the opposite side of this, the path wound through neatly lined homes, narrowing in size as they decreased in number, winding through the white fences and manicured lawns, until it devolved to that of a single cars width, made up of only dirt and rock, its straight nature having long ago been abandoned with the concrete and paint, weaving along as the land dipped and swayed.

This is the point it wrapped past the last home outside of town, the last house that stood short of the woods, proud and aged it seemed to complement the old winding dirt road in nature. In its very structure- a timestamp from when it had been constructed; broad beams and detailed etchings decorating the sturdy frame that stood steady and sure against time.

It was Shelley's family home. It was all she had ever known for residence, which was the reason she gave most when urged to leave, living so close to the accursed house that surely still stood beyond the twisted trees and growing mist that devoured the winding path, and any who dared trek it.

The house stood two stories high, a sloping carport attached later when her father had been younger, still holding his treasured red Ford. The lawn was sloping, still maintained despite the gloom that hovered not far from its borders, an old shed well preserved held all the tools for upkeep and the forgotten resources once frequently used for road trips and camping, now grew dust and mold discarded without hope for use. A swing swayed in the gentle breeze from the large sleeping tree, and a path well kept lead from the locked gate to the front steps of the wrap around porch

Shelly stood, at the end of town gazing from her meager vantage point on her back porch, peering down the winding path that disappeared into the tree line before the mists , too many twisting overgrown trees blocking the path of sight. She nor any other dared ever try entering that twisted wood.

But she knew the house was there.

The Sutton home.

There had been a time long ago that Shelly had walked that path, through trees that once bore fruit and leaves of emerald, to the grandeur of the Sutton home, and it had been there she once had seen the man she had seen as friend.

The man all now called monster.

Most days she would pause before entering her home in the evenings, peering to the thick mists that encircled the diminishing town, the tree line resembling gnarled fingers steepled high, darkened by the cresting red sun, the mist around it catching the color to paint the forest more sinister.

It was during this routine, repeated as habitually as it was to wake and as unconsciously as breath, that Shelly found herself blinking her eyes in denial, fingers loosening until her shawl slipped from her shoulders and the tea cup plopped dully to the porch, remainders of cold tea splashing her socked feet.

Rubbing the disbelief from her eyes, Shelly peered once again to the winding path, seeming more visible as if the red mist had thinned to allow her to see further than before.

A figure.

Lone, tall, pale against the twisted wood. Hair the same as the setting sun and the swirling mists around. Too far to see those eyes, but she knew them to be green.

Something deep in her heart told her that they were watching her.

And something more instinctual said that they watched her, but not with the kindness they had once held.

Shelly stepped forward, nearly tripping on her discarded cup, fumbled and caught herself on the banister, realizing her breath was ragged, her arms feebly holding her up as they shook.

But the vision did not disappear. Did not fade.

Quinton was there. For the first time in 11 years, the first time since the mist had enveloped the town, Quinton was there.

Even when the sun made a swift departure, discarding the hostile hues to replace with a growing dark, she squinted her eyes in the encroaching nights gray black, reaffirming her sight as she took shaky steps down the porch while clutching the railing, eyes never leaving the figure standing at the edge of the wood.

The red haired man had not stirred the length of time she had fought to come to terms with what she saw, but now, encased by shadow, he raised one arm, in a high arch as if to give greeting, making the dark robes he wore fall back to reveal moon pale skin, before dropping it.

Darkness grew, and Shelly stumbled blindly as she descended the final step of her porch, socks doing little to shelter her delicate feet from the rough cold path, the first frosts of winter surely to fall that night.

"Q-Quinton," she had meant to scream, to rouse someone that could possibly still hear. But her voice was strained, a thin whisper of a shout. It was as if something held the sound that struggled past her lips, altered the very air she breathed.

The red head continued to stand motionless, encased by expanding mist and branches. He made no effort to acknowledge her aside his unblinking stare, it was as if by some magical force she could see his eyes so clearly despite it being so dark out.

Shelly felt almost drugged, her feet unsteady and her breath coming out fast as her head seemed to float on her shoulders. Despite this all she could do was stare at the solid unmoving figure that once had been her friend as she stumbled forward, clumsy as a newborn fawn.

The branches among him seemed to grow suddenly, the mist blackening and embracing him.

He continued to stare at her without pause.

Within a moment, before she could even process a sign of movement, he was gone, and all Shelly was left with was the darkness of night, and the mists that bred in it.

She collapsed to the ground, suddenly aware of the cold, suddenly even more aware of how close to the edge of the tendrils of mist she had become. Never had she dared to approach the edge of the wood so closely.

Dimly Shelly was conscious of the thought, hysterical in the back of her mind, that she should scream. Or to flounder back away from the edge of the wood. To react more than just sitting in the pitch black, the cold prickling at her skin like a thousand needles.

But she didn't do any of this. She simply sat, staring at the spot Quinton had stood for a long time before she found the strength in her legs to stand.

"What should I do," she asked, eyes still peeled wide to the edge of the wood.

Pushing herself back, almost falling so weak she still felt, when she thought that a tendril of mist had brushed against her hand.

Could it pull her in? Devour her as it had the path?

Shelly turned, and she did fall in her weakened state, the small sharp rocks of path cutting into her palms and knees.

Hissing she shakily tried to rise, felt too heavy, and began to crawl, trying not to drag her legs too much as the rocks reminded her blindness to their presence.

It took far too long for her to reach the bottom of her steps, and relief filled her as her porch light illuminated with her movement, and she pulled herself up the steps by grasping the banister walking unsteadily to her back door sliding it open, barely managing to shut it before collapsing in her kitchen.

There, she felt safe.

Be it a false sense of security within the walls of her home, or true safety with the light of her porch lending her the sight of the empty backyard, of the moth flitting with the modes of dust to the bulb, of her cup still on its side, the tea staining the wood of the porch.

"What do I do?" she asked the air again, trying to pull herself to action.

"You have to get help Shelly," she said to herself, a false bravado entering her voice to attempt strength in her limbs," Call Poppy. Poppy can help."

Despite the late hour, she knew Poppy would be awake. Poppy always knew what to do. Poppy would have the answers to what had just happened.

After all.

She was Quinton's sister.