The fog didn't burn off with the sun.
That morning, it clung low to the streets like it didn't know how to leave. It muffled sound, blurred outlines, and turned every villager's silhouette into a question Eva didn't want to answer.
Her footsteps echoed as she walked to the town library. It was one of the only buildings that hadn't completely surrendered to time—tall, square, and watching, like it didn't trust the town around it.
Inside, the lights flickered even when they were off.
The librarian sat at the desk, unmoving. Her name tag had been turned backward, and she wore gloves too thick for the weather.
Eva cleared her throat. "I'm here to learn more about the school. Any town records?"
The woman didn't speak.
She simply pointed to a staircase that spiraled downward—a staircase that shouldn't have existed in a one-floor building.
Eva hesitated.
Then she went down.
—
The basement was lit by small wall lamps that hummed like insects. The air smelled of candle wax and wet wood. No dust. No cobwebs. Just shelves—dozens of them—lined with records, faded photographs, and tapes stacked in silent towers.
She picked up a folder labeled: "Archive: 3:33 Incidents / 1966–1999"
The pages were yellow, but the writing was neat. Too neat.
November 4th, 1971 — Three children vanished at 3:33 a.m. The next day, four returned. June 3rd, 1985 — Village elder found dead, eyes burned black. Clock stopped at 3:33. October 13th, 1999 — The ground opened. Swallowed the chapel. No survivors.
Eva's fingers trembled. The entries continued until 1999—then nothing. Just a blank final page.
As she turned to leave, one of the lamps buzzed louder.
Flickered.
Went out.
Footsteps echoed somewhere behind her in the stacks.
She spun around.
No one.
Then a whisper: "Don't bring your memories here."
She backed up fast, nearly knocking over a stack of VHS tapes. One fell to the floor and cracked open, spilling film across her feet.
Etched on the inside of the tape in red marker:
"WATCH ONLY AFTER DARK."
—
That night, Eva returned to her room. She tried to sleep. Tried to tell herself the whisper had been her imagination. The tape an old prank. But the fog was thicker than ever. And every shadow in her room now looked like it had teeth.
3:30 a.m.
The hallway outside her room creaked.
3:31.
She heard a child's voice singing again—closer, clearer.
"Ring-a-ring of silence, walls begin to bleed…"
3:32.
She gripped the edge of her bed.
Then…
3:33.
Every light in the building blinked out at once.
A knock at her door.
Then a voice through the wood, young and hollow: "Ms. Stone…can you help me? I can't find my eyes."
She didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Because the real horror wasn't the voice.
It was the shadow underneath the door.
It didn't have a head.
And it was still… smiling.