Morning light struggled to pierce through the mist that clung to Raven's Creek. The fog hadn't lifted — it rarely did — and Ethan Matthews hadn't truly slept. He sat up on the narrow bed of the Hollow Inn, the old springs creaking beneath him. Outside, the town was a ghostly blur, shapes of trees and rooftops dissolving into gray.
His camera lay on the nightstand beside him, battery drained, screen still flickering with the last image he had reviewed: that impossible shadow caught in a single frame. A pale, smiling face, gleaming behind a distorted reflection. Even staring at it now, he couldn't convince himself it was a trick of the lens.
He rubbed his eyes, jaw tight. The fog seemed heavier today, more persistent, almost purposeful. There was something alive in Raven's Creek — he could feel it pressing against the glass, against his skin.
Ethan glanced at his reflection in the cracked motel mirror, half expecting to see it again. Nothing. Only his own tired face staring back, the faint light from the hall casting shadows that made him look gaunt.
He rose, shaking off the dread, and decided to head into town. Whatever haunted this place wasn't just in his mind. The story, the fear, the whispers — they had roots here. And he intended to find them.
The Raven's Creek Public Library sat at the end of Willow Street, its gothic spires lost in haze. Moss clung to the stone walls like a slow disease, and the scent of damp paper and old leather met Ethan as he stepped inside. The heavy wooden doors closed behind him with a groan, shutting out the muffled drip of the fog outside.
Rows of shelves stood like ancient sentinels, their books lined with dust and age, their spines cracked and faded. The air smelled of ink, mold, and time. Somewhere distant, a clock ticked slowly, punctuating the oppressive silence.
A single lamp flickered behind the counter, where a woman sat reading — head slightly tilted, auburn hair catching the dim light. She looked up as he cleared his throat.
"Excuse me, I'm looking for town archives. Anything about disappearances or murders in the last few decades," he said. His voice sounded louder than intended, echoing slightly.
Her gray eyes — intelligent, wary, and alert — met his. A shadow passed over them, as though weighing him up.
"You must be the photographer," she said quietly. "Word travels fast here."
Ethan smiled faintly, trying to mask his nerves. "Guess small towns never change."
"I'm Clara Monroe," she said, rising. "Assistant librarian. Or what's left of one." She gestured for him to follow. "You won't find much in the digital records. The sheriff's office stopped sending updates years ago. Too many things they didn't want the public to know."
As they walked through the aisles, their footsteps muffled against the worn wooden floor, Ethan felt the weight of the silence. The books seemed to lean closer, as if listening. The air grew colder near the archive room — a locked door at the far end of the library.
Clara produced a brass key, aged and scratched from years of use. It fit perfectly. She pushed open the door, and a chill rolled out. Inside, the air was still, thick with dust and paper decay. Wooden drawers lined the walls, each labeled with years, some peeling or obscured by faded ink.
"You shouldn't be here long," Clara said softly, glancing over her shoulder. "The fog gets thicker after noon."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "You make it sound alive."
She didn't smile. "In Raven's Creek… it almost is."
The words hung, heavy, settling on him like a cold hand on his shoulder.
Ethan began sifting through old reports — faded photographs, missing-person posters, brittle police notes. Each page seemed to whisper in the silence, a faint echo that made the hairs on his arms stand.
Time and again, he read the same line: "Victim last seen smiling."
He frowned, scanning names, dates, locations. Patterns emerged — subtle, sinister, repetitive.
"Has no one ever connected these cases?" he muttered under his breath. "The pattern's right here."
Clara hesitated, biting her lip. Her hands trembled slightly as she stacked a pile of files.
"We've tried," she whispered. "My sister—" She stopped, swallowing hard, the color draining from her face. "My sister died the same way. Fifteen years ago. They said it was suicide, but I… I saw her face."
Ethan looked up sharply, curiosity and concern flashing across him.
"What did you see?"
Clara's gaze drifted to the fog-blurred window. "A smile that didn't belong to her."
Her words fell like stones into the quiet room. Ethan felt a chill ripple through him, like the air itself had grown heavier. He wanted to press, to ask more — but the look in her eyes stopped him. It was a mixture of fear, guilt, and something deeper he couldn't name.
Finally, she whispered, leaning closer, her voice trembling. "You need to stop digging. You don't want her to notice you."
Ethan frowned. "Her?"
Clara didn't answer, only pressed a finger to her lips. Then, as if the fog itself had crept into the room, she stepped back. "Raven's Creek has a way of watching back when you stare too long. Go back to your inn. Leave before nightfall."
Ethan hesitated, then offered a hand. "Ethan Matthews," he said softly. "I'll be careful."
Clara met his gaze — pity and warning flickering there — and nodded once. Then she left, her steps fading until only the hum of the lamp remained.
Ethan lingered, unable to tear his eyes away from the archival room. One file, half-pulled from a drawer Clara had touched, drew his attention:
"Margaret Hale — 1984"
He flipped it open. The black-and-white photos inside were grainy but horrifying. A young woman smiled widely, too widely, unnaturally. In one image, her mouth looked torn at the corners, as if the flesh had been forced into a permanent grin.
The report beneath it read:
"Victim found near the old bridge. Mirror shards embedded in both hands. No fingerprints on the glass. Case unresolved."
Ethan's pulse quickened. This wasn't just legend. Something real had happened here.
A faint sound made him freeze — footsteps, light and deliberate, echoing in the corridor outside the archive room.
"Clara?" he called softly.
No answer.
He opened the door, peering into the narrow hallway. Empty. But a soft, distorted giggle floated from the far end, echoing faintly, almost human… almost not.
Ethan shut the door slowly, heart hammering. Something was watching, waiting.
By late afternoon, Ethan drove back toward the Hollow Inn, the fog thickened like a living thing, curling around the trees, snaking along the road. His thoughts raced. Clara's warning, the file, the patterns — they refused to leave his mind.
Glancing in the rearview mirror, he froze.
For a fraction of a second, a woman appeared in the back seat. Pale face, hair obscuring sharp features, lips cracked into a wide, unnatural smile. Blood glinted faintly where her mouth should have been.
He blinked. She was gone.
The car swerved slightly; tires squealed against wet asphalt. Ethan gripped the wheel, breath coming in harsh bursts. The fog pressed against the windshield like a living thing, forming streaks that almost looked like fingerprints.
He looked again. Nothing. Only the empty seat.
The metallic tang in the air lingered. He swallowed hard. Some smiles never fade, even in photographs.
Ethan pressed the accelerator a little harder, driving through the gray void, the weight of the town's eyes — and something older — pressing down on him.
The story was real. And somewhere in Raven's Creek, it was watching.
Some smiles never fade, even in photographs.