The fog rolls in, slowly at first, enveloping and wrapping around the street corners, where the ladies of the night ply their trade. The quiet sounds of the tousled leaves as the wind sighs into the night. Alluring. The fog begins to thicken, tendrils now reaching out, reaching towards the light. Seeking to extinguish the baleful glow of the street lamps. Thickening, it beings to succeed. The murky stillness that follows pricks the hairs on the back of my neck. Those who are still out look around them hurriedly, their paces quickening as they seek to be anywhere but in the street with the fog. Viscous now, fluid, lapping at entryways, pushing into the crevices and shadows where only the rats lurk. The squeaking of the rodents is calmed, or quieted as the fog reaches its tendrils into their lungs. Breathing into them as they seek air to breathe. The softness of it, the reflected light at its core, the whiteness of purity as you draw it into your lungs. Once inside it reaches down into you, swiftly seeking out your heart. Body temperature starts to drop, a shiver, only a chill. You swear you can feel it now, pushing in, not just an accident of breathing, but an active finger pushing deep inside your lungs. Panic sets in. The silence of the rats erupts in panicked hisses as their animal senses explode with warning. Danger. There is malice behind this fog, this white mass of water and light.
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