The fog settled slowly, rolling over the hills in misty currents. It clung low to the ground, filling the streets with its soft whiteness. The fog came in gradually, until, all at once, it was, and the little town woke to the strange weather. The sun rose, and things cleared a little in the heat of noon. The fog was there in the night.
Later, generations later, the fog was still, and things began to happen. A door leading into a home may at times, when the swirling fog grew thick, open unto other places, inconvenient places. Women could be seen drawing from the well, but only when the sun cleared things first. Odd things, salty water, might come up when the fog was in its power.
And the people who stayed, their children, children born in the fog, had a strange way about them. Their children too, stranger grew, and then again. The people of that town, were we to see it, would hardly be men and women anymore. They are, and they have eyes which see. They have whispers, when visitors come ‘round, and I know not if they speak more when alone in the fog.