Fog in isolated valley regions is never merely a simple condensation of water vapor. In the eyes of a psychiatrist, it is the perfect veil for a collective hallucination phenomenon; but to those born of the motherland of Arak-Na, that murky gray layer of vapor is precisely the velvet shroud holding fast to things that refuse to decompose with time.
The old interstate bus swayed violently on the winding cobblestone road, like a dying monster of rusty iron crawling deep into the ruins.
After nearly eight hours of travel from Manhattan's central station, the bustling pace of New York had been completely swallowed by the undulating Adirondack mountain range. Early-season snow had begun falling since midnight, blanketing the old pine canopies on both sides of the road in a layer of soft, yet freezing white fluff. Through the fog-drenched window glass of the bus, the scenery outside was misty to the point of severe blurring, like a ink-wash painting accidentally spilled over with water.
Mark sat in the final row of seats. He wore a dark, waterproof parka, his eyes heavy with dark circles from an all-nighter, staring fixedly at the void before him.
His right wrist was still slightly bruised—the dried, gaunt fingers mark of Thomas pressed deep into his flesh since yesterday afternoon like a ruthless seal. His father's ice-cold warning still echoed in Mark's mind whenever the bus engine rumbled loudly: “You have no idea what lid you are prying open.”
A psychological analyst like him should originally have treated it as a product of paranoia induced by unresolved trauma. But as the bus began plunging down a steep mountain pass, where a lopsided, rusted traffic sign bore merely the words “Arak-Val Valley – 5km”, a surge of extreme cold air unexpectedly shot through the crack of the window glass, making all the hair follicles on Mark's scalp stand on end.
That was not the ordinary cold of the weather. That was an ultimate sensation of solitude, akin to stepping into a room sealed for a hundred years, where the air was depleted of oxygen and left only with the smell of oblivion.
"Last stop, young man," the voice of the local bus driver sounded, deep, raspy, and coarse like cobbles rolling over gravel.
The bus braked abruptly with a ear-piercing screech. The folding iron door opened, and a stream of damp air, thick with fog, instantly flooded into the cabin, dispelling the meager bit of artificial warmth.
Mark slung his travel backpack over his shoulder and stepped onto the metal steps. Right as his leather boot soles touched the snow-covered earth of Arak-Val, the bus seemed unable to wait even a single second longer. The driver immediately stepped on the gas, turning the vehicle around hastily, discharging a puff of burnt black smoke, and vanished completely into the misty fog behind the mountain pass.
The entire valley fell into a state of absolute quietude. A silence so heavy that Mark could clearly hear his own heart beating frantically behind his chest.
Arak-Val Village sat tucked away amidst three looming limestone mountains, where the sun seemed never to shine for more than four hours a day.
The setting here was a monstrous fusion of 18th-century Western European Gothic architecture and the traditional house-building style of the indigenous Arak-Na people. Two-story houses built from dark pine wood, their sharply pointed roofs piercing straight into the gray sky, were constructed upon massive, rough stone foundations. Upon the window frames of every house hung clusters of dried wild berries along with totem figures carved from animal bones—a syncretic belief system blending pagan Catholicism with local spirits.
But what made Mark feel most goosebumps was not the architecture, but the fog.
The fog in Arak-Val did not surge in rolling waves like in coastal regions, but settled into thick, dense patches, hovering low to the ground. It blanketed the gravel paths, clung tightly to the rugged wooden walls, rendering every sight further than ten meters blurred beyond recognition.
Mark tightened his backpack straps, beginning his walk down the village's main street.
The rhythm of his footsteps involuntarily shattered the stillness of the space. And then, Mark realized something abnormal.
From the narrow, long wooden windows, from behind the towering stacks of oak firewood piled high beside porch fronts, or from the dim oil-lit general stores... the people of Arak-Val began to appear.
They stopped. Every single activity ground to an abrupt halt.
A woman holding a broom sweeping snow before her porch froze her broom hand. A muscular man chopping firewood let his axe blade drop loosely onto the log base. Two children playing beside an ancient stone water well choked back their laughter.
Dozens of gazes converged upon Mark.
Those were not the ordinary inquisitive looks of locals directed at a strange tourist. Their eyes were bottomlessly deep, gray, and completely devoid of vitality. They looked at Mark as if he were a monstrous entity having just stepped out from beneath the earth, or more accurately... as if they had been awaiting this appearance for a very long time.
Cognitive erosion—the depersonalization syndrome that had suffocated Mark in his New York office—began to surge forth again. He looked down at his own feet stepping upon the snow, but the sensation of body weight seemed to vanish. Amidst dozens of unblinking gazes tracking his every move, Mark felt like a ghost walking through a village of ghosts.
He swallowed a dry gulp of saliva, advancing toward the sole tavern in the village center—a two-story wooden building bearing a dilapidated sign that read “The Black Ash”.
Inside the tavern, the air was a bit warmer thanks to the smoldering fireplace fire in the corner wall, but the fragrance here was extraordinarily strange. It was a synthesis of burnt animal fat, the harsh tang of corn liquor, and a raw, sweetish scent resembling mold born of rotting wood after heavy rain.
When Mark pushed the heavy wooden door open and stepped inside, a brass bell jingled softly.
Several coarsely dressed men sitting around round tables turned around instantly. The murmuring conversation ceased completely.
Standing behind the bar counter was a muscular, middle-aged man, his curly black hair matted to his forehead, displaying the distinct dark skin of indigenous mixed blood. He was using a towel to wipe clean a glass cup.
"I need to ask for directions," Mark stepped closer to the counter, striving to keep his voice natural and polite. "I am looking for the Kaelen family cabin."
The name Kaelen had barely escaped Mark's lips when the atmosphere inside the tavern felt as if someone had drained all the air clean out of it.
The man behind the counter froze. The wiping cloth in his hand dropped onto the wooden tabletop. The men around held their breath, their gazes shifting visibly.
"Kaelen?" The bartender looked up, his voice raspy, containing an immense suspicion. "Who are you to Kaelen?"
Mark unbuttoned his glove, exposing his finger wearing a silver ring engraved with a mountain outline and three water drops—the heirloom ring that his great-grandfather Kaelen had left him when he was twelve years old.
"I am Mark. Mark Kaelen," he spoke in a firm voice. "I am Thomas's son, and Kaelen's great-grandson."
A faint sound echoed from the corner of the room. An elderly man accidentally dropped his tobacco pipe onto the floor.
The shift in the villagers' demeanor occurred so rapidly it left Mark bewildered. The initial indifference and cold vigilance vanished abruptly, giving way to an abnormal awe—a hybrid awe blending spiritual reverence and a primitive dread.
The bartender bowed his head slightly, placing both hands together before his chest according to a strange ritual of the Arak-Na people: "You... you are the remaining direct bloodline of Shaman Kaelen?"
"Shaman?" Mark narrowed his eyes. In the meager memories his father had inadvertently let slip, Great-Grandfather Kaelen was merely a hunter or an ordinary village elder. "My great-grandfather was merely a resident in the village."
"Your great-grandfather was not merely a resident," the bartender whispered, his eyes darting around as if afraid someone might overhear. "Great-Grandfather Kaelen was the keeper of the flame. The one who kept this valley from being swallowed whole ten years ago... until he passed away."
He hastily removed his dirty apron and stepped out from behind the bar counter. "Follow me. Your great-grandfather's cabin lies at the northernmost end of the valley, at the foot of the stone mountain. For ten years... no one in the village has dared venture near it."
"Why?" Mark followed the bartender out of the tavern. "Is it damaged?"
"No," the bartender paused before the tavern door, turning back to look at Mark with deep-set eyes. "Because it is still not clean. What your great-grandfather did there... still lingers."
The fog outside had grown even denser by now, bearing microscopic snow grains that stung his face painfully. The bartender—who introduced himself by the name Silas—led Mark along a narrow path clinging to the cliffside.
Throughout the entire journey, Silas continuously muttered brief prayers in a rough language with harsh, guttural phonetics that Mark could not comprehend. It was ancient Arak-Na dialect—the language his father had strictly forbidden him from learning since childhood.
When the two passed through a clearing in the middle of the village, where a large bonfire was smoldering and emitting a gray plume of smoke, Mark spotted a bizarre figure.
Cowering beside the bonfire was an extremely old man. He wore an old, faded, and tattered bear-skin coat. His skin was wrinkled like the bark of an ancient pine tree, gaunt to the point where every bone joint was clearly visible.
But the most terrifying detail was his eyes: Both sockets were milky white with the vacant blindness of severe cataracts. He was completely blind.
As Mark and Silas's footsteps approached the bonfire, the blind old man startled suddenly. He could not see, but his upturned nose sniffed the air frantically like a hunting beast.
"Who... who just arrived?" he rasped. The sound whistling through his gaping, toothless mouth sounded like metal scraping over dry stone.
Silas hurriedly pulled Mark's arm, lowering his voice: "Pay no mind to him. That is Old Nicanor. He went mad after the famine back in '60..."
But the blind old man had caught Mark's scent. He braced himself on his rough wooden staff and stood up with astonishing agility. He charged toward Mark, his hands gaunt as two vise-grips raised in midair, flailing frantically.
Mark stood rooted to the spot. He did not retreat. The analytical professional instinct of a psychiatrist compelled him to observe the old man's presentation: Pupils non-reactive to light, yet facial muscles twitching continuously, rapid breathing carrying a sense of ultimate terror.
The blind old man halted merely half a meter from Mark. He did not touch Mark's person, but merely raised his trembling hands to the level of Mark's face, drawing a deep breath.
Abruptly, he trembled violently. His milky-white eyes rolled upward, staring straight into the void behind Mark's head.
He began to mutter. The sounds erupting from his throat were rapidly choked, hurried, and bore a strange cadence. It was a sequence of complex words in ancient Arak-Na dialect, interspersed with mournful inhalations:
“K’ah-na... v’raal... m’khat... so-tek... K’ah-na...”
His voice grew higher and higher, shifting from muttering to agonizing screeches, as if those very words were burning his tongue.
Silas's complexion shifted dramatically. The grip on Mark's arm from Silas became exceedingly violent. He hastily yanked Mark along, striding rapidly away from the bonfire area.
"What was he saying?" Mark asked, striding hurriedly alongside Silas while glancing back. The blind old man was still standing with his face upturned toward the foggy sky, hands raised high, continuing to scream those bizarre phrases until his silhouette was swallowed by the fog layer.
Silas did not turn his head. His breath billowed into white plumes in the freezing air. He walked so fast he was nearly running, pulling Mark deeper toward the path leading to the foot of the mountain.
"It is nothing," Silas replied offhandedly, his voice trembling in a way hard to conceal. "He is aged, his mind is no longer lucid. He is merely babbling nonsense."
"Silas," Mark stopped abruptly, yanking his arm hard out of the bartender's vise grip. "I am a doctor. I know what a psychiatric patient's response looks like and what a warning sounds like. What did he just say about me?"
Silas halted on the snow-covered slope path. The fog surrounding them at this moment condensed into tiny water droplets trickling down his dark cheeks.
Silas looked at Mark, his eyes filled with hesitation and dread. After a prolonged silence that felt endless, he let out a long breath, his voice dropping so low it was audible only to the two of them:
"He was not speaking about you..." Silas swallowed a gulp of saliva, his tone bitter. "He was speaking about the air around you."
"What do you mean?"
Silas turned his face toward the dark limestone mountain range ahead—where Great-Grandfather Kaelen's cabin lay hidden in the fog.
"He said... the fog this year smells richer than usual."
Mark looked bewildered: "Smells like what?"
Silas leaned close to Mark, his eyes wide, reflecting the murky gray light of twilight:
"The smell of rich, fatty meat... being cooked beneath the earth."
