"I'm going in," James said, checking his service weapon.

"That's suicide." Boni stepped in front of him. "You don't just walk into those woods, let alone when something like this happens. Nobody does."

"There are two kids out there."

"And if we go in there, there'll be four bodies instead of two." Boni's face was tight with fear. "Please, boss."

James chambered a round. "Stay here if you want."

Boni stared at him for a long moment, then pulled out his own weapon. "Ah, shit." He checked his magazine. "My mother always said I was too stupid to live long anyway."

They crossed the crime scene tape and entered the forest. The mist seemed to swallow them whole, unnaturally thick for a morning in St. Leo. Their footsteps were muffled in the damp earth, the fog dampening all sound until even their breathing seemed distant.

"Something's wrong with this fog," Boni whispered. "It's like it's alive."

He wasn't wrong. The mist moved against the wind, curling around trees in patterns that defied natural law. Visibility dropped to mere feet, the white vapor so dense it left moisture beading on their dark skin and clothes.

They followed the trail of broken branches and disturbed earth, guns ready. Every shadow seemed to move. Every sound—the crack of a twig, the rustle of leaves—sent their hearts racing. The forest itself felt wrong, as if they'd stepped into something ancient and alien that merely disguised itself as woods.

A branch snapped somewhere to their left.

Both men spun, weapons raised.

Nothing.

"Boss..." Boni's voice shook, barely more than a whisper. "Look at the trees."

The scars weren't just claw marks—they formed a crude, jagged pattern, as though some unseen hand had tried to carve symbols into the bark. Fresh sap ran down in rivulets, pooling like blood at their feet.

They pressed on, deeper into the mist. The trail suddenly ended at a clearing, where the silence was so profound it felt wrong.

"There's nothing here," Boni said, relief and confusion mixing in his voice.

The wail of sirens pierced the fog—backup arriving at last. James holstered his weapon, frustration etched on his face. They made their way back, the fog seeming to part before them now, almost eager to let them leave.

The scene had transformed in their absence. Three police hilux had joined the first responders, and a helicopter thundered overhead, useless against the thick canopy and persistent mist. Officers were stringing up more crime scene tape, marking evidence, taking photos.

"I want search teams combing every inch of these woods," James ordered, ignoring the muttered protests from officers who knew better than to enter the forest. "Work in groups. No one goes alone."

He made his way back to the ambulance where Mmesoma Agu still sat, her dark skin ashen with shock. She'd stopped shaking, but her eyes remained distant, seeing things no nineteen-year-old should have to see.

"Mmesoma," he said gently, crouching beside her. "I need the names of the missing students. Who hasn't been accounted for?"

She blinked slowly, focusing on his face. "Chibueze Donalds," she said, her voice hoarse. "Everyone calls him Chib. He's in year one, computer science major." She swallowed hard. "And Olayinka Fasola. Yinka. She was... she was right next to me when..." A tear rolled down her cheek. "They were supposed to start dating. Their first date was planned for this weekend."

James put a hand on her shoulder, careful not to startle her. "What else can you remember? Anything about the direction they ran, any landmarks they might have passed?"

Mmesoma's eyes stayed locked on the forest, her breath hitching. "The mist..." Her voice cracked, barely audible. "It wasn't chasing them. It wanted them. It was... leading them in."

"How long have you been in St. Leo?" Boni's voice had an edge to it. "Everyone knows you don't mess with the fog. Especially at night. Especially if you're young."

Mmesoma's fingers twisted in the shock blanket. "I've been here my whole life. My parents run the pharmacy on Oak Street." She looked down, shame crossing her features. "I tried to tell them it was stupid. But this new kid, Spacko... he wouldn't shut up about making the party 'legendary.'"

"Spacko?" James leaned forward. "That's his name?"

"It's what everyone calls him. He's some rich kid from the city, started this semester." She shrugged. "Always talking about how boring St. Leo is, how we're all scared of nothing. Called us village people." Her voice cracked. "He said only pussies were afraid of the dark."

"His real name?" Boni pressed.

"I don't know. Nobody does. Even the professors call him Spacko because he introduced himself that way." She wiped her eyes. "He was the one who picked this spot. Said it would be perfect. Private. No cops to bust us."

James and Boni exchanged looks. The same thought passed between them: no cops because local police knew better than to patrol St. Phillips Road after dark.

"He kept checking his phone, over and over," Mmesoma murmured, a tremor in her voice. "Like he was expecting... I don't know. Something—or someone. And then, when it all started, he just... disappeared."

James stood up slowly, his joints cracking from crouching too long. "Boni," he said quietly. "We need to get to that school."

They walked back to James's temporary replacement vehicle—a beat-up police car that smelled like old leather.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Boni asked as they got in.

"Kid shows up out of nowhere. Picks the perfect spot for an attack. Times it just right." James started the engine. "Either he's the luckiest party planner in history..."

"Or he was serving up dinner." Boni finished, his face grim. "But that's crazy, right? The idea that someone would... that they'd work with those things?"

James pulled onto the main road, lights flashing but siren off. "Twenty years on the force, and I've learned one thing: there's always someone willing to feed the monsters. Question is..."

"What do they get in return?" Boni pulled out his phone. "I'll call the college, get them to pull everything they have on our mystery student."

The fog seemed to follow their car as they drove toward Holy Cross College, curling around the vehicle like curious fingers. In the rearview mirror, James could have sworn he saw shapes moving within it—massive, fluid forms that disappeared when he tried to focus on them.

But his attention was drawn to something else: a metallic glint in the treeline. For just a moment, he caught sight of what looked like a camera mounted high in a tree, its lens pointed directly at St. Phillips Road.

Someone had been watching. Someone had been waiting.

And somewhere in Holy Cross, a student called Spacko had some explaining to do.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚

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