Dr. Finch lowered the receiver onto its cradle, a frown deepening the lines around his eyes. He still heard the peculiar shift in Elara Vance’s voice, a breathy gasp of relief that grated against the severity of Kaelen’s condition. How odd. A woman discovering her husband was locked in a prolonged, unpredictable slumber, yet her response had been one of desperate, almost joyous reprieve. He pushed away from his desk, the worn leather of his chair groaning in protest. Kaelen’s case was a singular, baffling mystery. Two years ago, the initial reports of the young master’s head injury had been grim. His miraculous awakening a month past, defying all prognosis, had been hailed as a medical marvel. For a fleeting week, he had shown remarkable progress, his powerful frame recalling old strength, his joints surprisingly fluid despite the long dormancy. Then, the relapse. For nearly two weeks now, Kaelen had been sunk into a stupor deeper than any drug-induced sleep. A man addicted, it seemed, to the very act of un-being. Dr. Finch paced his small study, his thoughts circling like trapped birds. He recalled an earlier visit, before the long sleep had fully settled. He’d leaned close to Kaelen’s bedside, a standard neurological check. “Can you tell me your name?” he’d asked, the question hanging heavy in the dim room. Kaelen’s eyes, unfocused and distant, had flickered. A soft sound, a rasp, had escaped his lips. “Ka… Kaelen…” “Excellent,” Dr. Finch had murmured, a faint smile touching his lips. “Just like that. Speak whatever comes to mind.” Silence had stretched. Then, barely audible, a whisper so fragile it might have been a trick of the gaslight. “Please… don’t wake up.” The words had haunted him since. They were not the pleas of a man seeking recovery, but a spirit in torment, begging for oblivion. He’d chalked it up to trauma, to the residual confusion of a damaged mind. His mind drifted to Lord Vance. The elder brother’s decision to remove Kaelen from the sanatorium, to insist upon his treatment within the isolated, decaying walls of Blackwood Estate, had always struck Dr. Finch as peculiar. A man of Lord Vance’s means could command the finest medical facilities in Europe. Yet, here Kaelen remained, in the care of a young woman who claimed him as her husband. Dr. Finch rubbed his chin, a new thought sparking. He had been so caught up in the relief of diagnosing Hypersomnia, of explaining the sleep cycles to Miss Vance. He’d completely overlooked mentioning the other, more insidious symptoms. Klein-Levin Syndrome, or as it was colloquially known, Sleeping Beauty Syndrome, carried a monstrous retinue of secondary effects. Behavioral abnormalities. Hyperphagia. Uncontrollable aggression. Exorbitant sexual desire. “Ah, blast it all,” he muttered, snapping his fingers. He had forgotten to elaborate. He peered out his window at the encroaching twilight, already tinged with the perpetual damp of the countryside. “Well, he’ll be quite alright for today, I imagine.” Just a day. Nothing would happen in a mere day. --- Elara hummed a tuneless melody as she descended the grand, creaking staircase of Blackwood. Her steps were light, her heart an uncharacteristic, fragile bird fluttering in her chest. The doctor’s pronouncements had been a reprieve, a temporary reprieve, yet it felt like a lifetime had been granted. Kaelen was ‘awake’ yet asleep, trapped in his own mind. Her perilous lie of being his wife, spoken in a moment of desperate preservation, had bought her precious time. Time to think. Time to breathe. She reached the ground floor, the cold air seeping from the flagstone beneath her worn slippers. A silence, deep and absolute, permeated the manor. It was a silence she had grown accustomed to, a comfort that now felt like a fragile shield. Kaelen, inert, meant she had control. Or, at least, the illusion of it. A chill, sharper than the estate’s usual damp, prickled her skin. Something was amiss. A faint groan echoed from the distant kitchens, a sound of wood scraping against stone. Her breath caught in her throat. She moved with practiced stealth, her feet whispering across the cold marble tiles, her hand brushing along the wall as if seeking reassurance from the aged plaster. The kitchen door stood ajar, revealing a sliver of darkness. She pushed it open wider, her gaze sweeping the familiar space. A basket of freshly baked bread sat on the counter, untouched. The fire in the hearth had died down to embers. Everything seemed normal, yet the feeling of disturbance persisted. Then she saw it. The massive oak door, leading out to the rear grounds, stood gaping. It had been secured with a heavy iron bar, a precaution against the wild creatures, or perhaps the more feral aspects of the estate’s history. Now, the bar lay twisted on the floor, one end splintered. The door itself hung crookedly on its hinges, as if struck by something immense, something desperate to escape. Her fragile peace shattered like glass. He was gone. Kaelen. Her hands trembled, icy cold. The phantom hum died in her throat. Her mind raced, a frantic animal in a cage. This was not merely Kaelen waking. This was Kaelen *escaping*. And if he was out, in this fog-bound night, doing… what? Her lie, her precarious position, would collapse. Lord Vance. The thought alone was a lash. He could not find out. Not like this. Not that Kaelen, the man he had confined to this isolated manor, had broken free, perhaps even exposed their morbid secrets to the villagers, should he reach them. And what if he hurt someone? The blame would fall on her. Always on her. She snatched a heavy cloak from a peg by the pantry, pulling it tight around her slender frame. The fog outside was a living entity, thick and hungry, swallowing the last vestiges of twilight. Her breath plumed in the frigid air. The path leading from the back door, usually a compacted dirt track, was churned and marred. It wasn’t footprints. It was a grotesque furrow, as if something heavy and serpentine had dragged itself across the ground. A low moan escaped her. This was beyond anything Dr. Finch had described. This was primal. She clutched the rough wool of her cloak, her heart hammering against her ribs. The dark boughs of ancient oaks clawed at the milky sky, their branches like skeletal fingers. Every whisper of the wind, every rustle of dry leaves, sent a fresh jolt of terror through her. She followed the gruesome trail, her eyes straining in the oppressive gloom. It wound past the neglected kitchen garden, through a tangle of overgrown rose bushes whose thorns seemed to reach out for her. The air grew heavier here, thick with the scent of damp earth and something else… something metallic and sickly sweet. Blood. She pressed a hand to her mouth, stifling a gasp. Her stomach lurched. The trail ended abruptly near the old, derelict chicken coop, its wire mesh torn, feathers scattered across the muddy ground like macabre snow. A sound emerged from within the coop’s shadow, a low, guttural tearing noise, followed by a wet crack. A shiver of pure dread ran down her spine. “Kaelen?” Her voice was a thin, reedy whisper, barely audible above the drumming of her own fear. Another sound. A sloshing. She took a hesitant step forward, peering into the deeper gloom of the coop. Her breath hitched. Her blood ran cold. The sight that met her eyes was something from a nightmare woven in the deepest parts of Blackwood’s grim history. He stood hunched over, his back to her, an imposing, terrifying silhouette against the faint glow of the distant manor lights filtered through the fog. His dark, formal clothes were ripped, covered in filth and dark, viscous stains. He moved with an unsettling fluidity, a primal grace that spoke of instinct, not thought. He raised something to his lips, something limp and feathery. The sound of tearing flesh ripped through the silence. His jaw muscles worked, stark in the murky light. He groaned, a deep, animalistic sound, then spat a piece of mangled flesh onto the ground. A headless rooster lay at his feet, its pristine white feathers now matted with gore. Elara’s vision swam. The metallic tang in the air was overwhelming. Her hands flew to her mouth, clamping down to prevent the scream, the vomit, from escaping. He was consuming it. Raw. Bloody. Like a starved beast. His eyes, when he turned slowly, drawn by her presence, were vacant, unseeing, yet terrifyingly focused on nothing. “Kaelen!” she cried, a raw edge to her voice, trying to inject a note of concern, of authority. She had to get him back. Before anyone saw. Before Lord Vance learned. Before the extent of this horror unfolded. He tossed the remains of the rooster aside, a sickening plop. He turned fully, his height seeming to expand in the shadows, his frame more massive, more formidable than she remembered. Two heads taller than her, his shoulders broad and powerful even beneath the tattered fabric. His sleeves, his trousers, his chest—all smeared with mud and crimson, like the rust-red sap that bled from the ancient, gnarled yews that guarded Blackwood’s forgotten corners. He didn’t walk. He moved, a low, predatory crouch, one foot then the other, a slow, deliberate crawl through the muck towards her. The tattered remnants of his shirt fluttered in a sudden gust of wind, revealing the stark lines of his powerful torso, muscles taut beneath the grime. A terrifying, brutal beauty. He was no longer the Kaelen she had tended. This was something ancient, something unleashed. His gaze, dull and unseeing, swept over her, yet somehow pierced through her composure. He stopped mere feet away, his head cocked slightly, as if listening to a distant, unheard sound. “Kaelen…” she tried again, her voice wavering. His lips, stained crimson, parted. A guttural rumble vibrated in his chest. “Name…” Elara froze. The fog swirled around them, cold and damp. Her mind raced, a frantic, desperate churn of thoughts. Name? He didn’t know her. He didn’t remember. Her lie, her fragile shield, had been ripped away. She was nothing to him. A stranger. A potential threat. And he, a creature of pure, feral instinct, stood before her, blood on his lips, hunger in his blank eyes. What could she possibly say? “What’s your name?” His voice, a low rasp, cut through the night, a brutal question echoing in the chilling silence of Blackwood.

A Hunger in the Fog