John sat alone in the living room, the flicker of the television casting dull shadows across the walls. His wife, Leah, was away visiting her sister, leaving him alone in the house for the weekend. He switched off the TV, tired of the canned laughter and predictable punchlines, and the sudden silence made the house feel heavier. The only sound now was the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, a faint pulse in the stillness.

The fog outside pressed against the windows, dense and unyielding. It blurred the world into shapeless gray, swallowing everything beyond his yard. John stared into the haze, uneasy. It wasn’t the first foggy night he’d seen, but something about this one felt wrong—too thick, too quiet, like it wasn’t just obscuring the world but erasing it.

He poured himself a drink, savoring the quiet. The fog outside had swallowed the neighborhood in an impenetrable gray, and through the window, John could barely make out the shape of his mailbox. He wasn’t a paranoid man, but the fog unnerved him. It distorted the world, made everything seem closer than it should be.

He poured himself a drink, the clink of the ice against the glass sharp in the quiet. Then came the knock.

It wasn’t the polite rapping of a visitor, but a frantic pounding—desperate, erratic. John tensed, his fingers tightening around the glass. He listened, unsure if he had imagined it. But then it came again, harder this time.

“Please!” a voice cried out, muffled by the thick front door. “Please, help me! I’m thirsty. Please, let me in!”

John stood up, his heartbeat quickening. He walked toward the door but stopped a few feet away, unsure. The voice was that of a woman, her tone laced with a raw edge of panic. He peered through the peephole.

A woman stood on his front porch, her appearance so disheveled it sent a ripple of discomfort down his spine. Her long, tangled hair clung to her face, strands matted with dirt. She wore a filthy, ragged dress, caked in grime, her bare feet blackened from what looked like a long, brutal journey. She kept slapping the door with her palm, as if she didn’t have the strength to knock properly.

“Please, let me in!” she shouted, her voice cracking. “I’m so thirsty!”

John’s throat tightened. His first instinct was to open the door, but something in the pit of his stomach held him back. The way she looked, the frantic energy that radiated from her… it felt wrong.

“I-I’ll get you something,” he called through the door. “Stay there.”

He retreated to the kitchen, opening the fridge to grab a bottle of water. His fingers shook as he closed the fridge door. There was a strange weight in the air, like the fog outside was seeping through the walls. His instincts screamed at him to stay away from the door, but guilt gnawed at him—what if she was really in trouble? What if she just needed help?

When he returned to the foyer, everything was quiet. No more pounding, no cries of desperation. Just silence. John cautiously approached the door, the bottle in hand.

He stopped.

The woman was no longer outside.

A chill crawled up his spine, every hair on his body standing on end. His eyes darted around the room, his heart pounding in his ears. Slowly, he turned—and froze.

She was inside.

Standing in the living room, not more than ten feet from him, staring directly into his eyes.

“How…?” The words died in his throat. His legs felt rooted to the floor.

She smiled faintly, her cracked lips pulling back to reveal yellowed teeth. There was a strange calmness in her now, a slow, deliberate energy. The desperate woman from the porch had vanished, replaced by something colder, more focused.

“You’re kind,” she said softly, her voice brittle like dry leaves. “Thank you for the water.”

John watched, dumbfounded, as she stepped forward and plucked the water bottle from his trembling hands. But she didn’t drink it. Instead, she twisted off the cap and poured a small amount into her filthy palm, rubbing the water over her skin, washing away the caked dirt in slow, deliberate strokes. The streaks of grime thinned, but underneath her skin looked raw, almost bruised.

She took another swig of water—this time, not to drink. She swished it in her mouth and spat it out onto the floor, her eyes locked on his. “Thank you,” she repeated, her voice empty, hollow, devoid of real gratitude. “I needed that.”

John stumbled backward, his heart racing, but she took a slow step forward, closing the gap between them. Her movements were smooth now, unnaturally smooth, like she had shed her earlier desperation.

“What do you want?” he asked, panic rising in his voice.

She tilted her head, her hair falling to one side like a broken marionette. “Why are you afraid?” she asked, her tone dripping with mock innocence. “You’re safe in your home, aren’t you? And all I wanted… was a little kindness.”

“I’ll call the police,” John warned, his voice shaking.

Her eyes narrowed, but her smile widened. “Go ahead. I won’t stop you.” She moved closer, and the sharp tang of soil and rot hit his nostrils. “But you won’t make it, John. You know that, don’t you?”

“How do you know my name?” He hadn’t told her—he hadn’t spoken his name aloud. A lump of terror lodged in his throat.

She chuckled, low and soft. “I’ve known you for longer than you think.” She glanced down at the water bottle, now nearly empty in her hands. “You’ve been so generous. But this… this isn’t what I need.”

John felt the walls closing in, his vision narrowing. The air in the room seemed to grow heavier, thicker. The woman’s smile faded, replaced by a look of hunger so intense it made his skin crawl.

“I’m still thirsty,” she whispered, her voice now barely a breath.

John bolted for the back door, his body finally responding to the surge of adrenaline. He fumbled with the lock, the handle slick in his grip, and it felt like an eternity before it gave way. He burst outside, the fog swallowing him whole.

The porch light barely pierced the haze. The ground beneath him was damp and spongy, like it wasn’t solid anymore. But he couldn’t stop. He had to keep moving. Shapes were approaching in the mist, vague and shifting, and the air buzzed with whispers just out of reach.

“John,” her voice called, soft and mocking. “You can’t run. You know that, don’t you?”

He spun around, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but the house was gone—only fog surrounded him now. The whispers grew louder, overlapping, a chorus of hungry voices. Shadows closed in, their forms just beyond comprehension, and the cold grip of something unseen brushed against his skin.

He stumbled, his knees giving out. As he fell, the fog thickened, pressing into his lungs, his veins, his mind. And through the suffocating gray, her voice drifted close, a final whisper in his ear:

“You’ll always be thirsty, John. Just like me.”

The last thing he saw was her smile, wide and empty, as the fog consumed him.