The house stood at the edge of the moor. It was a large thing. Grey stone. Tall windows. It looked like a skull.

Elias walked toward it. His boots were muddy. The mud was black. It clung to the leather. He had not washed it off. He had not washed his face. He did not care.

The mist was thick. It was white. It swallowed the horizon. It swallowed the trees. It swallowed the world.

Elias carried a box. It was wooden. It was heavy. It contained his father’s tools. A hammer. A chisel. A file. And a letter. The letter was folded. The paper was yellow. It smelled of dust.

He stopped at the gate. The iron was rusted. Red flakes flaked off as he touched it. He opened the gate. It groaned. A long, low sound. It sounded like a scream.

The house waited. It did not move. It did not breathe. It just was.

Elias entered the foyer. The floor was cold. It was marble. It reflected his face. The face was gaunt. The eyes were dark. He saw a stranger.

He walked to the center of the room. He placed the box on the floor. He sat on the floor. He did not stand up.

The silence was loud. It pressed against his ears. It pushed into his mind.

He thought of his father. His father had been a good man. Or so he said. His father had built this house. Brick by brick. Beam by beam. His father had loved this place. He had loved the stone. He had loved the mist.

But his father had also been cruel. He had been hard. He had hit Elias. He had hit his mother. He had hit the dogs. He had hit the air when he was angry.

Elias did not remember why he was here. He remembered the letter. He remembered the words.

Come home. The house is yours. The debt is paid.

He did not know who had written it. He did not know who the debt was for. He only knew he had to come.

The mist pressed against the windows. It was alive. It moved. It crawled. It wanted in.

Elias looked at the door. The front door. It was closed. He had locked it. He had the key. He was the master now.

He was the prisoner.

A sound came from the upstairs. A footstep. Heavy. Slow.

Elias froze. His heart beat fast. It beat hard. It beat in his throat.

He did not move. He did not breathe.

The footsteps stopped.

Then they started again. Closer.

Elias stood up. His legs were stiff. They ached. He walked to the stairs. The wood creaked under his weight.

He climbed. One step. Two steps. Three.

The hallway was long. It was dark. The mist had crept inside. It filled the corridor. It was like fog. It was like breath.

He reached the end of the hall. There was a door. It was oak. It was thick. It was closed.

He reached for the handle. It was cold. He turned it.

The door opened.

The room was empty.

There was a bed. There was a chair. There was a table. There was a window.

The window was open. The mist poured in. It swirled around the room. It danced. It played.

Elias stepped inside. The mist touched his face. It was wet. It was cold. It felt like tears.

He looked at the table. On the table was a glass. It was empty. Next to it was a bottle. It was full.

He looked at the chair. It was empty.

He looked at the bed. It was made. The sheets were white. They were smooth.

He felt a pull. A strong pull. It pulled him toward the window.

He walked to the window. He looked out.

The moor was gone. The trees were gone. The sky was gone.

There was only the mist.

It was everywhere. It was nothing. It was everything.

Elias saw a figure in the mist.

It was tall. It was grey. It had no face.

It stood still. It watched him.

Elias did not run. He did not scream. He just looked.

The figure raised a hand. It pointed. It pointed at Elias.

Then it pointed at the house.

Then it pointed at the floor.

Elias looked down.

The mist was on the floor. It was rising. It was climbing the walls. It was filling the room.

The air grew thin. It was hard to breathe. The mist was thick. It was dense. It was heavy.

Elias fell to his knees. The floor was soft. The mist was soft.

He felt a presence. It was behind him. It was close.

He turned around.

There was no one.

But the air moved. The mist moved.

A voice spoke. It was not a voice. It was a thought. It was in his head.

You are late.

Elias knew the voice. It was his father’s voice.

I am here, Elias said.

You are not.

Why?

Because you are the debt.

Elias did not understand. He looked at the mist. It swirled faster. It whirled. It spun.

The house groaned. The walls shuddered. The floor cracked.

The mist rose higher. It touched his chin. It touched his mouth.

He tried to speak. He could not.

The mist filled his lungs. It filled his mind.

He remembered his mother. She was dead. She had died in this room. She had died in the mist.

He remembered his father. He was gone. He had gone into the mist.

Elias was alone.

The mist was the house. The house was the mist.

He was part of it now.

He felt a change. A shift. A release.

The anger was gone. The fear was gone. The pain was gone.

He felt light. He felt free.

He stood up. The mist parted.

He walked to the center of the room. He picked up the box.

He opened it.

The tools were gone. The letter was gone.

There was only a mirror.

He looked into the mirror.

He saw his face. It was pale. It was grey. It was the color of the mist.

He saw his eyes. They were empty. They were full.

He saw the house behind him. It was breaking. The stones were falling. The roof was collapsing.

The mist was eating the house.

Elias smiled.

It was a small smile. It was sad. It was true.

He closed his eyes.

He let the mist take him.

He let the house fall.

He let the world end.

The mist covered everything.

It covered the moor.

It covered the sky.

It covered the sun.

It covered the light.

It covered the truth.

It covered the lie.

It covered the love.

It covered the hate.

It covered the sin.

It covered the soul.

Elias was gone.

The house was gone.

The mist remained.

It was white.

It was quiet.

It was still.

It waited.

It always waited.

For the next one.

For the next debt.

For the next lie.

The mist moved.

It moved slowly.

It moved gracefully.

It moved with purpose.

It moved with mercy.

It moved with cruelty.

It moved with truth.

It was the end.

It was the beginning.

It was the middle.

It was the mist.

It was the pale mist.

It was the only thing that mattered.

It was the only thing that was real.

It was the only thing that was left.

The mist breathed.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The world was quiet.

The world was still.

The world was gone.

The mist was here.

The mist was now.

The mist was everything.

The mist was nothing.

The mist was Elias.

The mist was his father.

The mist was his mother.

The mist was the house.

The mist was the moor.

The mist was the sky.

The mist was the earth.

The mist was the air.

The mist was the water.

The mist was the fire.

The mist was the light.

The mist was the dark.

The mist was the sound.

The mist was the silence.

The mist was the voice.

The mist was the thought.

The mist was the memory.

The mist was the dream.

The mist was the nightmare.

The mist was the hope.

The mist was the despair.

The mist was the love.

The mist was the hate.

The mist was the trust.

The mist was the betrayal.

The mist was the forgiveness.

The mist was the guilt.

The mist was the shame.

The mist was the pride.

The mist was the humility.

The mist was the strength.

The mist was the weakness.

The mist was the courage.

The mist was the fear.

The mist was the joy.

The mist was the sorrow.

The mist was the life.

The mist was the death.

The mist was the eternal.

The mist was the fleeting.

The mist was the past.

The mist was the future.

The mist was the present.

The mist was the now.

The mist was the everything.

The mist was the nothing.

The mist was the all.

The mist was the none.

The mist was the one.

The mist was the many.

The mist was the self.

The mist was the other.

The mist was the soul.

The mist was the body.

The mist was the spirit.

The mist was the ghost.

The mist was the spirit.

The mist was the ghost.

The mist was the pale mist.