Title by Tejas Abert

For months, people have accepted the line—a single-file march that curls through the town. No one knows where it ends or when it started; they only know to stay. It stretches a great distance, down the length of Park Street, and disappears over the town’s foggy hills. Tuesday, March 15, was the day the line first formed, although most people are unaware of it. It isn’t the most perfect line, but rather an uncoiled crowd that holds people of all races and ages, growing grayer as the line progresses. They hold no belongings, only what remains in their pockets, their expressions wooden and unmoving. 

Some sway on their feet, eyes half closed, as if their very will had been drained from their bodies. Children stand still, clinging to the hems of their parents’ coats. Not even a cough or shuffle breaks the silence. 

Suddenly, the line, which has been stationary for as long as anyone could remember, shuffles faintly. The line shifts, a ripple running like wind through tall grass, and onlookers' eyes snap to it. Up ahead, three teenagers break away, their laughter fierce against the heavy silence. 

The tallest wears a frayed denim jacket with worn-out sleeves and sneakers that spark against the pavement. Beside him, a boy in a bright red hoodie cuts a vivid line against the gray crowd. With a baseball cap pulled low, he holds a dark skateboard under his arm. The third wears a loose hoodie and a backpack that bounces excitedly with every step. One vaults over the curb, another shoves his hands deep in his pockets, and the last turns to face the line with a crooked grin. 

For the first time, gasps flutter down the line. No one has ever left before. The space they have left behind seems immense without their presence, a wound in an endless column. The teens linger on the edge of the street, whispering to one another. For the first time in years, the line isn't whole. 

The tallest takes a step toward the fog-draped hills, his sneakers scuffing the ground. The line stiffens at the sound. The second boy whistles a shaky tune, the grin on his face showing nothing but pride. The line holds its breath. Then, without warning, the third teen darts across the street, arms spread open as if to prove his freedom. For a moment, it seems like he might vanish in the fog altogether. As if struck, he freezes, smiling dropping from his face as his body goes rigid.

Slowly, he stumbles back, eyes wide, returning to where his friends stand. Whatever he saw in that grey veil, he can not name. The others don’t laugh this time. The gap in the line remains—a silent invitation. 

The fog thickens, gray  fingers curling around their ankles. Shapes move within it, vague and inconceivable, never fully solid yet impossibly close. A low hum rumbles through the fog, and the tallest boy takes another step forward. The gray tendrils snap back, recoiling at his movement. He pauses again, shivers crawling up his spine. His friends try to grab his hand, but their own sink into the fog as if weighed down. 

From somewhere deep in the fog comes a soft sigh, a sound not quite human, not quite wind. Their faces, turned forward, now stare at two glinting eyes—something ancient, patient, and hungry. The teens huddle together, stumbling back toward their space in the line as the fog presses closer.

They return to their place in the line, eyes fixed ahead as they try their best to stand like stone. Slow, deep stomps overtake the street. The teens’ eyes shift, trying to get a better look.

A dark figure emerges from the mist, its figure distinct but still in a moving, fluid form. Thick fog envelops the line, blocking any sort of view. A soft, rhythmic sound precedes the figure. The shape detaches itself from the shadows. It moves strangely, towering nearly 8 feet tall. Thick and powerful, its legs are a horrific sight, bending backwards at the knee in an unfamiliar and twisted way. It lumbers toward the first person, lowering its head until it rests only inches from their face. It stays there, unmoving, inspecting. The silence is absolute. The crowd stands in a trance as if powered off. The creature moves to the next person and the next until finally reaching the teens.

They tense as it grows close. Each teenager is a statue, the tallest among them, paralyzed in fear and necessity. With a blink, a single lapse, the monster is lost from view.

A cold gust of air rushes to the back of his neck; it was his turn. Mind frantic, he remains still, not letting even a single hair move. The creature bends, a blur of motion before his eyes, and a voice, impossibly close, fills his head.

“You.”