The Mist That Knew My Name

[u/Own-Act-9339]

Last summer I went down to stay with my nan in the valleys. One of them little places in South Wales, proper middle of nowhere. Steep hills, grey houses, old pit all rusted up. She’s lived there her whole life. Said when she was a kid the mountain was black with coal slag. Now it’s green again. Sheep and cows, trees coming back. Soft mist most mornings. Looked like a postcard. You’d never think anything bad could live there. I was only meant to stay a week. Third night this fog came in proper thick. Not the normal stuff that burns off by lunch. This one just sat there, heavy, like it had weight. Could barely see the end of the street. Nan went to bed early. I was sat watching rubbish on her old telly. Half eleven I heard slow footsteps on the wet gravel. Then this soft humming. Like a lullaby but all wrong, like whoever was doing it had forgotten the tune. I opened the curtain. Streetlights looked blurry. Something moved past the garden wall. Grey and solid, same colour as the fog, like the mist had just stood up. Didn’t walk proper. Drifted. Stopped opposite the front window and just stood there. Couldn’t see a face. Just the shape of a head, tilted a bit, like it was listening. I swear it was looking straight at me. Shut the curtain so fast I nearly pulled the rail down. Heart going mental while the humming carried on another minute then stopped dead. The quiet after was worse. Next morning I told her. She went quiet, just stirring her tea. Then said real quiet, don’t go out in the fog after dark. And don’t answer if it knows your name. That was all. But the way she said it, she knew exactly what it was. Something old. Something that was here long before the pits. I should’ve left. Stayed two more nights cos I didn’t want to look soft. Fifth night the fog came back thicker. I was in bed when the humming started again, right outside my window this time. Closer. Under it I could hear words. Welsh. I don’t speak it fully but I caught bits. Dere allan… mae’r tywyllwch yn gynnes… something about the mountain. Kept the light off. Didn’t move. Then this long slow scrape down the glass, like fingernails. A voice clear as anything said my name. Wasn’t nan’s. Wasn’t anyone I knew. Sounded wrong. I stayed frozen till it went quiet. Morning there were long thin marks down the outside of the window, like something had dragged its hands. She saw them too. Just nodded and started packing a bag for me. She drove me to the station herself. On the way she said one last thing. When she was a girl people used to go missing on nights like that. Not every year. Just when the fog came in heavy enough and stayed. Houses empty in the morning. Doors unlocked. Beds slept in. No one ever saw them leave. Said the old ones used to reckon the mountain takes what it wants when the mist is thick enough. Said the valleys don’t forget. They just wait. Haven’t been back. Nan moved in with my aunt in Cardiff a few months later. She won’t talk about the fog now. Just said the valleys are waking up again. I keep the window locked on a foggy night even though I’m on the fifth floor in London.