Scottish lighthouse keeper vanished in 1923. Then the fog came for me.

So I'm a historian obsessed with this absolutely unhinged mystery. In 1923, three lighthouse keepers on Skye just... disappeared. All in one night. Dunvegan lighthouse. Now it's ruins.

I go out to this creepy village to investigate, renting from this ancient fisherman named Mackinnon. The SECOND I tell him what I'm researching, he's like, "don't listen to the fog's call on thick nights, lad. Some sounds... they're not looking for an answer." I'm thinking. okay boomer, it's just isolation psychosis or a storm.

That night the fog ROLLS in. Can't see a foot in front of you. I'm reading the 1923 lighthouse logbook by candlelight and it's getting progressively unhinged.

Entry 1: "Tom's been rambling for days. Says he hears his dead sister's voice in the fog. Won't leave the engine room."

Entry 2: "I heard it too tonight. Bells. From the shore. But there's no church. Finlay says it's an old sunken village calling to us."

Entry 3 (and this is where it gets BATSHIT): "It's not a voice. It's *mimicking* sounds. It's stealing our memories. Finlay just went outside. Tom broke down his door and followed. It's using my son's voice. If anyone reads this... please don't..."

And it just... stops.

I'm sitting there genuinely unnerved and then. knock knock knock. On my door. At like midnight. In the middle of nowhere.

"Who is it?"

Knock knock.

I walk over and through the door I hear this thin, high voice. Familiar in the worst way. "Alister? It's me. Open up. It's so cold out here."

That voice. That was my fiancée. Claire. She died five years ago in London. Car accident.

My brain is screaming this is impossible but the voice is PERFECT. Her little pet names for me, her accent, even that thing where she slightly nasally on certain words. She's begging me to open the door, sobbing, saying she's been looking for me.

My hand actually reaches for the lock before I remember that last logbook entry. "It mimics sounds. It steals our memories."

So instead I lean down and look through the old keyhole.

The hallway is dark but there's moonlight and I can see the shape in front of my door and I can't... I CAN'T describe it right. It's not Claire's shape. It's TALL. Like three meters easily. And it's got this sagging thing draped over it like wet kelp. Impossibly thin and long. No mouth. No vocal cords.

But still speaking in Claire's voice directly into my ear.

"Why won't you open it, baby? I can see you."

Then at the keyhole. One eye. Massive. Round. Completely black. No light in it at all. Just looking directly at me through that tiny hole.

I don't open the door.

Next morning the fog clears. I'm gone. My stuff's still in the room but I'm just. not there. Window's wide open. Rain soaked everything.

Mackinnon finds the footprints below my window in the mud. Two sets. Mine in my hiking boots. And right next to them. bare feet. Grotesquely huge and thin. Walking side by side like we were arm in arm. Heading toward the sea.

Both sets of tracks end perfectly. Cleanly. Right where the water starts.

I don't know how I'm writing this. I don't know where I am. But I need to warn anyone researching old disappearances. Don't go when the fog is thick. Don't answer when it calls. Don't believe what you hear.

It's not calling for an answer.

It's calling for *company*.