Lillian Blackwood

The cold mist pricked Eli Walker's skin like a thousand tiny needles.

He coughed and gasped awake, his lungs burning with air thick with the metallic tang of rust. Above him was not the sterile white ceiling of the hospital, nor the water-stained plaster of his leaky apartment. It was nothing but endless, inky black fog, so dense it might as well have been liquid.

Eli struggled to sit up, finding himself on cold asphalt. His hand closed around something hard, carrying an unnatural warmth. He looked down. A black envelope, sealed with twisted black thorns embossed in gold Gothic lettering. Four letters burned into the center: BLACKWOOD.

An acceptance letter.

The one that had appeared in his mailbox three days ago-no return address, no stamp.

His fingers trembled as he traced the line written in blood-red ink beneath the seal: "Enrollment grants an unconditional $1,000,000 scholarship, usable for any medical expenses."

Three days ago, the doctor had called him into his office and handed him a death sentence.

"Eli, Lily's acute lymphoblastic leukemia has reached end-stage." The doctor's voice held exhausted sympathy. "We've exhausted every treatment. She has at most a month. Prepare yourself."

One month.

His little sister-the girl who always called him brother with a smile, who dreamed of being a painter-had one month left to live.

Eli had begged every bank, borrowed from every person who would speak to him, even sold his blood on the black market. But the astronomical medical bills loomed over him like a mountain. He had stood on the hospital roof that night, wondering if jumping would be the easy way out, when he'd found the letter in his mailbox downstairs.

He'd thrown it in the trash, assuming it was some cruel scam. But the next morning, it was on his pillow.

The third day, a text from an unknown number arrived: "Be at the downtown crossroads at midnight with the letter. Or your sister's death will be your fault."

Eli had come. And then the black mist had swallowed him whole.

He jumped to his feet, spinning to run. But the road behind him was gone, replaced by the same endless fog. From within it came faint, drifting cries-like a woman's whimper, like a child's sob-sending chills down his spine.

"Is anyone there?" A trembling voice cut through the silence.

Eli turned. A boy in a high school uniform huddled a few feet away, his face deathly pale, clutching an identical black envelope. He looked no older than sixteen, thick glasses slipping down his nose, his entire body shaking.

"I'm Junior." The boy scrambled toward him like a drowning man reaching for driftwood. "I was doing homework at home, and then I woke up here. What's happening?"

One by one, others emerged from the fog.

A woman with short cropped hair in a black leather jacket held a DSLR camera, her eyes sharp and alert as she scanned their surroundings. Mud caked her jeans, and a tear gaped at one knee, as if she'd been running from something moments before.

"Leah Carter." She introduced herself briefly, snapping a few quick photos of the fog. "I'm a journalist investigating the Blackwood Ridge disappearances. I was taking pictures last night when this mist rolled in and dragged me under."

A heavily tattooed giant lumbered forward, a long scar slicing across his face from forehead to chin, his eyes as fierce as a wolf's. He surveyed the group with a cold sneer and said nothing. Eli recognized him immediately: Kane Royce, leader of the local Black Serpents gang, whose face had been all over the news just days ago as a wanted fugitive.

Then came a woman in a white lab coat, a businessman in a crisp suit, an elderly man with white hair... fifteen people in total, each clutching a black acceptance letter, each wearing the same mask of confusion and terror.

"What the hell is this?" The businessman screamed, his voice cracking with hysteria. "I have a meeting! My clients are waiting! Let me out!"

He turned and charged into the black fog.

"Don't!" Eli shouted.