Lean in close now…
Don’t sit too far from the fire.
If that fog rolls in while I’m talking… we’re all done for.
See, long before this place was called Big Flats, back in 1740, there was a little village called Atsingnetsing. Quaint place—only 147 souls lived there. Tight-knit. Peaceful. They say the church bell rang every evening as the sun dipped behind the hills, and lanterns glowed warm in every window.
But that all changed one Halloween night.
A thick, unnatural fog slithered out from the wetlands behind the village—cold, heavy… and too quiet.
By midnight, it had smothered everything. No stars. No moonlight. No sound… except the distant toll of the bell.
And screams.
The townsfolk turned on each other, like something inside them snapped.
Some say it was a curse. Others say something in the fog got into them—something hungry.
By sunrise, the village was silent. Empty.
Except for one lone survivor…
shaking, raving about blood and shadows with teeth.
The neighbors from the next town came looking.
What they found wasn’t Atsingnetsing anymore.
They gave it a new name:
Tagslyvania.
Over the years, people tried to explain it.
Scientists. Priests. Monster hunters.
None came back the same.
Some didn’t come back at all.
They say the place where the fog first rose became known as The Lost Hamlet.
It’s still there—
but only when the fog grows thick enough to hide the world.
For just a moment, you might see it:
Stone cottages caving in on themselves.
Dead trees growing through cracked rooftops.
A single lantern swaying on a broken post.
And if you listen… you’ll hear faint music.
Or church bells ringing.
Or… familiar voices, calling you deeper in.
But here’s the thing.
The hamlet wants you to follow.
It needs you.
Those who wander off the trail, chasing those lights, are never seen again.
And the few who crawl back out?
Their eyes are hollow.
Their words don’t make sense anymore.
It’s like part of them stayed behind.
The fog doesn’t stay still.
It grows.
There was a traveling carnival once—Jerkus Circus.
They set up their tents right on the edge, hoping to thrill the locals.
They didn’t last the night.
By morning… nothing remained.
Not a single stake in the ground.
Then came Motel 666, built by some greedy soul hoping to cash in on the curious.
The next year, the fog reached out like a living thing… and took it too.
And then… there’s The Orphan House.
It used to be an old Victorian asylum, turned into a home for the lost children of Atsingnetsing—
the ones left behind after that first night of fog.
Caretakers tried to raise them… but something had changed in those children.
They whispered to shadows, spoke in voices not their own.
One by one, they vanished—until only their laughter echoed through the halls.
The building stands still, windows dark…
but at night, you can hear tiny footsteps running just out of sight,
and soft lullabies sung by voices that haven’t breathed in centuries.
The fog always takes what it touches.
Still… people come.
Every year, when the air turns sharp and the leaves go brittle, they come.
Ghost hunters. Daredevils. Nonbelievers.
Even a few old fortune tellers, who pitch their tents on the outskirts
and whisper to the ones still trapped inside.
The brave—or the foolish—walk to the edge of the Lost Hamlet,
hoping for just one glimpse of the souls still wandering.
Some say they get it.
But listen to me now, and listen well:
Stay on the path.
Stay with your group.
And if the fog whispers your name…
do not answer it.
Because if you do…
you won’t come back.
You’ll be just another voice…
calling to the next poor soul
who dares to step into
