Nestled deep in the heart of the Scottish Highlands lay the village of Drummore, shrouded in perpetual mist that curled through the streets like ghostly fingers. The villagers spoke in hushed tones about “The Watcher,” a malevolent entity said to haunt the surrounding moors. Most dismissed it as a legend, but whispers of missing travelers and eerie sightings persisted.

When Eleanor Blackwood, an ambitious journalist, arrives in Drummore, she’s eager to debunk the myth. She plans to write a feature exposing the superstitions of small-town life. Armed with her camera and recorder, she sets off into the moors at dusk, despite warnings from the locals.

“You’ll not return if you go after dark,” warns Mrs. MacGregor, the innkeeper, her weathered hands trembling as she hands Eleanor a lantern. Eleanor brushes off the caution with a confident smile.

As she ventures deeper into the moors, the fog thickens, swallowing the world around her. The air grows unnaturally cold, and a strange silence settles—no rustling leaves, no distant bird calls, only the sound of her own breath.

Eleanor stumbles upon an ancient stone circle, its weathered monoliths jutting from the ground like skeletal fingers. She feels a strange pull, as though the stones themselves beckon her. She sets up her camera, determined to capture evidence of the so-called Watcher.

Hours pass, and the fog grows denser. Eleanor begins to feel as if she’s being watched. A flicker of movement catches her eye—a shadow shifting just beyond the circle. She calls out, her voice trembling, but there’s no response.

The fog seems to come alive, swirling around her in unnatural patterns. Suddenly, a low, guttural sound reverberates through the air. Eleanor spins around, her lantern casting flickering light, and catches a glimpse of something—tall, humanoid, but wrong. Its elongated limbs move with an unnatural fluidity, and its eyes glow faintly, like embers in the mist.

Panic grips her as the creature steps closer, its face a blank, pale expanse except for those burning eyes. She grabs her camera and snaps a photo, but the flash seems to enrage it. The creature lets out an ear-splitting screech, and Eleanor bolts, her lantern swinging wildly as she runs blindly through the fog.

Eleanor’s breath comes in ragged gasps as she stumbles back toward the village. The fog seems to thicken, pressing against her like a living thing. She can hear the creature’s heavy, deliberate footsteps behind her, closing the distance.

She trips and falls near a small, gnarled tree. As she scrambles to her feet, she notices strange carvings on the bark—symbols matching those etched into the stone circle. Desperate, she places her hand on the tree, hoping for some form of protection.

The Codex of Shadows: Horror Story

The creature halts, its glowing eyes fixed on her. It reaches out, its elongated fingers stopping inches from her face. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, it retreats, melting back into the fog.

Eleanor stumbles into Drummore just as dawn breaks, her clothes torn and her face pale. She tries to explain what happened, but the villagers exchange knowing glances and refuse to speak further.

Back in her hotel room, Eleanor examines her camera. Her hands tremble as she scrolls through the photos. The images are blurry, but in each one, the creature looms closer, its eyeless face staring directly at the lens.

Eleanor decides to leave Drummore immediately, but as she drives away, the fog begins to creep back in. Her rearview mirror reflects a faint, glowing pair of eyes watching from the roadside.

Weeks later, Eleanor develops the photos in her London apartment. In the final frame, taken just before she ran, the creature is no longer alone. Dozens of shadowy figures stand behind it, their glowing eyes fixed on her.

That night, as the city sleeps, a thick fog rolls into London. Eleanor wakes to the sound of footsteps in her hallway.

The Watcher has followed her.