The woods behind his house spoke of a dark and mysterious entity inhabiting it. It was obvious to anyone who had eyes to see it. Trees grew in strange and twisted ways, the branches bare, without leaves. You would be hard pressed to find a single green leaf in sight. Then there was the howling during the night to contend with. But the villagers didn't hear the howling, they were as far away from it as they could get.
No, what scared the villagers was the ever-present grey cloud that hung over the forest, it was relentless, come day or night, winter or spring, the fog spread through the forest, some say they could hear the wind speak as it rushed through.
Fang walked by the forest every day. He agreed with them, it was decidedly creepy, but he'd been living near it for the entirety of his life. The woods had yet to offer proof of its maleficence. Maybe omnipresent gloom over it was because of the mountains playing havoc with the wind currents coming in from the sea. They refused to listen, superstitious the lot of them.
Which explains why Fang suddenly stood still one morning when he opened the door to his cottage. He rubbed his eyes, just to make sure. The mist, had finally reached his house. It was everywhere, deathly silent in its wake. His ears strained to pick up the sound of faint howling in the distance, or the whistling of the wind through the malformed trees, he couldn't hear anything. And for the first time in his life, Fang's blood stilled. Panic seized him. Was it true? Were all of them right? There was an evil in the forest. He'd lived so close to it for so many years!
A ghostly apparition formed itself out of the mist, into the silhouette of a human. It drifted towards him slowly, its hands outstretched, calling him into the forest. His brain finally caught up, he discovered he could move. Fang stepped back into the house, he shut the door behind him. No matter what evil lurked outside. He knew, they couldn't enter into a dweller's home. Not without invitation if all the stories were right. Right now, his life depended on the stories being true.
It screeched, oh what a wail. The wind whipped up, surrounding his house. He ran to the windows, shutting them tight, drawing the curtains. He then stepped towards the fireplace, he coaxed the dying embers into a roaring flame. Beads of sweat threatened to fall into his eyes, he wiped them hastily.
"Help. Someone please help!" He screamed. He ran towards drawers, pulling everything out, searching for something, anything that would help him. He looked towards the flame, it didn't look like the fire was doing much use. He hoped that it would dry up the mist inside the house.
The roof creaked. Windows were straining with the effort of holding back the gale. He couldn't expect help from the villagers. They would never come. He was the only one foolish enough to live so close to the forest. Oh, he should have listened to them and their tales. Why did he have to prove something by living right at the edge. The front door opened with a blast, giving way at last and the smoky figure entered his house.
From afar, the villagers gazed in wonder and fear at the house which once belonged to Fang. The watched as the unholy evil surrounded it from all sides, pushing, twisting. The twisted trees seemed alive, moving with the force of the wind, dancing almost. The meagre cottage finally gave way. It shattered under the force and splintered into a pile of rubble. When the wind finally died down and they deemed it safe, the villages gathered together and searched among the debris.
There was no sign of Fang.