A veil of mist descended upon the Yorkshire moors. Like a stage curtain declaring the end, time to go home. In the pub feet shuffled uneasily, men began to leave. Tonight’s no night to be upon the moor, they knew instinctively.
Farmers checked their cattle early and made apace for their doors. Slamming them hard and bolting, shutting windows and shutter boards. Stoking up the fires the wives could feel it too, but not a word was spoken. The children, long abed, curled up tight, not knowing; yet they knew.
On the Moor the sheep and cattle wide eyed and breathing heavily, massed in groups for safety, their hearts racing, oh they knew. From generations past the warning came, make fast, beware the mist. The mist, the mist, ignore it at your peril, seek refuge while you can.
It moved so slowly, sometimes it swirled, it clung to rock and heather. It clung to trees and tumbled over bows, it filled the shallow valleys. It rose upon the crags, it seeped into the caverns its fingers long and cold. It soaked into the mosses and wisped around gravestones.
To those with ears to hear, it spoke.” I am malevolence I am older than time itself”. The priest heard it, he pawed through his bible, his cross clutched to his chest. He muttered prayers beneath his breath, lest the mist should take some interest.
Candles flickered yet air was still, stiller than a crypt.
Beneath the ground they heard it. Wakened in their tombs. The mist sunk in through coffin cracks and plucked their screaming bones. It whispered to them softly "I shall not abate until someone’s soul I’ve tasted before dawns early break.