Òyì nke e mepụtara

I was sixteen when the fog first came to Raven's Hollow. Not normal fog. Not the kind that rolls over fields in the morning and burns away in sunlight. This fog moved. It crawled. It slipped between houses and wrapped around trees like fingers. It came at night. And with it came the tall figures. The first time I saw one, I thought it was a tree standing in the middle of the road. It was too dark to tell. Too quiet. I was walking home from my friend Eli Mercer’s house after midnight. My phone ha