The Terror of The Mist | Creepypasta | Scary Stories from Reddit Nosleep

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story:
I used to live and work in central London. I was a Financial Trader. It was a high-stakes environment. I knew of people who were millionaires by the time they were thirty-five and others who were burnt out by the same age.

I had eyes only for the riches.

I was young, single and in perpetual motion.

I was rising before dawn to spend time in the gym before working twelve hours straight through, then I’d hit the bars and clubs and fall into bed after midnight.

Not long after my twenty-sixth birthday, I had a nervous breakdown.

After four days at home taking the medication I had been prescribed, and hating how it made me feel, I threw all my tablets away then went back to work.

Or at least, I tried to.

I had a panic attack on the train and did not even make it to the office. I ended up running out of the station and went to sit in a small square. There were a couple of wooden benches and a patch of overgrown grass. Tall buildings rose all around me.

I was struggling to breathe and my face was wet with tears and I knew I needed to make a change.

A few weeks later, I moved to Cornwall.

I’d never been to Cornwall before. I decided to move there based on an internet search. Then I found an old fisherman’s cottage to rent in a small village.

Call it following my heart, call it gut instinct, I did not worry about the details along the way, I just did it.

I had a decent amount of money saved up and did not need to earn anything for six months while I re-set my life.

I saw myself going for long windswept walks by the sea, cooking hearty meals in the evening, and starting my own business, something artistic, where I could work with my hands and connect with nature.

It was going to be perfect.

My journey from London to Cornwall was made by train and then a long taxi journey. The taxi driver pulled over before we got to the village and mumbled something about the road not being suitable.

I wasn’t happy about this, but I was too tired from the journey to argue, and I could see a weather-beaten sign on a wooden post which said the village was only half a mile away, so I climbed out and retrieved my suitcases from the back of the taxi.

I was tempted to give the driver the finger as he drove away. I counted to ten instead and set off in the direction of the village.

In fairness to the driver, the road wasn’t suitable for driving.

It was narrow and was soon untarmacked and then running steeply downhill. Grass banks rose on either side, and I couldn’t see where it was heading. I ploughed on and was starting to wonder if I had gone the wrong way when the road levelled out and, a few paces later, I emerged onto a pebble beach.

The view I was presented with was wonderful.

Beyond the beach, the sea reached out to a distant horizon. There wasn’t a ship in sight to break the majestic spell of the ocean.

A few feet away from where I stood waves lapped gently onto the beach. It was so peaceful. The crowds and stress of London seemed like they belonged to another world.

I took a deep breath and started to walk down the beach. I imagined how the small stones I could feel underfoot had formed over thousands of years. Steadily being worn away and carried into place.

Ahead of me, rows of cottages looked out over the sea. One of them was my new home. As I approached the cottages, I knew that coming to live here had been the right thing to do.

The cottages looked like something from a postcard, like something from another age. Their whitewashed stone walls were pitted and worn but looked resilient and they were huddled closely together.

In London, I had had a small circle of friends, all of whom were connected to my work in one way or another, and all of whom had drifted away rapidly when I became ill. I had not known any of my neighbours.

Taking in my new surroundings, I had the feeling I would get to know my neighbours in the village soon.

And that would be a good thing. It would mean I was part of a community – not just one more stranger in an uncaring city.

The agency I was letting the cottage from had posted the keys to me in London. I unlocked the door, then had to bend down to walk through without banging my head on the top of the frame.

The cottage was dark inside and cold. There was a strong smell of damp as well. This wasn’t good, but the agency had told me the property had been empty for a while, so it wasn’t entirely unexpected...