Read Chapter 1: The Road to Nowhere

The satnav had been lying to him for the last forty minutes, and Evan Marsh was almost grateful for it. The screen flickered between a blank grey void and the words *NO SIGNAL*, while the road outside his rented Ford Fiesta narrowed from a proper A-road into something that felt more like a farm track with aspirations. Hedgerows pressed in on both sides, their leaves glossy with drizzle, and every so often a signpost whipped past—weather-beaten wood, paint long since flaked away—offering names that meant nothing to him.

He’d left London at dawn with a half-empty thermos of coffee and a folder of clippings so thin it was almost insulting. *Local legend of the tide-walkers*, the email from his editor had said. *Five hundred words, colour piece, maybe something spooky for the weekend reader.* Evan had rolled his eyes at his laptop, but he’d taken the assignment because the rent was due and the alternative was writing another listicle about celebrity kitchen renovations.

The fog started without warning. One moment the hedgerows were sharp-edged and ordinary, the next the world dissolved into a pale, breathless white. The Fiesta’s headlights carved a weak cone into the murk, and Evan slowed, leaning forward over the wheel as if that would help. His windscreen wipers beat a weary rhythm against the damp. The satnav gave up entirely and went dark.

He saw the barrier too late.

It loomed out of the fog like a skeletal arm—a wooden pole, striped with faded red and white, stretched across the road at chest height. Evan stamped on the brakes. The Fiesta juddered, slid on the wet tarmac, and stopped with its front bumper inches from the wood. The engine coughed once, twice, and died.

“For fuck’s sake,” Evan muttered. He turned the key. The starter motor whined like a trapped wasp, then gave up. Dead. The battery light hadn’t even come on—just nothing. He tried again. Still nothing.

He sat back, fingers gripping the wheel, and listened to the fog. It was quiet in a way that felt deliberate, like the whole world had pressed a finger to its lips. No birds. No distant traffic. Just the drip of water off the hedgerows and the slow, patient whisper of the sea somewhere ahead, unseen.

That was when he noticed the man.

He was standing on the other side of the barrier, barely visible through the fog—a tall figure in a dark oilskin coat, hood down, face half-turned away. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just stood there, watching Evan with the unhurried patience of someone who had all the time in the world and nowhere else to be.

Evan wound down the window. Cold air rushed in, smelling of salt and rot. “Alright,” he called, keeping his voice steady. “Bit of trouble with the car. Is this the road to Tidehaven?”

The man stepped closer. His face was lined, weathered, the skin the colour of old leather. His eyes were pale—grey, or maybe blue, it was hard to tell in the murk—and they fixed on Evan with an expression that wasn’t quite hostile and wasn’t quite welcoming. He looked at the Fiesta, then at Evan, then back at the barrier.

“Road’s closed,” he said. His voice was low, sandpapery, like he’d swallowed a mouthful of grit.

“I can see that. I was told the town was this way. Tidehaven. There’s supposed to be a way in.”

“Tidehaven doesn’t want visitors.”

Evan laughed, a short, dry sound that died in the fog. “I’m a journalist. I’m writing a piece about the local legend. The tide-walkers, the—what do you call them? The procession.” He waved a hand vaguely. “Look, I’m not here to cause trouble. I just need to get to the town, find a bed for the night, and ask a few questions. I’ll be gone by tomorrow.”

The man said nothing for a long moment. His eyes drifted to the road behind Evan, as if checking whether anyone else was coming. Then he said, “You should turn back.”

“My car won’t start.”

“Then walk back. It’s four miles to the last village. Someone’ll give you a lift.”

“I’d rather not.” Evan’s voice had an edge now, the polite patience wearing thin. He’d driven four hours down increasingly dubious roads for this story, and he wasn’t about to turn around because a local yokel with a dramatic streak told him to. “I’m going to Tidehaven. If that means walking, I’ll walk.”

The man studied him. Something flickered in his pale eyes—pity, maybe, or wariness. He reached up and touched the barrier, running his fingers along the cracked wood as if checking it was still solid. Then he said, “Suit yourself.”

He stepped aside, not quite clearing the gap, but enough. Evan pushed open the driver’s door and stood. The cold hit him like a slap. His boots crunched on gravel as he walked around the barrier, past the man, and onto the road beyond.

“One thing,” the man called after him.

Evan stopped, looked back.

“When you see the clock tower, don’t look up.”

Evan frowned. “Why?”

But the man had already turned away, folding himself back into the fog like he’d never been there. Evan stood for a moment, the damp seeping through his jacket, and thought about calling out after him. Instead, he shook his head, zipped his collar up, and started walking.

The road curved ahead, swallowed by the white. The fog was thicker now, pressing in on all sides, muffling his footsteps until they sounded like someone else’s. He couldn’t see the sea, but he could hear it—a low, rhythmic groan, like the town itself was breathing.

*When you see the clock tower, don’t look up.*

Evan smiled to himself, a grim little twist of the lips. He’d been told worse things by better men. And he hadn’t come all this way to take advice from strangers in the mist.

He walked on, into the white, toward the town that wasn’t on any map.