Here's **another very long, standalone story**—in the same dense, Gothic, dark style.--# **12. "The Girl in the Mist on Dartmoor"—A Story About Someone Who Never Touches the Ground**

Dartmoor is only beautiful to those who have never spent the night there.

The harsh moors, the bone-like rocks rising from the earth, the cold wind that can sound like a moan.

Locals say it's not a place for people who like straight answers—because nothing there is as it seems.

And the most obscure is the legend of the **Girl in the Mist**.

### **I**

It all began in 1896.

A young cartographer, George Henshaw, set out to make accurate maps of the eastern part of the moors. He liked working alone, and he liked silence even more—he believed that only then could he hear "the earth speak its truth."

That evening, the wind died down so suddenly that George immediately felt uneasy. On Dartmoor, silence is not a blessing.

In silence, something is always listening.

When he looked through his binoculars at the mist-shrouded hills, he saw her for the first time.

A girl.

Standing perfectly still.

A white, slender figure with hair so light it looked like silk.

He couldn't see her face—the mist obscured it completely.

George assumed she was a tourist, perhaps someone lost.

He was about to move to help her when something he couldn't explain happened.

The girl **moved** a few meters… without moving her legs.

As if the mist were carrying her.

And suddenly, she was gone.

### **II**

George returned to camp deeply moved, but tried to convince himself he was tired.

But during the night, the fog enveloped the tent again, thicker than usual.

And from it came the sound of singing.

A soft, delicate female voice hummed a melody without words.

A melody so sad that George felt his heart freeze.

He wanted to look out, but some force held him back.

And then—the fog began to creep into the tent through cracks, as if trying to enter.

Before he fell asleep, he heard one sentence:

**—I've lost my way... help me find it.**

### **III**

The next day, he set out on the trail of the mysterious figure.

The fog receded before him, as if guiding him.

At one point, he saw **footprints** on the ground—so faint, as if left by a very light person.

But there was something strange about them.

They weren't creased like normal footprints.

They looked as if the mist had sunk into the earth, forming the shape of feet, as if *retracing* a step.

The footprints led to the top of a hill.

And there—he saw her again.

She stood with her back to him.

Her hair flew in the wind, though the air was still.

George felt like he should leave, but some irresistible force drew him toward her.

"Who are you?" he asked.

It took a moment for her to answer, her voice as hazy as her silhouette.

"I've lost my way home... I need someone to find me."

She turned.

George saw her face—or rather, the lack thereof—for the first time.

Where eyes, nose, mouth should have been...there was mist.

Swirling, shifting, never standing still.

And yet he sensed she was *watching*.

### **IV**

George escaped—or at least he tried.

Every path led him back to the same knoll.

Every shortcut returned to the same moor.

Even the sun moved differently, as if there were no natural order to it.

Dartmoor wouldn't let him go.

After several hours of wandering, the fog thickened so much that he could barely see his own hands.

Then he heard footsteps behind him.

Quiet.

Soft.

Feminine.

He didn't want to turn around, but something compelled him.

The girl stood a few paces away.

"Help me," she said. "Take me home."

"Where is your home?" he asked, his voice trembling.

She raised her hand, and the fog obediently parted, revealing a **chasm**—a hole in the earth as deep as a well, so dark it seemed bottomless. "There," she replied.

### **V**

George didn't remember finding himself at the edge of the cliff.

He only felt something slowly wrap around his ankles—cool, damp, soft.

The mist.

Drawing him down, into the blackness, into a place where time and light didn't exist.

"We'll go home together," the girl said. "I've been alone for so long…"

Her voice crept into his head like poison.

When the mist lifted him a few inches from the ground, George screamed with all his might.

And then—for the first time—the mist receded.

Something frightened her.

Maybe his desperation.

Maybe something else.

Or maybe… it wasn't her decision.

George fled, never looking back.

### **VI**

Two days later, he was found half-dead at the edge of the moors. He never returned to Dartmoor.

He never finished the map.

He also never told anyone where the Girl of the Mist's "home" led.

But before his death, he confessed one thing:

"She's looking for me."

"How is that possible?"

"Because she doesn't touch the ground."

"What does that mean?"

"She's not a girl. It's... a *road*. A road that wants me to follow."

Since then, the same story has been repeated on Dartmoor:

When the fog is thick, you can see a **woman's silhouette hovering a few inches above the ground**.

She has no face.

It has no legs.

It has no shadow.

But if you look at it too long, you won't notice when you stand at the edge of the abyss it leads to.

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