The Little Mistington Murders

A fog hung low over Little Mistington that night. The air was as crisp as the leaves underfoot, my footsteps leaving a trail of crushed and sodden plant matter behind me. The ground was damp and the air smelled of rot - it had been raining all morning, before the murder. It had covered the trail of the killer, washing away any traces of footprints. I was standing beside a cabin next to the falls that the town was named after. The mist from the waterfalls would drift through the valley on windy days, covering all in its path in an eerie fog. Despite the attractiveness of the scene I felt a strong sense of revulsion. There was a claustrophobic feeling near these falls. As if you could feel the water beating down on your eardrums, your mind churning like the water t