The Lost Left Sock Grove of Anglesea.
The mist came suddenly in Anglesea that night, thick as spilled milk and cold enough to bite through even the heaviest wool. It rolled across the sacred patch of ground where no farmer dared plow, where no children dared play, and where the oldest stories whispered of the **Netnets**.
The **Netnets** were creatures of nightmares, the kind of beings whispered about in hushed tones by old farmers and the kind of shapes that flitted through the edges of a child’s dreams. They were small, no taller than a young boy, but their size only made them more insidious. Their bodies were covered in patchy, matted hair, slick with moisture that seemed to glisten like swamp muck.
Their faces were grotesque—vaguely human in shape but twisted beyond recognition. Eyes, small and beady, shone black like pools of tar, giving away nothing but hunger. Their mouths were wide and unnatural, filled with two layers of teeth. The first row was jagged and uneven, perfect for gripping and tearing, but it was the second layer that made even the bravest shudder. These teeth were needle-thin and razor-sharp, designed to shear through flesh and bone with ease. When they opened their mouths to feed, the second layer clicked into place like the jaws of a trap.
The Netnets had spindly arms that ended in long, clawed fingers. These claws weren’t just for slashing—they were tools for holding their prey down, their grip as unrelenting as iron. Their movements were jerky, almost insect-like, and they could scuttle on all fours when stalking through the mist.
They reeked of damp earth and decay, their breath a fetid wind that carried their pheromones—an invisible weapon that sapped strength and dulled the mind. To see a Netnet emerge from the mist was to feel the life drain from your soul, a gloom that hung heavy and suffocating.
But perhaps the worst part of the Netnets wasn’t their appearance or even their hunger. It was their mimicry. They could imitate voices with unsettling accuracy, especially the laughter or cries of children. From the edge of the firelight, they would call softly, their voices lilting and sweet, promising warmth and companionship in the dark.
Only the sharp crackle of a roaring fire could keep them at bay, for they feared flame above all else. In its light, their oily fur and glistening teeth would be exposed for the monsters they were, and they would retreat into the mist, hissing and chittering in frustration.
But the fire was only temporary protection. The Netnets were patient. They would wait, lurking in the damp shadows, until the flame died and another boy strayed too far. Then, with claws and teeth bared, they would feast.
There, in the enchanted grove of trees—silent and skeletal under the moonlight—was a boy named Owen. He was barely twelve, his curly hair damp with dew, his hands trembling as he clutched the small blade his father had given him for his first camping trip. He had wandered too far from the fire while gathering kindling, the voices in the mist sounding like laughter, like the soft cries of another child just out of sight.
“Hello?” he called. His voice felt swallowed, muffled by the weight of the fog.
A figure emerged, small and frail, the shape of a boy his age. Its head tilted unnaturally to the side, and its movements were slow, like someone learning to walk for the first time. “Are you lost too?” the voice was light, inviting. The kind of voice that made Owen’s chest ache with a strange, hollow loneliness.
Owen stepped closer, ignoring the icy dampness creeping into his shoes. “Who are you? Where’s your camp?”
“I don’t have one,” the figure said. “Come with me. There’s a fire this way.”
The words hung in the air like a thread, pulling Owen forward. His feet dragged as if against his will, his limbs heavy, his mind clouded. But then a sharp crack tore through the grove—a spark of light in the mist.
“Owen!” his father’s voice boomed, and a burst of heat licked the air.
The campfire was back. Its glow surged through the mist like a sword, illuminating the figure before him. It wasn’t a boy. Its skin was slick, glistening with a dampness that seemed to pulse like a living swamp. Its face was too long, its smile stretching too wide, and its eyes... they were black pits, unblinking.
The **Netnet** hissed as the light touched it, retreating into the mist, its form melting like water into the night.
“Owen!” His father grabbed him, shaking him hard. “You don’t ever leave the fire!”
---
Back at the campsite, his father rebuilt the fire with wild urgency, feeding it until the flames licked the low-hanging branches. “They’re out there tonight,” he muttered, his hands shaking. “You stay near the fire, no matter what you hear. They’ll try again.”
“What are they?” Owen whispered, his voice raw.
His father stared into the flames. “The Netnets. They come when the mist does. They’ll lure you, take you through those trees, and you’ll never come back. Do you understand?”
Owen nodded, but sleep did not come that night. The mist crept closer, the firelight barely holding it at bay.
---
At dawn, the mist lifted, leaving the forest damp and quiet. But the silence was heavier than it should have been. Owen and his father emerged from the grove, their steps hurried.
As they reached the clearing near the road, Owen froze. A single sock—dirty, damp, and gray—lay in the middle of the field.
His father’s face hardened. He didn’t need to say the words.
Another boy, lost to the mist.
---
The farmers of Anglesea knew the ritual well. That sock would soon hang on a fence pole along the sacred patch, joining dozens of others. Each was a quiet reminder, flapping in the wind like prayers for the lost.
Owen would never leave the fire again. But the whispers in the mist would never stop calling. And the grove of trees would remain, waiting for the next boy to wander too far.
——-/——-/——-/——-/
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