Whitefish River Paranormal whacktivity

It was like the sun never came up at all. The day started off overcast and gloomy, a decided chill in the air. There was more to it than that, though. A thick fog blanketed the river, some of it rolling off the water to swallow the plateau. As Peregrine padded slowly toward the borders, it was like walking in a dream. The forest was preternaturally still, which lent itself to the impression of a dreamscape.

Somehow, Peregrine found his way to the towpath and walked to the riverside, where the fog was so thick he could barely see three feet ahead of himself. "Well," he said, his own voice sounding jarringly loud in the eerie quiet. He even startled himself. "Guess fishing's out." He looked down at the water, where the milky white miasma stirred, then squinted left and right along the river.

"Too spooky for me," he eventually muttered to himself. Peregrine turned and began to make his way back toward the plateau, only he became disoriented somehow. Long after he expected to touch ground at the base of his territory, he found himself still wandering through the fog. His heart drummed in his chest.

A sense of uneasiness settled into the pit of his stomach. It deepened when he suddenly stepped into water. He was back at the river, having somehow turned around completely. And the fog was now thicker than clotted cream; he could barely see the water, hence why he'd stepped right into it. Swallowing back a feeling of foreboding, Peregrine froze, deciding to stay still until the fog dissipated somewhat.