People from nearby towns say there is a legend about a town called Harpersville, it doesn’t appear on any maps or GPS. Those who’ve stumbled upon it claim the road curved unexpectedly through the woods, opening onto a valley shrouded in mist. There, nestled between the trees, stood a picture-perfect town—clean streets, tidy houses, and a soft quiet that felt almost welcoming. Most travelers stopped for gas, a meal, or rest, thinking they’d found a forgotten place. But once they entered, something shifted. The air grew heavier, the light dimmer. Their phones lost service, their GPS blinked out, and the road behind them seemed to fade into fog.
The town had no welcome sign. Just a small white marker that read, simply, “Population: Home.” At first, newcomers laughed it off. But there was something strange about that word—“Home”—painted in perfect black letters that never seemed to fade or peel. Every car that rolled in had the same thought: they’d stay for a night and leave by morning. Yet, when dawn came, the road out was gone. The asphalt ended abruptly in the woods, looping back toward town. Drivers turned again and again, only to return to the same gas station, the same blinking streetlight, the same crooked smile of the attendant behind the counter.
The attendant’s name tag read “Mara.” She was friendly enough, though her eyes were tired and distant. “Don’t bother trying to leave,” she’d tell the travelers softly. “You’ll just waste gas.” When pressed, she’d shrug and say she’d stopped asking questions years ago. Behind her, a calendar hung frozen on the same date—October 19th—no matter the year or season. The coffee was always fresh, though no one ever saw deliveries. And when someone asked where the nearest town was, Mara would tilt her head, smile faintly, and reply, “This is the nearest one. There’s nothing else for miles.”
A man named Daniel was the last known newcomer. He’d been on a road trip through the Adirondacks when his GPS froze mid-route. The turn he took wasn’t on his map, but the paved road and gentle glow of streetlights seemed safe enough. By the time he realized how quiet everything had become, the forest had closed in behind him. Then the fog came—thick, low, and glittering like snow under moonlight. When it cleared, he saw the town, lights burning warm in every window. His first thought was relief. His second was confusion. He didn’t remember passing any signs of life for hours.
The townsfolk welcomed him like they’d been expecting him. The diner waitress smiled too widely, her lipstick the same shade as the checkered curtains. A man sweeping the street nodded, murmuring, “Nice night to settle in.” Children played jump rope in eerie unison, chanting a rhyme Daniel couldn’t quite make out. He ate dinner at the diner—a plate of eggs and toast that tasted faintly of dust—and rented a room at the inn. The clerk handed him an old-fashioned brass key and said, “You’ll sleep soundly here. We all do.” That night, Daniel dreamed of headlights circling endlessly through fog.
By morning, the fog was thicker. Daniel tried to drive out, but every road twisted back toward town. He marked his route on a paper map, only to find the ink had smudged into a spiral. He tried again, walking this time, following the tree line north until he heard faint laughter behind him. When he turned, the forest looked the same in every direction. The air hummed softly, like static. Then, faintly, a voice whispered his name—close, familiar, and wrong. He ran until the trees parted and the same white “Population: Home” sign appeared before him once more.
Days passed—or maybe weeks. The clocks all worked, but none agreed on the time. The sun rose pale and low, never climbing high enough to warm the streets. Daniel spoke to the townspeople, desperate for answers, but their responses were always the same: “You’ll get used to it.” He noticed things he hadn’t before—how no one seemed to age, how the same cat lounged in the same window every morning, how the fog never fully left. At night, he heard footsteps pacing outside his window, slow and deliberate. But when he looked, there were only faint shoe prints in the frost.
One evening, he met Mara outside the gas station. She was smoking, her hands trembling slightly. “You’re not the first,” she said quietly. “We all came here once, same as you. Some on accident. Some looking for something they lost.” “Then why can’t we leave?” he asked. Mara looked out toward the fog-covered woods. “Because the town doesn’t want us to.” Her cigarette hissed as she dropped it. “Every time someone tries, the roads change. It’s like the town rearranges itself.” Daniel frowned. “So we’re trapped?” Mara nodded. “Trapped, kept, fed. Whatever you want to call it—it’s all the same thing.”
Daniel tried everything. He packed supplies and set off at dawn, following the rising sun. The trees grew denser, branches weaving into unnatural shapes. After hours of walking, he came upon a cabin that looked strangely familiar. Inside were his own belongings—the backpack, the water bottle, even the map he’d left on the motel bed. The only difference was a single new item on the table: a framed photo of him standing in front of the diner, smiling faintly, with the date scrawled beneath. October 19th. The same date on Mara’s frozen calendar. His heart pounded. The town had taken notice.
The people began treating him differently after that. Their smiles grew too wide, their voices too even. At the diner, the waitress brought him his meal before he ordered it. “You always like your eggs this way,” she said cheerfully. He pushed the plate away, unsettled. “How long have I been here?” he asked her. She tilted her head. “Long enough to belong.” The jukebox started playing, but the song was warped, slowed to a ghostly hum. When Daniel looked outside, every person on the street had stopped walking, their heads turning toward him in perfect unison. He fled.
He ran to the forest again, ignoring the twisting paths and vanishing roads. The fog clung thicker than ever, glittering faintly in the moonlight. He thought he saw shapes moving within it—faces, pale and silent, watching. Their eyes followed him, unblinking. A whisper rose among them, soft as a sigh: “Stay”. When he stumbled back into town, panting, the streets were empty. Every light in every window flickered at once, then dimmed to darkness. The silence pressed in on him until he could hear his heartbeat echoing in his ears. Somewhere far away, a door creaked open. Daniel followed the sound. It led him to the edge of town, where the fog seemed to pulse, almost breathing. A figure stood there—Mara, or something that looked like her. Her eyes glowed faintly in the haze.
“You shouldn’t have run,” she said softly. “It makes it harder.” “What are you?” Daniel whispered. She smiled sadly. “Part of it. We all are.” Behind her, faces began to form in the mist—hundreds of them, faint and shimmering, their mouths open in silent cries. “The town needs to grow,” Mara said. “And it grows with us.” The fog surged forward, swallowing Daniel in cold light. He felt it wrap around him like a thousand hands, pulling him under. His lungs filled with the scent of pine and dust. For a moment, everything went still. Then, a voice whispered in his ear, not Mara’s this time but his own: Welcome home.
When the fog cleared, the streets looked brighter. The lights in every window glowed warm again. At the gas station, Mara smiled at a new traveler pulling in. “Lost?” she asked kindly. The traveler nodded, rubbing their eyes. “Just passing through.” Mara’s smile deepened. “Aren’t we all?” Weeks later, a family driving through the Adirondacks took a wrong turn and found the same road. The valley looked peaceful, the little town almost picturesque. They stopped for gas, then stayed for lunch at the diner. The waitress greeted them by name, though they hadn’t introduced themselves. The father asked, half-joking, “What’s this place called?” The waitress paused, her smile too perfect. “Home,” she said. They laughed, thinking it quaint. But when they tried to leave that evening, the road curved unexpectedly, looping back toward the blinking neon of the gas station sign. The tank was still full.
By nightfall, the fog rolled in again. The family huddled in their car, unsure where they’d gone wrong. Through the mist, figures appeared along the road—just silhouettes at first, then clearer. The mother swore one looked like her husband. Another looked like her. “Just stay in the car,” she whispered. But the headlights dimmed, the engine sputtered, and the figures stepped closer. The smallest, a child’s shape, pressed its face against the glass. Frost bloomed where it touched, forming a single word: Stay. When morning came, their car sat empty, doors open, keys still in the ignition.
No one remembers when the town first appeared on the map. Some say it wasn’t built—it just was. The sign still stands at its edge, white paint flawless despite the years. Population: Home. Travelers still pass through the Adirondacks, and sometimes, when the fog is just right, they swear they glimpse a flicker of light deep among the trees. A place that shouldn’t exist. Those who find it never return, but sometimes their voices drift through the static on late-night radio stations, whispering softly through the hiss: “You’ll love it here.” “We all do.” “Welcome home.”
Anthology of the Unknown 
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