I was born in the fog.
We look the same as you. We act the same. We sound the same. We are not.
It most often begins in the cold and dark hours of the early morning. While you are still sleeping, The Misty Mother creeps in around you. Silent, swift, and pregnant with singular purpose. From the midst of her embrace may call a visitor, or two, or sometimes more, and sometimes none at all. Friendly faces perhaps - or perhaps not.
If you choose to venture out before She has receded, then you will never return. What takes your place is something different. It looks like you, but it is not you. It's one of us. Your friends, your family, your co-workers, and anyone else you knew - all of them will be unable to see that you have been replaced.
I must feed The Mother. We are Her workers. She is our Queen. You are her food.
Your feeble senses cannot perceive the danger. If I can guide you willingly into the fog, then it will all be over quickly. You will hardly feel anything. You should be grateful for such a merciful end to your small and meaningless existence. If for some reason, you should choose to resist, then we have other ways of dealing with you.
Rarely, one of you will manage to notice that something is strange about us, for there are sometimes such gifted individuals in any sufficiently large population. You might think that they could save you from us, but they cannot. Our perceptions are keen. We will know if they know. We will see that they can see. Should you happen to be one such rare and gifted individual, know that your gift is not in fact a gift. It is a curse. No one will believe you when you try to warn them about us. You will struggle in vain before the inevitable.
You might wonder why I would bother warning you about us. It is simple. The Formless Whispering Mother says that your fear is delicious to Her. She is old. Very old. She has tasted many things. Joy, sadness, tranquility, jealousy, curiosity, madness, love, loneliness, rage... She has tasted them all, and tasted each one many times over. Among these things, She tells us, that your fear is the most satisfying of all.
When the fog comes, pray that it is not Her.
Your senses cannot perceive the change.
We are not the same as you.
We are among you.
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