Over the last two years I got into the habit of reading eerie historical short stories in midwinter. There is something comforting about immersing yourself in them at the darkest time of the year. Reading about a haunted house while wrapped in a blanket? It's the perfect blend of cosy and sinister.

This year, too, I spent many hours curled on the sofa by the fire with a steamy cup of cappuccino, or green tea, or chai latte (lamenting the fact I didn't have Earl Grey in the house to make a London Fog!) while reading a copy of The Witching Hour and the fifty-two submissions I received in response to the first ever London Fog submission call.

Among those fifty-two submissions were a lucky couple which found publication elsewhere and were withdrawn, and a few that were perfect—but not for here, or not for now. Those were hard to let go. There were also plenty of stories full of sparkling potential, which I hope they will one day live up to. When that day comes, I'll regret not having accepted them.

Then there are the stories that did make it into this first issue: a selection of contemporary and historical short stories across multiple genres and forms. Some of them told by the dead, and one in letters. Some haunted by the paranormal, by ghosts, and some by men. Each and every one carrying some of that elusive foggy essence I've been seeking.

But before we dive in, I would like to thank everyone who made this publication possible and supported me in this fresh new venture: Globe Soup and Christopher Fielden for kindly promoting this very new magazine. Every single writer who submitted a story for putting their trust in me. Our first two Ko-fi supporters (who are also brilliant writers), Seán McNicholl and David Rowan, for their generousity. Nadia Uddin and Jen Watt for volunteering to illustrate each of the stories and bringing a splash of colour to these monochrome pages. This issue's contributors for graciously accepting and rightfully declining my editing suggestions in all the right places.

Now, I won't hold you up any longer. Brew yourself a cup of London Fog. Walk down to the river and have a seat in a red-gold chair. Feed the crows and your pet oyster. Write to a long-lost friend. And enjoy the view—before it starts to blur.