In the Fog

In the Fog

by

storyteller

Norman Wood woke and rubbed his arms against the chill that had seeped into the trailer as he slept. He wondered what hour it was and listened for familiar sounds of the night outside.  Almost nothing seemed to be stirring in the world outside. A truck labored down the dark highway a few miles away, but that was only sound he heard. He'd worked late and was too tired to cook, so he stopped for a cheap take-home meal.  After drinking a few beers he flopped on the couch and fell asleep. Now the small trailer he rented was dark and very chilly. The street light tacked to the telephone pole next to his car was lit, but the glare of the bare bulb was weakened by fog that had rolled in.

Norman had a deep fear of fog. He could go out into a snow storm or torrential rainstorm, but not fog. As a kid he believed that ghosts drifted along in the fog looking for a way back into the living world and would take over his body if he were trapped by fog. Then he would become a wandering phantom in the fog. The fog hid their movements because few of the living could discern them, but he still could make out physical shapes and grotesque faces. To Norman, ghosts and fog are basically the same - fog is the chill of water vapor; ghosts the chill of death.

He sat up quickly on the couch and fumbled on the floor for his cigarettes and lighter. Through the window at this left he noted the world as claustrophobic and isolating. All sense of depth and distance was lost in the fog. At times it seemed to thicken enough to create shadows in the light. Norman inhaled deeply.

Norman's trailer, the shabbiest in the trailer court, was the last one in the last row.  His view was of over-grown pastures and woodland bisected by a little used blacktop lane that led to an old cemetery gate. On this night he couldn't even see the lane.

The cigarette became a heated stub between his fingers. Norman stood and began slowly moving to the cluttered kitchen table. As he crushed the stub in the ketchup puddle on the paper plate, he looked out the open door and noticed a dense shadow of fog swirling outside. His mind's eye suddenly saw indications of facial features and his heart thudded in his chest. He tried to calm himself. He was too old to be imagining things like this. Norman blinked and the shape became merely fog. A trick of the poor light and tired eyes, he told himself.

Norman decided to close the outer door. He told himself that nothing evil with clawed fingers and glowing eyes would swarm in through the patched screen. Then he noticed that he was holding his breath and forced himself to exhale. He cautiously made his way to the couch, lit another cigarette and returned to the door.

As he touched the handle a thick patch of fog condensed in front of the screen. Norman blew smoke at the shape, almost dissipating it. The fog swirled away, but reformed quickly. Norman took a huge drag on the cigarette and blew again.  Instead of coming apart, the fog grew in substance. A face formed and Norman panicked. He wanted to slam the door shut, but that meant he had to reach outside through the image and he couldn't do that. Norman quickly backed away from the door.

The fog slid silently inside, attached to a thin, transparent tether that passed through the screen.

Norman stumbled against the small kitchen table as the first stirring of terror grew inside him. His heart began to pound in his chest. His body went numb as fear took control. All urges to flee or defend himself were lost in the confusion of his mind.

The fog coalesced into a wispy, vaguely human-like shape that drew closer until it enfolded him in a chilled, moist embrace. Norman was drowning in an icy bath and held his breath, but smoking had diminished his lung capacity greatly. After a few seconds, Norman was forced to inhale deeply.

The fog went in with the air and Norman was breathing a huge gulp of crushed ice. He swayed on his feet. His eyesight blurred. The world began to spin and change.  Norman was suddenly possessed of another existence. He saw two entire lives unfold; his own dreary life and one cut short by death.

Norman came out of himself, floating. The insubstantial filaments that kept life in his body broke as easily and painlessly as a strand of spider web. He saw himself standing at the table and understood that his childhood fears had been right.

He passed easily through the screen, pulled toward the graveyard along the gossamer rope of fog, and slipped easily through the packed soil into the casket.  He would lie here and wait, occupying the rotted corpse until another thick fog rolled in to cover his wandering.

END

860wds