Photo by Michael Hamments on Unsplash
REVISITED
The fog is rising again, thick and
alive. Its tendrils coil around the world like a living thing. And I know—I am
its prey.
Last Halloween, my car stalled a mile
from home. Gas full, battery new—nothing should have stopped it. But no matter
what I did, it refused to start. The fog rolled in fast, thicker than smoke,
waves moving as though pushed by unseen hands. No wind, no explanation, just
malevolence.
I grabbed my bag and ran. My heel
snapped on the cracked pavement, but I didn’t stop. Barefoot, I sprinted,
superstition and terror driving me forward. Then—fingers like iron wrapped
around me from behind. A blade slashed my cheek. I kicked backward, stumbling
free, my key trembling in my hand.
I reached the door, slammed it shut,
heart hammering, and locked it thrice. The clock struck midnight. Bloodied,
shaking, I survived. The fog had vanished, retreating as if sated for the
moment.
Now, a year later, Halloween returns.
I’ve seen the movies, I know the stories, but this is no story. It’s real, but
no one will believe me.
The air chills. Fog creeps across the
lawn, curling under my windows and clinging to the eaves. Every shadow seems
alive. I check the locks, close the curtains, and move the dining room chairs
against the patio door. Pacing—my pulse drums in my ears. Midnight approaches.
The fog presses closer. I can feel it
moving under doors, slipping past barriers, hungry. Death waits in that haze,
patient.
I retreat to the bathroom and block
every possible crack between me and the outside with wet towels. I dial 911,
but no one answers. So, fully dressed, I turn on the cold water—icy torrents
running over my skin. Surely, cold will repel it, wash away the terror, render
me safe. I count the chimes, five… four… three… two…
There is a scratching at the bathroom
door and a whisper in the wind. My breath freezes in my throat. The fog is
inside the house, and the air smells of rot and earth. My heart refuses to obey
as the doorbell rings. Who’s at the door? Run, I want to scream, but can’t.
Still, the scratching stops and the whispers disappear, but horrific screams
fill the air. I cover my ears.
Finally, silence, but I dare not move.
Morning comes. Sunlight shines weakly
through the foggy veil outside. Relief surges—until the next knock at the door.
But I cannot move. I am frozen in fear. The bathroom door is forced open.
Someone puts a blanket around my shoulders.
Detectives and officers stand there,
their faces grave. One shakes his head. “That psycho slasher has struck again,”
he says, voice hollow.
I nod. “He came back for me, but
someone rang the doorbell…”
I follow them downstairs. Blood stains
the floor and the walls, and a trail of bloody drag marks leads through the French
doors to my backyard. I clutch the edge of a chair. My hands shake
uncontrollably as I clutch for the cup of tea a matron has prepared. Then I see
the sheet they’ve placed over the bodies.
The fog may have receded, but its
intent is clear. It waits, watching, calculating. For two years now, I’ve survived
Halloween night. This year, it claimed two strangers stranded by car trouble. And
it will not rest until I, too, am a victim.
Even locked doors cannot keep it out.
Even cold showers cannot repel it. It is patient. It is eternal. And Halloween
will forever mark the nights I run from something I can feel but cannot see.
© Yolanda Renée 2025
605 Words
Formerly published on October 23, 2023, as The Fog, and rewritten for this year’s Halloween post.
Photo by Олег Мороз on Unsplash
HAPPY
HALLOWEEN!
