Cheryl Tardif - Children of the Fog

She flicked on the light.

A black-hooded monster held her son in his arms.

Sam wasn’t moving.

The oxygen was instantly sucked from the room, making it impossible for Sadie to breathe. The glass slipped through her fingers, orange juice pooling at her feet. Speechless, she took a trembling step forward. “Please—”

“Don’t move!” the stranger growled from the depths of the sweatshirt hood. “You have ten seconds to make a decision. Let me walk out of here with the kid, or your son dies.” He shifted Sam’s limp body in his arms and a glint of metal flashed.

A gun. It was aimed at Sam’s head.

She trembled uncontrollably. Oh Jesus…

“Let him go,” she said in a shaky voice.

He snorted, as if he found her comment amusing. When he twisted his head to glance over his shoulder at the open window, she saw a ghostly face with a hooked nose that looked like it had been broken a few times. A red smear gleamed in the crease that ran from the side of his nose to his wide, thick lips. His cheek was pale alabaster and flecked with spidery imperfections.

Pockmarks, she guessed.

The man turned, examining her just as closely. “Are you that fucking stupid? Turn off the goddamn light!”

Although her hand trembled noticeably, she obeyed.

Dressed in black, the man blended into the shadowed corner.

She hissed in a breath. “What did you do to my son?”

“Just gave him something to make him sleep.” The man sighed, frustrated. “Why’d you have to go and mess things up? If you’d stayed asleep I’d be outta here already.”

“I want my son,” she said with a whimper. “Just let him go. Leave. I won’t tell anyone. Please. Just give him to me and walk out the door.”

“That ain’t gonna happen.”

The man did something unexpected. He moved into the moonlight, sat down on the bed and propped her son in his lap, like a ventriloquist’s doll.

“Is it, Sam?” He gripped Sam’s chin and turned his head from side to side. “No, Mommy,” he said in an eerie, childlike voice. “I’m going with this man.”

Sadie staggered against the wall. “No, he’s not.”

The man tossed Sam on the bed. “Shit, shit, shit! ”

She shivered at the pure madness in his voice.

“I’ll tell you how this is gonna play out,” he muttered. “First, you’re gonna promise not to leave this room for twenty minutes.”

“Wait!” she cried, tears flowing down her face. “Take me instead. You don’t need him. I’ll come with you, do whatever you want.”

“I don’t need you.” He stroked the gun against Sam’s hair. “I have what I came for. Five seconds.”

She hitched in a breath, her heart aching, burning… dying.

“You sick… per vert,” she said between gritted teeth.

“I’m no perv.”

“Then what do you want with my son?”

“For fuck’s sake, shut up! You’ve already screwed things up enough. No one’s ever seen me. No one!”

That’s when it hit her.

The Fog.

She shrank back against the wall. “I won’t let you take my son.”

The Fog laughed mockingly. “You won’t let me?”

She stood slowly, quivering from head to toe. “No. I won’t.”

In a flash, she lunged for the gun. The man backhanded her across the face. Pain exploded in her left temple. Enraged, she roared and hurled herself at him again. This time she managed to dislodge the gun from his hand.

She dove for it.

He kicked her in the ribs. “Stupid bitch.”

Forcing her away from the gun, he kicked her again. And again. Then he reached down, hauled her up by her hair and flung her across the room. A sharp twinge pierced her side as she landed with a sickening thud against the dresser. She let out a pained gasp. When she looked up, Sam was lying helpless in the man’s arms.

“I’m walking out of here,” The Fog said. “With the kid. And you’re not gonna stop me. You know why?”

She shook her head, unable to move or speak.

“Because if you try to stop me…” He pressed the gun to Sam’s head and pretended to pull the trigger. “ Bam!”

“I can give you money,” she cried out. “I’ve got twenty-five thousand in my checking account.”

He sneered. “Is that all he’s worth to you?”

“I’m begging you… a hundred thousand! Whatever you want, I’ll get it. Please! Just tell me how much you want.”

The Fog tossed Sam over his shoulder with the ease of someone hefting a sack of potatoes. Then he strode toward her and leaned down, his shadowed face bare inches from hers.

“What I want is to see nothing in the papers,” he said, his breath a simmering stew of cigarettes, onions and beer. “No description, no nothing. I want you to go back to bed and pretend you never seen me.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can. And you will.”

“But the police—”

“Fuck the police! You want your kid to live?”

Sadie shuddered. “Yes, I want Sam to live.”

“Don’t leave this room for twenty minutes.”

She stretched out a trembling hand. “Don’t take my baby.”

The Fog straightened. Then he yanked the door open and the light from the hall illuminated him for a brief moment.

“Please,” she wept.

“Please,” he mimicked scornfully. “You’re pathetic.”

She closed her eyes in agreement. Then, in a last ditch effort, she clawed her way across the floor, writhing in agony as a hot wave threatened to pull her under.

The Fog watched her, his thin lips twisting into a sinister smile. “I see one description—you even say you saw me—and I’ll send the kid back to you all right. In little bloody pieces. You got that?”

She couldn’t answer.

“Two seconds!” he snapped, raising the gun to Sam’s head.

“Okay! Take him! Just please… don’t hurt him.”

Then Sadie did the only thing she could do. She let a madman take her son.

Alone, she cried in the dark, scared to move, scared not to.

“God help me,” she sobbed. “Help Sam!”

But God wasn’t listening.

Philip stumbled into the house at one fifteen. And stumbled was an understatement. Upstairs in Sam’s room, Sadie heard the sound of glass hitting the floor. It was followed by a belligerent curse.

She stared at the bat signal clock on Sam’s wall.

The twenty minutes were up. Five minutes ago. They had passed slowly, like a never-ending funeral dirge for the Pope. She had mentally shut down and collapsed on Sam’s bed in a haze of overwhelming pain, grief and guilt.

She pulled herself to her feet, ignoring the throbbing spasms in her ribs. Her legs shook, her heart raced and her head pounded.

What do I do? What do I tell Philip?

She moaned. “Oh God. Sam…”

She stepped out into the hall, one hand on the doorframe for support. Her throat burned as heavy footsteps lumbered up the stairs.

Philip turned the corner and lurched to a stop when he saw her. “Sadie?” he slurred. “Whatcha doing? Waiting up for me?”

“Philip, I n-need—”

“I need you to blow me.” He grinned lecherously and tried to grab her.

She batted his arm away. “Philip, stop it!”

“So I’m a little drunk,” he said, pouting. “We can still—”

“Sam’s gone,” she whispered. “He took Sam.”

“What?”

“The Fog… took… him, Philip.” Her voice caught in the back of her throat as deep, wracking sobs hiccupped to the surface.

Philip stared at her. “What the hell are you talking about?” He pushed her aside and staggered into Sam’s room. “Sam’s sleeping in his—”