Cheryl Tardif - Children of the Fog

His words made her tremble. There was no way the police or Philip could ever find out that she had seen The Fog.

Sam would die.

And she would die too.

After the detectives and crime scene investigators had left, the house was quiet. Philip had locked himself in his office, refusing to talk to her. So she did the one thing she could. She took a sleeping pill and crawled into bed. Dark discolorations had appeared under her breasts. Her ribs were bruised, maybe broken. But that wasn’t important. What mattered was Sam. Was he hurt? Was he cold, hungry, afraid?

Of course he’s afraid, you imbecile!

She lay awake, fighting her increasing remorse. She watched the shadows in the room, half-expecting The Fog to reappear.

What’s he doing to Sam?

Two hours later, she was still awake. How could she possibly sleep with Sam gone and a single thought hammering at her?

It was Monday. Sam’s birthday.

She pushed up on her elbows, groaned at the slow burn in her ribs and flicked on the lamp. It was 4:35 and still dark outside. She dropped back, head pounding, and thought about something Jay Lucas had said.

’The truth always comes out in the end.’

A cemetery of restless ghosts walked over her grave and she shuddered. If the truth came out, Sam would be dead.

“You have to keep quiet,” she whispered. “Don’t say a word. Not yet.”

Her gaze settled on the nightstand. The portfolio case, a black leather-bound binder with all the preliminary drawings for Sam’s book, peeked from the half-closed drawer.

Sam…

There was no more sleep for her. She swallowed back the tears and sat up. Then she reached for the binder. Easing back the zipper, she studied the colorful drawing of a comical brown bat with lopsided eyes. He was hiking up baggy shorts that kept sliding down.

She smiled, wiping away a tear. “Sam’s going to love you, Batty.” There was a hitch in her voice, but she caught it.

Now’s not the time to lose it. Sam needs me.

She flipped through the drawings, allowing them to take her back to happier times. Mere hours ago. She recalled Sam’s laughter, his grinning face as he opened his birthday presents.

She moaned. “He didn’t get his bike.”

Maybe she’d never see him ride it. Maybe she’d never see him—

“Stop it!” she hissed. She shook her head hard. “Sam will come back. They’ll find him.”

They have to find The Fog first, her conscience reminded her. And only one person knows what he looks like. Sort of.

Her eyes fell on a blank piece of paper.

The Fog’s warning echoed in her mind. ‘If I see one description—if you even say you saw me…’

Did she dare?

She strained to hear footsteps or voices.

The house seemed vacant.

She reached for a pencil. Then, with a ragged breath, she started drawing the face of The Fog. A drawing that no one could ever see. She shaded, erased and chewed the end of the pencil as she concentrated on creating his face—his hooked nose, deep-set hooded eyes and pockmarked left cheek. She surrounded his face with a hood, and when the picture was finished, she glowered at it. It was a bit vague, but it was him. The Fog.

“Don’t hurt my son,” she whispered tearfully.

She was tempted to tear the paper into shreds. Driven by a need to confess, she made notes of everything the man had said and done, and what he had worn. Then she tucked the drawing between two fresh sheets and slid everything back into the binder. She wouldn’t have to worry about Philip coming across it. He wasn’t interested in her work.

Or in me, for that matter.

As she opened the drawer to fit the binder inside, her eyes fell on Sam’s school photo. It had somehow toppled into the drawer. Thankfully, the glass hadn’t broken.

She picked it up, recalling the day she had found out she was pregnant, the day Sam was born, the morning they had taken him home, his first steps, first laugh—what a joyous sound that had been—and his first day at school. So many firsts. So many more yet to come.

She clutched the photo to her chest and overwhelming sorrow engulfed her, burying her in a violent storm of hot tears and anguished sobs that tore at her very soul.

“Sam… my baby. Oh God… Sam! ”

By six-thirty, she gave up trying to go back to sleep. Her sides ached rebelliously as she sat up, reached for the phone and called Leah.

“Hey,” her friend croaked, half asleep. “How come you’re calling so early? Is Philip being an ass—?”

“I need you, Leah.” That was all she said.

Leah’s voice came back, strong and reassuring. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Whatever it is, we’ll get through this.”

The line went dead.

Sadie headed for the shower. It was while she was washing her hair that she realized she had forgotten to remove her panties. Afterward, she dressed so quickly that she pulled on the same socks she’d worn the day before.

She stepped into the sunlit hallway and as she passed by Sam’s door, she lurched to a halt. The door was wide open. Sam always left it that way in the morning. She peered inside, half-expecting to see Sam sitting on his bed.

But the room was empty.

“Sam.”

Leaving the door ajar, she continued downstairs. She paused on the bottom step when she heard the rattle of dishes. “Leah?”

“Oh good, you’re done your shower,” her friend said as Sadie entered the kitchen. “I’ve made us some coffee and toast. So, what’s going on? Is it Philip?”

Sadie looked at her friend and felt the sting of fresh tears. She blinked them back. “It’s… Sam.”

“Is he okay?”

Sadie shook her head. “He’s gone, Leah.”

“Gone where?”

A sob caught in the back of her throat. “The Fog took him.”

Leah’s eyes widened in horror. “No! Not Sam.”

Sadie nodded, not trusting her voice.

“No, Sadie,” Leah wailed.

As soon as she spotted the tears in her friend’s eyes, Sadie’s shoulders quivered and she lost it. Sobs wracked her body. Leah gathered her close, rocking her like a baby, stroking her hair and crying with her.

“He’s gone, Leah. Sam’s gone. What do I do?”

Leah had no answer.

Whenever Sadie grew quiet, another thought would hit her. Wave after wave of memories and anguish assaulted her, until she was lost, floundering… breathless.

“I… can’t do… this,” she sobbed. “He has Sam. Oh God. Why did he take my baby?”

“I don’t know, honey,” Leah wept. “But we’ll get him back.”

After a long silence, Sadie lifted her head and gazed into her friend’s eyes. “What did Philip and I do to deserve this? Are we being punished? Am I ?”

“Sadie, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Leah said, her voice trembling with emotion. “It’s not your fault. Neither of you are being punished.”

Sadie didn’t believe her.

Leah drove her to a walk-in clinic where a doctor assured Sadie that her ribs were bruised, but thankfully not broken. He gave her a prescription for Tylenol 3’s, scheduled an x-ray— just to be safe, he said—at the Gray Nun’s Hospital for the next day, and told her to be more careful when going down the stairs.

Afterward, she made Leah go home. “There’s nothing more you can do right now,” she told her. “And I have to take care of a few things.”

“If you need anything, Sadie—anything at all—call me.”

“All I need is Sam.”

The afternoon was spent downtown at the police station. Philip met her there, half an hour late. When he apologized to Jay, the detective flicked him a steely look that made Sadie feel better. Then they were led to a crowded, windowless office with stacks of folders piled on one side of a beat up desk.