Cheryl Tardif - Children of the Fog

Sadie gave her friend a sad smile. “I’m sorry, sistah friend.”

Leah would hate her when this was all over.

Gripping the portrait of Sam in her hands, she swallowed hard. “You need a special place, little man.” Her gaze was drawn to the empty space above the crackling fire. “Perfect.”

She slid a chair over to the fireplace, then hung the portrait above the mantle. Sam’s sweet smiling face stared down at her, full of life. She kissed the tips of two fingers, pressing them against Sam’s lips.

“I love you,” she said softly.

A floorboard creaked behind her.

She flicked a look over her shoulder and almost toppled from the chair. Crossing the room, she listened. Nothing. She looked at the bedroom door. It was closed. Had she left it that way?

She let out a huff. “Talk about paranoid, Sadie.”

She pushed the door open, stepped inside and set the lamp on the dresser. Dropping to her knees on the hardwood floor, she lifted the bedspread and peeked underneath.

The cedar box was still there.

As she stood, her head swam and she hit her hip on the corner of the dresser, almost knocking over the lamp.

She giggled. “Just a bit tipsy, are you?”

A faint childish laugh echoed nearby.

Sadie jumped. “Hello?”

Another soft laugh.

She flew out of the bedroom, holding the lamp high above her head. She spun on one heel in the middle of the cabin. “Sam?”

No one was there.

Half a dozen uneven steps brought her to the picture window in the kitchen. All she saw outside was a pea soup fog hugging sturdy tree trunks and a sliver of moon winking between menacing clouds.

Thud!

She turned. A distorted shadow moved on the other side of the draped sliding door. Darting across the room, she yanked back the drapes. “Who’s out there?”

It was so black outside that she could only make out the shape of the table and two chairs. Other than that, the veranda was unoccupied.

She slid the door open and stepped outside.

Right into a fresh mound of dirt.

She immediately spotted the culprit. The dwarf cedar lay on its side, clumps of loose soil spilling from the terracotta pot.

A shiver snaked up her spine.

Someone or something had knocked it over.

Uneasy, she peered into the shadows, but nothing moved except the river. The air was nippy, but still. No wind. Near the woods, a semi-sheer curtain of fog hung suspended a foot off the ground.

A streak of white flitted through the trees.

She squinted. “What the heck?”

Something was moving out there.

Her jacket hung on a peg just inside the door. She grabbed it and shoved on a pair of boots. Then she fumbled for the flashlight on the shelf above her head.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Where are you hiding?”

There!

She moved cautiously across the veranda, the light from the flashlight arcing toward the woods. Whatever the white thing was, it flickered, then reappeared behind a tree a few yards away.

“Hello?” she called. “Who’s there?”

A small figure shrouded in a ghostly white cloak emerged from the swirling fog. A child. Sadie couldn’t make out if it was male or female. She saw no distinct features, not even an arm or leg.

Another giggle wafted in the air.

She started for the steps that led down to the grass and headed for the figure in white, praying it was human.

What if it isn’t?

Emboldened by the alcohol coursing through her veins, she swept the light over the woods.

“Irma! If that’s you, this isn’t funny.”

The figure was gone.

“Maybe you imagined it. Maybe you’re just drunk.” She let out a derisive snort and tottered back up the steps. “What were you thinking, Sadie? That you could just go gallivanting off into the woods after a gho—?”

Something lay in front of the sliding door.

Sadie drew the lamp closer. “A chocolate bar?”

Perplexed, she picked up the chocolate bar and examined it. It was her favorite. A Hershey bar.

But who would leave her such a treat?

When she awoke the next morning, there were two things on her mind. Finding the bottle of Tylenol and getting rid of the god-awful taste that caked her tongue.

“Potty mouth,” she mumbled, scrabbling from bed.

She shivered and pulled her robe over the ratty oversized t-shirt that she’d slept in. Then she stepped into the small bathroom. She jolted to a stop when she caught sight of her haggard reflection in the mirror above the sink.

“You… look… horrible .”

She gingerly touched her matted hair. The short curls were foreign to her and she couldn’t decide if it made her look older or younger. Regardless, she looked terrible.

“Thank God Philip can’t see you now.”

She leaned closer, pushed up her bangs and traced the angry scar that gleamed high on her pale forehead—compliments of The Fog. Her eyes—the same blue as Sam’s—stared back at her, faded and tired, with bags underneath that were so puffy they resembled Barbie pillows.

“Looks like you’re in for more than a bad hair day.”

Since she hadn’t unpacked her suitcases yet, she grabbed the tube of toothpaste left by the last tenant and squeezed some on her finger. Then she spread it over her teeth and tongue, spitting out the excess. Reaching for a towel, she cursed under her breath when her hand met air. She’d forgotten to put out the fresh linens.

She wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Time to make this place a home, even if only temporarily. You could use a few things.”

The Sadie in the mirror scowled. “Like a plastic surgeon.”

After a quick sponge bath with warm water from the kettle, she pulled on the jeans from the day before, a fresh t-shirt and a sweater that her mother had knitted. In the main room, she added some kindling and wood to the smoldering embers in the fireplace. Then she made a pot of coffee and began the daunting task of unpacking, all the while trying to ignore the chocolate bar that sat on the counter.

Had Irma left it for her?

In the bedroom, she lugged one suitcase onto the bed. She filled three drawers of the dresser. The other suitcase was dragged into the kitchen. She opened it and removed the art supplies and the manuscript for Going Batty. The plastic container with the clippings found a spot on the coffee table.

Battling a raging headache, she flopped in the armchair and picked up Leah’s photo. Her best friend—her soul sistah —grinned back at her, hazel green eyes sparkling wickedly. Above her head was a colorful birthday banner.

The photo had been taken three years ago, the night Sadie had thrown her a surprise party. Leah had suspected nothing when Sadie had asked her over for dinner, claiming she couldn’t get a babysitter for Sam. Some of Leah’s friends and family hid in the kitchen before she arrived, but once Leah was seated on the sofa, they ambushed her. Leah looked as if someone had told her she’d won the lottery. The only sour grape was Philip’s unexpected arrival after a business meeting was cancelled, but thankfully he retreated to his office. Meanwhile, Leah got so plastered she had to rest upstairs while Sadie entertained the guests. Then she left early, saying she wasn’t feeling well. Sadie had to convince Philip to drive her home.

A bittersweet sigh escaped. “Home.”

She had no home. Not anymore. Life in Edmonton seemed so far away, so long ago.

She returned Leah’s photo to the table, then leaned back and closed her eyes. “Now what are you going to do?”

The answer arrived with a knock on the back door.

Irma stood on the porch, a navy toque pulled over her head and ears. “Thought you might wanna go for a walk with an old widow.”