Cheryl Tardif - Children of the Fog

As she stood to leave, she began to crumple the napkin, but something she had drawn unconsciously made her hand shake. The napkin was covered with infinity symbols, and one word was written in the middle.

SAM.

“My little man,” she whispered.

“You okay, Sadie?” Ed asked from behind the bar.

“No, but I will be.”

He gave her a sad look. “Drink’s on me.”

With a quick nod, she packed up the laptop and cell phone charger. Out of curiosity—and not because she intended to call anyone—she checked her messages. Two from her parents, one from Leah and four from Philip.

“Must be wondering where his documents are.”

The phone disappeared into her jeans pocket.

Furious at not seeing what had been going on right under her nose, she sped back to the cabin. By the time she reached it, she had convinced herself that Leah and Philip had been messing around for years, that her entire marriage and her friendship with Leah was a sham.

She dropped the laptop case near the door and stormed into the kitchen. She yanked one of the bottles of Cabernet from the cupboard and poured a tall glass. To hell with Philip. She’d celebrate her freedom from him by drinking the bastard’s precious wine.

Sadie smiled sardonically. “To truth and freedom.”

She stopped counting after the fourth glass. What was the point? She knew what she was.

Weak.

She welcomed the giddy infusion of alcohol in her blood. It almost made her forget about her philandering husband and her traitorous best friend. It almost blocked her visions of them having wild sex. It almost made her forget about Sam.

Almost.

That night, she wished she were already dead.

Terrifying images assaulted her. The bloody finger. Sam’s little toe. The gruesome carnage in the tree nursery. Faces fluttered before her, mingling with snatches of angry conversation that crept through the stupor of her mind. Philip, blaming her for Sam’s death. Leah, doubting her decision to remain silent about seeing The Fog. Her parents, embarrassed by her drinking. They all pointed a finger in Sadie’s direction, accusing her.

“It’s all your fault,” they shouted.

Then she saw him .

The Fog.

He skulked in a shadowed corner of the cabin bedroom, his eyes gleaming in the dim light cast by the oil lamp simmering beside the bed. When he stepped into the light, his face was painted like Clancy’s.

She whimpered and backed up against the headboard.

“Shh,” he whispered, as if comforting a child.

“Stay away from me!”

He paid no attention and moved soundlessly toward the bed. He held up a hand brandishing a gleaming butcher knife, and in the other hand, two small blue and white marbles rolled in his palm.

But they weren’t marbles. They were eyes—Sam’s eyes.

Sadie stared at them, horrified. “Sam?”

“Your son is dead.” The Fog’s mouth moved closer, rotting breath spilling from him like raw sewage. “Now I’m going to carve you into pieces. Little bloody pieces.”

As the knife swiftly arced downward, she squeezed her eyes shut and screamed. “No!”

A breeze wafted over her. But that was it. No searing pain, no agonizing death. Just silence.

When she opened her eyes, he was gone. Confusion swept through her. Where was he? Hiding in the shadows?

She reached out and touched the oil lamp.

It was cool.

The Fog had been nothing more than a hideous dream.

“But it seemed so real.”

A sob caught in the back of her throat and she shivered uncontrollably. Then she frowned. Why is it so cold in here?

With a grunt, she sat up, her eyes fastening on the one thing that was out of place.

The open window.

She thought of the night Sam had been taken, the night that had been filled with signs—if she had only seen them. His window had been open too, just like hers was now.

But the Fog isn’t here. So who’s playing tricks on me?

She felt like a participant in a demented game of cat and mouse, and she had no illusions—she was the mouse. And she was sick and tired of playing.

“What do you want from me?” she moaned.

Every inch of her body tightened. Her hands clamped into fists and she wanted to pound something. Someone. Philip. Leah.

Him.

“No more!” she screamed. “No fucking more!”

With a deep breath, she leapt from the bed. Then she reached up and slammed the window shut. Outside, the moon shone above the trees, its crescent shape radiating a hazy light. A glistening fog floated above the ground. She stared at it, wondering if that was what had inspired her nightmare.

She leaned her forehead against the cool glass.

Nothing stirred outside.

But someone opened my window.

“Well, there’s no way in hell you’re going back to sleep now.”

She fumbled for her robe. Blinded by the dark, she made her way through the gloomy living room and approached the fireplace where glowing embers pulsed ever so faintly. She felt for the kindling in the basket on her left. When she tossed a few pieces in, sparks licked the undersides of the wood. She placed two logs on top, but they merely smoldered and crackled, laughing at her. Knowing they’d catch sooner or later, she squinted at the two windows, the sliding doors and the back door.

“By the time I’m done, this cabin’ll be locked down like Fort Knox,” she muttered. “But first, I need a flashlight.”

She trailed her fingers along the coffee table, searching for the flashlight she had bought in town. All she met was empty space.

“I’m sure I left it here.” It must have fallen.

Her hands swept the floor.

Nothing.

“What the heck did you do with it?”

A glaring light blinded her.

With a shriek, she jumped back, her heart racing.

“Looking for thith?”

A boy of about six with closely shaved hair sat cross-legged on the sofa. Covered by a blanket, he watched her with a curious expression in his fathomless eyes.

He held something in his hands. “You want it?”

It was the blue flashlight. The one Irma had given her. The one Sadie had lost in the woods.

She shook her head, confused.

It was happening again. The hallucinations. The boy was a figment of her insane imagination. Or a mirage, compliments of Philip’s blasted wine. But she hadn’t had that much to drink. Had she?

“What’s your name?” the boy lisped cheerfully, as though it were perfectly normal for him to be sitting in her cabin in the middle of the night.

She swallowed hard. Figments of imaginations weren’t supposed to talk, or be heard.

The boy huffed. “Lady, dontcha talk?” He waved the flashlight and the light bounced off the walls.

“There are no children here,” she said.

The boy grinned. “Yeth there are. Me.”

She crept forward. With an outstretched hand, she reached for the phantom boy, positive that she would touch his cheek and— poof —he’d vanish into thin air.

But he didn’t vanish. Her hand met soft skin.

She snatched her hand back. “Who are you? And what are you doing here?”

The boy didn’t answer. Instead, he slid off the blanket, revealing a pair of navy-blue and light gray striped flannel pajamas.

She frowned. “You should be home in bed. It’s late.”

“My thithter made me come,” he said.

She stared at the boy, her mind reeling. What kind of sister would make her little brother wander around the woods at night?

“She wanted me to give you something,” he continued with a soft lisp. “She was gonna come herself, but Father sent her to the dungeon because she got out the other night.”