Photo by Michael Hamments on Unsplash

REVISITED

The fog is rising again, thick andalive. Its tendrils coil around the world like a living thing. And I know—I amits prey.

Last Halloween, my car stalled a milefrom home. Gas full, battery new—nothing should have stopped it. But no matterwhat 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, justmalevolence.

I grabbed my bag and ran. My heelsnapped on the cracked pavement, but I didn’t stop. Barefoot, I sprinted,superstition and terror driving me forward. Then—fingers like iron wrappedaround me from behind. A blade slashed my cheek. I kicked backward, stumblingfree, 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 themoment.

Now, a year later, Halloween returns.I’ve seen the movies, I know the stories, but this is no story. It’s real, butno one will believe me.

The air chills. Fog creeps across thelawn, curling under my windows and clinging to the eaves. Every shadow seemsalive. I check the locks, close the curtains, and move the dining room chairsagainst the patio door. Pacing—my pulse drums in my ears. Midnight approaches.

The fog presses closer. I can feel itmoving under doors, slipping past barriers, hungry. Death waits in that haze,patient.

I retreat to the bathroom and blockevery 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 torrentsrunning over my skin. Surely, cold will repel it, wash away the terror, renderme safe. I count the chimes, five… four… three… two…

There is a scratching at the bathroomdoor and a whisper in the wind. My breath freezes in my throat. The fog isinside the house, and the air smells of rot and earth. My heart refuses to obeyas 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 screamsfill the air. I cover my ears.

Finally, silence, but I dare not move.

Morning comes. Sunlight shines weaklythrough 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, butsomeone rang the doorbell…”

I follow them downstairs. Blood stainsthe floor and the walls, and a trail of bloody drag marks leads through the Frenchdoors to my backyard. I clutch the edge of a chair. My hands shakeuncontrollably as I clutch for the cup of tea a matron has prepared. Then I seethe sheet they’ve placed over the bodies.

The fog may have receded, but itsintent is clear. It waits, watching, calculating. For two years now, I’ve survivedHalloween night. This year, it claimed two strangers stranded by car trouble. Andit 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 Halloweenwill 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

HAPPYHALLOWEEN!