A Figure in the Fog
Earlier this month, a fog descended on the town I live in, sinking its teeth into every crevice and making its home in the streets. It's thick and opaque, seeming to swallow apartments whole, mine included. Sometimes I felt that if I didn’t close my front door fast enough, its tendrils would creep in, slide down the hall, and crawl their way into my dreams. In a way, I think they might have.
I tried a few times to drive myself to university, but my driving was already subpar, and the only thing that I could see to guide me were the taillights of other cars. Suffice to say, there were some close calls. After accepting that the blanket of low-hanging clouds was here to stay, I started taking the bus. Soon after, I began to hear whispers, rumors passed between commuters, a figure in the fog. Almost out of sight, but ever-present. At first, I thought it was a juvenile joke. I remember climbing onto the bus, which was hardly warmer than outside, and sitting across the aisle from two girls around my age. They were huddled together, sharing warmth and giggling to one another. I grimaced at this, envious of their kinship. Something deep in my chest tugged and fought to free itself, to make itself known, but my ribs kept it at bay. I heard one of them scoff loudly, their tone had soured a bit. I listened closer, trying to pick up on what happened (there wasn’t anything better to do at that moment). I didn’t catch the first part of the conversation, but this is what I remember to the best of my ability.
The girl by the window scoffed, “Really?” There was a tinge of humor in her voice.
“Yes, I’m not fucking with you.” Retorted the girl in the aisle seat, sounding somewhat annoyed that her friend didn’t believe her. She paused for a beat, fiddling with the frayed end of her scarf, “It was hunched over the pond behind the library, it looked like it was throwing up, but it didn’t make any noise.”
There was another bout of silence before the other girl spoke, “Jesus, yeah, that is really weird,” she paused, “But, I’m sure it was just some hungover twat who should not have been going to class. Nothing to be scared about.”
She smiled, grasping her friend’s hand for a moment reassuringly. After that, their conversation turned back to other topics, continuing to fog up the window with their warm chatter. This type of reassurance and understanding seemed foreign to me, maybe I’ve become too accustomed to conflict.
As the day progressed, I came to know the rumor well. It had spread to my school, infecting the minds of classmates and professors alike. Everyone seemed on edge, like they had done something wrong and were just waiting for repercussions to strike. This made me uneasy. How can a glorified campfire story affect people in such a way? Unfortunately, I would soon come to find out that it, in fact, was not just a story.
Getting to the bus stop early had become habitual for me. I enjoyed the stillness of the early morning and the feeling of camaraderie I had developed with the old man who waited alongside me. But it was different that day. I stood at the stop, the February cold biting at my cheeks and the tips of my ears. The bitter chill of the morning swept the grogginess of sleep from me quickly. I felt oddly alert. It was quieter than usual, the old man I usually made small talk with was absent. He had said something about visiting his daughter prior to this, which stuck me as odd, since he had never mentioned her before. Either way, I was alone, only accompanied by the sound of my breathing, which had admittedly become shallow.
I scanned my surroundings, desperately searching for the warm halogen lights of the bus. Instead, in the middle of the road, I saw a silhouette stagger into view. A figure of a girl. Or that’s what it looked to be, tall and scrawny, obscured by the thick mist just enough to mask her features. She stood, motionless. I couldn’t see her eyes but, God, I felt them. Sharp daggers stabbing straight back into mine. I felt an immense sense of wrongness, like something I had done upset her somehow. At first, I did not think of the rumors, I only believed there was something wrong with this woman. Maybe she was hurt, lost, in need of help. No matter how I tried to justify it, I could not bring myself to approach her, something in me screamed to root myself where I stood. Their stare felt accusatory, a gavel slamming down against my lungs. Something deep inside my brain told me I wouldn’t like what I saw if the fog thinned. So I stood as still as she did until I saw headlights peek through the blanket of fog. The bus approached at a steady pace. My heart rate quickened as I realized it was not slowing down for the girl. For a moment, I couldn’t register what was happening. The bus smashed through the figure without stopping. Which in itself is horrifying, but her body didn’t go spiralling off to the curb, broken and battered as it should be. It just dissipated, vaporized back into the fog as if it was never there to begin with. I let the bus pass by me that day.
After that, I began to see her everywhere. Outside my classroom window, standing by the curb outside my apartment, even in the corners of my room, where the light didn’t quite reach. She held her arm aloft, beckoning me towards her. I didn’t approach, I didn’t acknowledge her. I felt that if I did, I would face my own judgment day. It was a constant, looming presence, a gargoyle sitting on my chest waiting for me to wake up. Though it wasn’t only me with this weight. Everyone I’ve spoken to since has seen it, but they all describe theirs differently. Some even recognize their figure, with an immense sense of grief and despair. Some have faced theirs, most have not. Yesterday, I spoke to mine.
When I walked into the kitchen that morning, she was sitting at the table, hunched and somber. I approached quietly, bare feet padding against the cold tile. Carefully, I grasped for the chair closest to her, pulled it out, and sat down. The old wood creaked sadly beneath my weight. I was crying, though I couldn’t yet pinpoint why. I looked at her for a long moment, letting my eyes adjust to the oppressive darkness. Soon, I was able to make out her features. Shaggy unkempt hair, deep, soulful eyes, and a busted, quivering lip that attempted to form a broken smile. I could no longer keep my composure, because I knew that face, I knew that frame. I left her behind when I escaped under the guise of leaving for college. I left her alone.
I tried to reach out to hold her, but my hands passed right through as she faded. I curled in upon myself, feeling like the world was imploding. I wept, desperately clinging to the chair in which her visage had just been. I sat for so long whispering apologies to the air. The figure had dissolved into the dark. Her presence was gone, and an awful silence took her place. When I could finally move again, I struggled to my feet, staggered back to my room, and packed only the essentials. With a new sense of urgency, I walked out the door, down the stairs, and into my car for the first time in what felt like months. The fog seemed to propel me forward, finally dissipating once I passed the outskirts of town.