The Fog

The fog came rolling over the small black pond covering the surface of the glassy water with tendrils of gray haze. Fingers of fog fondled the water’s surface as if searching for a way in. The fog seemed to block out all sound as easily as it did sight. No slurping of water upon the edges of the land can be heard. No creaking of the raft that floated lazily upon the water. No cricket trying to impress his mate. It was as if the fog had rolled in and claimed the inky pond for itself.

In the distance, a small dark spot in the sky grew in size as it neared the dark pond. The fog, as if it was waiting for the raven, began to balloon upwards from the water stretching its foggy reach from the water’s surface to the height of the trees that surrounded the small pool. The raven flew closer cawed once, then dove into the swirling gray curtain that closed around the bird like a trap and then folded upon itself until it was again just stretched across the water. A small slurp is heard, the raven disappeared into the depths, and the world once again stood silent and still.

Time seemed to crawl for several minutes, an hour, perhaps two before a bolt of black lightning shot from the dark waters and through the gray curtain. The raven's wings flapped wildly as it climbed to its soaring height and flew to the small cabin not far from the water’s edge. Yellow flickering light glowed from the front window, and the raven landed just outside and peered through its red eyes at the figure inside.

The dark-haired man stood at the kitchen sink cleaning his dinner dishes diligently. He was done fairly quickly as he was the only one that inhabited the small hidden cabin. As he turned, his blue eyes caught the sight of the raven sitting at his window watching him. Taken aback by the raven’s quiet study, the man stood staring back at the bird. After several seconds of quiet contemplation, the raven called out a single raspy call and flapped its wings before quieting back down and waiting.

The man furrowed his brow and took a step toward the odd black bird hovering near his window. The bird did not move. It instead cocked its head expectantly and waited. The man took another step, and then another. The bird still did not move. The man reached out and turned the door handle, his eyes ever watching the strange dark bird. He slowly pushed open the door and stepped out into the cool night. The bird turned towards him as if he had been waiting. It hopped twice and then spread its wings and flew to the banner of the porch next to the man before settling down and cawing once more. The man, confused as to the behavior of this odd, lone bird, reached out with intrepid pale fingers towards the raven. The raven suddenly snapped its curled, knife-like beak and tore a chunk of flesh from the man’s finger before screaming, bolting into the air and disappearing into the distance. The man stood in stunned silence, his eyes glued to the watery raven footprints left on the banner of his porch.

A short time later, the man sat on his sofa, his finger wrapped in white gauze. His blue eyes stared out the front window and watched the soft gray fog that covered the small pond. The fog seemed to be getting closer as if it watched him. As if it stretched and beckoned to the man inside the cabin. In a way, the fog reminded him of the bird. It both comforted and terrified the man at the same time. He picked up his cup of fresh coffee in his uninjured hand and sipped at the bitter brew. His eyes never left the fog as it inched ever closer to the small cabin.

Outside, the fog slowly curled its way to the wooden cabin. It wrapped around the large trunks of trees covered in thick, dark bark, and ran its gray tendrils through the tree’s green mossy hair. It writhed upon the soft forest floor before curling around the shaved wooden posts of the cabin’s porch steps. The fog built and grew as it climbed the steps and pooled outside the red cabin door.

A soft knock sounded on the door. The man stood, lifted his injured hand to look at the bandage around his wounded finger. The bandage was covered in inky blackness. He glanced back at the door as the knock sounded again. He moved forward, feeling like he floated across the hardwood floor. He opened the door and stepped out into the pool of gray haze that curled up his legs and around his waist. He felt the fog tug at him, urging him forward toward the maw of the black pond. He did not resist. He let the fog carry him forward. His eyes blinked tiredly, his mind filled with the fingers of the fog. He gave himself to the feeling of weightlessness. He did not feel when his feet stepped into the black water, nor when it reached over his knees. He did not notice the water lapping around his waist, or his neck. He did not fight when it covered his face and head. The water caressed him, lolled him into security. He opened his mouth and inhaled the darkness, letting it invade his throat, his lungs. A spark of alarm went off in his brain, but it was too late. The water held him, pulled his bucking body to the bottom, and held him close in its embrace. Before his vision faded, he saw the line of bodies anchored to the black pond’s womb.

And in the distance, the cry of the red-eyed raven can be heard as it lures the next victim in for the ever-growing black fog that crawls along the forest floor.