The Fog
You can feel the ghostly fingers caressing your throat
They were here a second ago. “Caleb,” I yell. “Sarah?” There are noises hidden in the fog but no response.
I stumble forward, my arms outstretched. The white is so thick, the grey so dense, I lose all sense of depth. I can barely see my feet.
The boys didn’t specify a time of day for the challenge, so we thought we could cheat by doing it in the morning — a cloudy, foggy morning. What a stupid idea, to accept the challenge in the first place.
“Sarah?” I call again. There’s no response.
It doesn’t matter. The stories aren’t true. The dead are in their graves.
“Caleb?”
There are sounds around me, hard to make out, but still no answer.
“Stop joking around, guys! I’m not scared!”
I am. I am so very scared. I feel the fog touching me, its ghostly fingers caressing my throat.
The sounds around me are louder, closer. Steps. These are definitely steps. Irregular, erratic steps.
“Guys?” I whisper. My voice breaks, forcing a small tear out the corner of my eye.
I can’t see through the wall of grey, but I can hear them around me. They are here!
A hand sticks out from the fog and grabs my arm. I try to scream but a second hand covers my mouth. Sarah gets her face an inch from mine and whispers, “Shut up and run!”
Inspired by the prompt from JF Danskin.
When he’s not talking about himself in the third person, FJCMontenegro writes dystopian science fiction with a touch of cyberpunk. You can read his flash fiction here:
