There’s something in the fog.
When it gets really thick, on moonlit autumn nights, you can sense it out there. Waiting. If you get too close, it’ll reach out to you. It’ll take hold of you and you will never be the same.
You never see it, of course. It uses the fog to stay invisible. But it’s there, all the same.
The night I met it, it was what I call a Bauhaus night. I could almost hear “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” playing on the soundtrack of my life as I walked past the park. The fairground was there that night, and the fog made all the lights glow like angels.
I didn’t see it, but I felt it. It took hold of me, and got into me, and I will never be the same.
Now I sit and wait. Clear summer nights are like hell to me; crisp winter nights are torture. I only come alive when the fog rolls in.
I wait for the fog, because there’s something in it, and it has my soul.
© Kari Fay