|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 |
 |
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
 |
 |
 |
|
 |
 |
 |
 |
Scary Stories
Scary Story #3The Fog
It was late on a cold November day, so cold the weak, autumnal sun had made no inroad into the heavy frost that had descended, like a cruel white blanket, the previous night. As I approached my friends’ house, I looked forward to the warmth of their fire, the congenial atmosphere, and a glass of warm Madeira wine. It was a custom, a family custom to offer their visitors this warming imbibe, a custom that had survived the passage of time, and the family’s migration from that tiny outpost of the same name, way out in the Atlantic Ocean, to merry old England. Generations of their family’s guest had enjoyed this warming drink on such cold wintry nights.
Opening the gate, I walked up the path, admiring the garden that was always in such pristine condition, no matter what time of year or how bad the weather happened to be. Lifting the doorknocker, a solid and heavy lion’s head, I gave the door an assertive knock, and then I waited for my hosts to respond.
“Is that Jeremiah?” Christine asked, calling to her husband, upstairs.
“Yes, darling,” Charles replied as he began making his way downstairs, to the front door. Opening it, greeting me, and then glancing out onto the frosty streetscape, he said, “Welcome, Jeremiah. You must be frozen – come in, give me that damp coat and hat, and get yourself down to the sitting room and in front of the fire.”
We made our way into the sitting room, where I was offered the armchair directly in front of a roaring log fire. Stretching out my cold hands, I soaked in the wonderful warmth of the crackling fire.
“Jeremiah!” Christine called out, as she entered the room. “It’s so good to see you – and on such a cold night!”
“You know me,” I chuckled, “out in all weathers…”
“Out in all weathers is one thing – but this?” she replied, pulling back the curtains, reminding me of how cold it actually was outside.
“How about a nice glass of Madeira, to warm you up?” Charles asked, picking up the bottle that had been resting discreetly in front of the fire.I smiled; I had no need to reply, because my two friends, whom I had known all my life, knew me as well as I did.
“Here you are,” said Charles, “a glass for the weary traveller.” He handed me a glass full to the brim with the brown, fiery liquid. “And one for you, dear,” he added, offering his wife a smaller glass.
As my two hosts joined me, relaxing in their wonderfully comfortable armchairs, sitting in front of the sparkling, crackling log fire, I thanked my God to have been blessed with such good friends.
As we caught up with all the gossip, talked about our plans for the future, and reminisced about the good, fun times we had enjoyed down through the years, the evening passed quickly (time seems to have that effect, when you’re having a good time, doesn’t it?).
Glancing at my watch, I was shocked to see that was past eleven, so knocking back the last of my Madeira wine (my fourth glassful, I might add), I thanked my congenial hosts for their hospitality and extricated myself from the comfortable chair.
“You’re welcome,” said Christine, giving me a little peck on the cheek.
“You’re always welcome in our home,” said Charles as he handed me my coat and hat.
On donning on my coat, I could feel the cold dampness of its fabric, despite Charles having placed it close to one of the hot radiators. I shivered as I buttoned it up, and pulled the belt tightly closed, hoping to ward off at least some of the cold of such a wintry night. Then donning my hat, I was ready to go.
Charles gasped in shock when he opened the door. “Look,” he said, “I’ve never seen so bad a fog!”
While we had been cosy and warm, inside, drinking our Madeira and having a good time, a heavy fog had descended. And it was bad, really bad, a pea souper if ever I saw one.
“You will have to stay for the night,” Charles insisted. “You’ll never find your way home in that!”
“The spare room is made up,” said Christine. “It will be no bother.” I thanked them both for the kind offer, and to be truthful would have gladly accepted it at any other time, but I had an early start on the morrow, which meant that I had to get home, to prepare for it. So thanking Charles and his beautiful wife for a lovely evening, I bid them goodnight and made my way carefully down the fog-shrouded path. As the gate closed behind me, I heard Christine saying to her husband, “I do hope that he will be all right…”
As the door closed behind me, I pulled up the collar of my coat, and with eyes staring down at the pavement (it was the only thing I could see clearly in such a pea soup), I began the long walk home.
Surrounded, engulfed by such an extraordinarily thick fog, everything on the journey home seemed somehow different. Even the streetlights took on an unreal, surreal appearance within the gloom. At one point I almost walked into one of them, barely avoiding it at the last second. Then, there were the intersections in the road, the places where I had to pass from one street to another. These proved to be a real hazard! Although there were no cars or vehicles to be heard, let alone seen, I was still terribly afraid when I crossed these places. At one point, when I was half way across a particularly wide street, I thought I heard a car fast approaching and, panicking, I ran for my life. I needn’t have bothered, though, because nothing came, and all that I got for my efforts was a grazed knee when I tripped and fell on the curb and fell at the far side. It hurt.
As I limped forlornly along, the warm Madeira wine now but a memory, I saw no one else, not even one person. Apparently, I was the only person foolish enough to be roaming the streets in the mother of all fogs, at so late an hour. Then I stopped, puzzled by the unfamiliar looking street that I found myself in. “Did I take a wrong turn, back there, when I fell?” I whispered. Squinting through the pea soup, I tried to make out the buildings running alongside the path. But it was impossible – it was far too foggy to have any hope of seeing them clearly.
There were gates, though. “That’s a good start,” I said, touching the first one. It felt slightly familiar. “These gates, these metal gates – do I recognise them?” I asked. I opened the first one, the one that I was touching, and then I suddenly had a brainwave. “I will knock on the door of this house, so I will,” I said, “and ask the householder where I am. Yes, that’s a good idea,” I muttered, making my way up the narrow, red and black tiled path.
On reaching the door, I knocked it and waited for a reply. There wasn’t any, and despite knocking for another three times no one came to open it. Undaunted by this failure, I made my way out, through the gate, to try the next house. “There will be someone, here,” I muttered, “I am certain of it.” But there wasn’t. Despite knocking on that door for a good six times, it remained stubbornly unanswered.
“Third time lucky,” I said loudly, giving the next door along a loud rat-a-tat-tat. I waited, I waited, and I waited some more, but no one answered that door, either. “Where is everyone?” I complained, exiting the gate, feeling so dejected and miserable.
Giving up on this tack, I retraced my steps to where I had fallen, and when I got there I immediately saw where I had gone wrong. “Ah,” I cried out, “I took the wrong turn…silly me!”
Keeping to the inside of the path, the buildings (what I could see of them, that is) took on an increasingly familiar appearance. “Won’t be long now,” I said quietly, trying to raise my spirits, “until I’m home having a nice cup of tea…”
“Conkers bonkers,” I laughed as I passed beneath the old and familiar horse chestnut trees bordering the Council Offices grounds. Under these trees, the fog was, thankfully, much lighter. I bent down, searching for conkers; my cold fingers soon found one. As I held the conker tightly, my mind returned to my childhood days, when conkers were such prized possessions. Its strange how our priorities in life change as we grow older, isn’t it? Something that’s so important to us today might be of no interest or value to us tomorrow. Where I am now living, in Ireland, the game of conkers is all but forgotten, and I never cease to be amazed by the amount of conkers left rotting under horse chestnut trees, in the autumn. Perhaps the kids, nowadays, are just too busy with their Play Stations, Nintendos and so forth.
Pocketing my shiny conker, I continued my journey home, away from the protection of the trees, along the deserted road. It’s only a mile to go,” I whispered confidently. “It’s only a mile, only one short mile until I can turn the key in my front door. I began whistling, happy in that knowledge.
Although I was now certain as to where I was, my progress began to falter. You see, away from the protection of the chestnut trees, and also because I was getting closer to the river, the fog grew thicker and thicker and thicker. It became so thick, so dense, it got to the point I couldn’t even see the ground beneath my feet. From there on I chose my steps carefully, cautiously, slowly, having no intention of allowing myself to fall for a second time.
Because I was now walking so slow, ever sound, every footfall was that bit clearer. My own footsteps seemed to be taking on a life or their own, echoing loudly, audaciously, in the empty streets. Stopping at a curb (I almost fell off it), I listened carefully in case a stray vehicle might just happen to approach. Strangely, peculiarly, I heard the sounds of footsteps, footsteps somewhere in the fog. My ears cocked, but the sound of the footsteps – stopped. The street was bathed in an eerie silence.
Was there someone out there, someone who was perhaps lost, who was following me, in the hope they might travel home in safely? Or had I imagined it, and the noise being simply my own footsteps echoing across the slumbering street? I waited, still, for a while, trying to calm my rattling nerves. After hearing nothing for well over five minutes, I began walking again. This time I, thankfully, heard only the sound of my feet, and I relaxed, breathing that bit lighter. This reprieve, however, did not last for long, because all too soon the sound of the footsteps, the other set of footsteps, began again – and in earnest. And, this time, they were closer to me than ever before.
It was odd, strange, bizarre – and frightening, for whenever I stopped walking the sound of the other footsteps also stopped. Then, when I began walking again, so also did the others. Like an invisible shadow, the footsteps (and their owner) followed closely behind.
I began to get scared, thinking it might be a madman, like Jack the Ripper or the like, someone who would be only too happy to slit my throat without a moment’s hesitation. I tried rapping on another few doors, hoping the occupants of these houses might see fit to answer me, but no one answered, not even one. I was puzzled and confused, wondering how everyone could be in bed – and fast asleep.
Only a half-mile left to go, and although the footsteps had not gone, they were at least no closer to me. I saw that as a positive. I was still in with a chance; I still might get home without being murdered in the fog, in the dark of the night.
“Excuse me, please,” a male voice bellowed from the murk somewhere in front of me.
“I beg you pardon?” I replied, happy that another soul was abroad (apart from the one who owned the menacing footsteps, that is).
“I bought this parrot from you only last week...” the same voice continued, “...but it’s dead.”
“Hmm, that sounds familiar,” I whispered, listening intently.
“It appears all right to me,” said a second person – also a male.
“All right?” the first man replied, his voice rising with anger, “I suppose he’s all right, if you happen to like dead parrots…ones that have been nailed to their perches!” I laughed – There was no one in front of me. I was listening to a television programme – a repeat of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, to be exact. I wondered where it could be coming from, but because of the almighty pea soup, it was impossible to find out. Despite this failure, it did cheer me up, though, and I set off with renewed vigour, thinking at least one other person was still awake – even if they were glued to the telly, watching ancient repeats.
“A quarter mile to go, Jeremiah,” I told myself. “Only a quarter of a mile and you will be out of this terrible fog, safe from whoever is following you.” My house, my home was getting tantalisingly closer, as minute by minute, yard by yard, I trundled through the pea soup all around me. Suddenly, I saw a gate, and I shouted, “I know that gate! It’s Mrs Pereira’s gate!” I was so happy I felt like kneeling down and kissing it, but I didn’t. No. Instead, I began to run; I began running like my life depended on it. “No one is going to get me,” I yelled defiantly, “NO ONE!”
Yes, it was still foggy, incredibly foggy, but I kept on running, dashing down the street to my house, my home. Like a man possessed, I sped through that fog as if it wasn’t there, forward towards my final destination.
Stopping at a gate, MY GATE, I fumbled in my pockets to find my keys. Pulling them out, I quickly inserted the correct one into the door lock, and then opened the door and went in. I was home, now NOTHING could harm me.
“Excuse me,” a voice called out from behind.
Turning round, I looked out, into the fog. “Who’s there?” I asked, afraid again.
“Oh, I’m sorry to be bothering you,” the voice continued. “It’s just that I think I have something that belongs to you…”
My eyes narrowing, I said, “Where are you? Show yourself!” Footsteps, I listened with trepidation to the sound of his footsteps, getting closer and closer along my garden path. Then, from out of the fog, he appeared; a man, an incredibly old man, in a black coat so long it dusted the ground. And he was smiling; the old man who was actually smiling. With an arm outstretched towards me, he said, “I believe this is yours?”
Leaning out from the doorway, I tried to distinguish the object. “My hat!” I cried out, quite in surprise, “I had forgotten all about it! Where did you find it?”
“You dropped it, a mile or so back, I knew it was yours, because no one else was about. I would have returned it to you, sooner, but with all of this fog I had a job working out where you were. I had to keep stopping and starting, to listen for your footsteps… You are okay with that, aren’t you?”
“Yes, yes, and thanks,” I replied, relieved that he wasn’t an axe murderer.
“I’ll be on my way, so,” he said, as he began walking towards the gate.
Feeling guilty for having had such bad thoughts about him, I said, “You wouldn’t like to come in for a cup of tea, would you?”
“It depends,” the pensioner replied.
“On what?”
“On whether you have any biscuits,” he said, laughing.
“I can do better than that,” I replied. “How about a nice warm glass of Madeira?”
If there is a moral to this story, I feel that it must be something along the lines of the following:
‘When the night is so dark that you yearn for the dawn more than anything else, remember that when it arrives it will never be exactly what you expect.’
I am the crazy-mad writer of children's stories,songs, nursery rhymes and much, much more!
© Gerrard T Wilson 2008 |
