by J.M. Rowe
We were somewhere near Deeping St Jude when the fog rolled out of the Fens. It was yellow, like a fresh bruise, and it clung to the headlamps. A moment later, the car lurched into one of those ditches that run alongside the country lanes.
No broken bones, just bruises and a fright.
I recalled seeing a farmhouse a mile back, so I set off to get help. My last sight of Julia was of her standing by the car, holding her up phone, searching for a signal.
I took a step away and the fog closed around her.
That was five years ago.
There were so many questions about the empty car with Julia’s handbag on the back seat. The police went over those text messages, our fight, our make-or-break holiday. Julia’s family weren’t happy when all charges were dropped.
I hate fog now.
I try to get away from the Fens in November, when the sunken fields start brewing the stuff until it bubbles out across the narrow lanes and invades my garden. I tried to get away today, when I saw it stalking the hedgerows like a sick old dog, inching itself closer.
I got as far as Shuck’s Drove when it pounced, blocking the road ahead and flowing through the dykes to get behind me. I reversed back up the lane.
It gathered at the end of my drive.
In the house, I closed all the windows and drew the curtains, put the television on loud, brewed some tea but then opened a bottle instead. One night under siege, then escape to the coast in the morning.
I could feel it–the fog–outside, taking the house in its clammy fist.
The temperature dropped. I turned up the heating.
Then the television froze in multicoloured stripes. The radio spoke only in a static hiss. I put my hand on the radiators: cold. My breath misted.
The front door rattled. I drew the chain across. It rattled again.
I heard Julia’s voice outside.
“Why won’t you let me in?” she pleaded. “I’ve travelled so far. It’s dark and it’s cold. I want to come home.”
I pressed my face to the frame and clenched my fist on the handle.
“I forgive you,” she whispered. “I’ve come home. To stay. With you. Let me in.”
No one can run forever.
I drew back the chain and opened the door. The fog tumbled into the house, wrapping me in its cold embrace.
A figure advanced towards me.
The yellow mists swallowed my voice.
“Julia?”
J. M. ROWE writes The Daily Ghost, publishing a 400 word ghost story every day. The Daily Ghost has been running since July 2020 with 200 stories in its archives: eerie, horrific, funny, romantic and bitter-sweet. At the weekends, audio readings are included. Many tales are set in the Fens of East Anglia. All subscriptions support the First Story charity, providing writing workshops for disadvantaged teens.