Writing Challenge Entry Number 1: The Time of the Mist
Genre: Psychological Mystery
Warning: This short story is a bit creepy/scary at points but it's more psychological than anything else. Enjoy!
I hope to edit this later and better its content.
Damien didn't normally travel. His occupation as a thermal scientist didn't require him to stray far from the lab on most occasions. However, the death of his wife was as sudden as the car crash that killed her. He hit an all time low. His close friends and coworkers tried everything they could to console him. They even went out of their way to raise money and book a flight to Scotland for him.
"If anything needs to be done, that boy needs to get out of the country. Send him back to the town where he was born…perhaps. He's driving us all mad. It's like a dark cloud entering the office each morning." the boss whispered fervently to Danielle. They looked nervously through the blinds and saw him walk out of the elevator and into his cubicle. His naturally orange hair was thick and unkempt. It defined his cheekbones and strong jawline. He was extremely pale, especially of late, and his green eyes were usually hidden under the shadow of the bowler hat he wore each day into work. A dark wool scarf muffled his speech and an extra large trench coat made him look ridiculous because of his smaller frame. Nevertheless, he was taller than most of the people at work and was considered handsome by most of the people he knew.
The boss and Danielle watched Damien's morning routine through the glass window. He seemed half-asleep ever since the car crash. Spilling coffee on the floor, obliviously bumping into others, and staying at the office after closing hour became weekly occurrences for Damien. He was only twenty seven years old, but when dark circles began to set under his eye lashes, he gained at least five years in appearance.
The London morning rain and ominous sky painted the glass windows of the dreary office. Deep and slow breaths from the boss and Danielle were the only sounds. Their eyes lingered on the dark figure of Damien as he picked up a letter on his desk. It was the plane ticket. It was clear that they didn't want to see or hear from Damien for a long time.
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A hot cup of coffee was all Damien needed. He'd reached Edinburgh from the plane ride at a shockingly fast pace, leaving him to roam where he pleased. But he didn't enjoy the city life. So instead, he took a bus fifty miles away from the nearest city. He now resided in a small cafe near the feared Rosslyn Chapel. He brought work of course. It was against his boss's suggestions to do so but he always felt the need to do something productive otherwise he wouldn't have much to do at all. It was getting dark, but it was only two in the afternoon. The barista seemed to be in a hurry because he was shoving plates, silverware, and mugs quickly into the wooden drawers by the counter, not to mention the awkward glances he made at Damien as if he were crazy. All of sudden, Damien noticed it was empty. In fact, he didn't remember seeing anyone in the cafe when he entered.
"I hate to be rude," the barista's apathetic and deep voice murmured, "but what the 'ell are you doing in here?" he finished. Damien looked around the room awkwardly. "Um, pardon me?" he managed.
"I said, what the 'ell are you doin' in here? Don't you got somewhere to be? Your house perhaps? You don't want ta' get snatched do you?"
Damien fumbled for money in his pocket as he walked to the counter. "I still don't understand what your getting at."
"Oh…you're not from around 'ere?" the barista whispered in sudden realization.
"Well…no. But I don't see how that has anything to do with what you're saying." Damien spoke quietly as well and handed his money over.
The barista sighed and rubbed his head. "Look, I don't want to tell you everything and ruin your trip so I'm just going to give you the basics. When you leave this fine establishment, run to your hotel. If your hotel is pretty far away, go knock on somebody's door and plead to stay with them for the night. You don't want to be around when the mist starts settlin'." The smell of whiskey stained the countertop.
"The mist?" Damien asked. "Aye. Best be headin' out while you can. Try to keep your windows shut too. A great fog covers the this town once a week around this time of day. It's hard to see anything and it's a bit spooky. 'Lots of stories 'bout it. They say it may be the damned souls on their way to hell. Some say it's the angels. A bunch of people take it as an opportunity to commit crimes without gettin' caught. Either way it isn't safe. Best be on your way now." the barista grabbed his remaining keys and practically ran out through the back door.
Damien stood still, petrified. Why would a town believe in such silly stories? He turned to leave and opened the door. Before he stepped out the barista yelled one more piece of advice. "wait! Laddie! Another thing. Don't look at the chapel on your way home. Tis' bad luck. Heard some people have died their before and such around the time of the mist"." When he left, Damien chuckled under his breath. However, on the way to his rental home he followed the barista's advice. He didn't want his imagination playing any tricks on him.
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He entered his house quickly and locked the door behind him. The stories of angels and damned souls didn't bother him, but the threat of actual criminal activity did. He set up his work station in the living room and went upstairs to take a quick nap. When he awoke, he stumbled down the stairs and into the work room. He glanced around his room while walking to the chair and noticed that everything was in place. He sighed in relief while setting up his camera station by the window. One thing the barista was correct about was the mist. It had enveloped all of Damien's yard and he ventured to guess that he wouldn't be able to tell apart a human from a monster if it were only three feet ahead of his porch. Once the thermal camera was set up, ventured to his computer and connected them. He'd come back in a few hours to see the results.
Damien returned to the room and looked at the pictures. There were no heat figures except for the small red blobs that appeared to be squirrels. He sighed and changed the settings to "live footage." Before he he could stand, he froze in place. A fairly large heat signature began to appear in the distance. He looked out the window but didn't see anything. Looking back at the computer he saw that the figure was now on his lawn. Once again, he ran to the window in a panic but could not identify anything. By the time he reached the screen, the figure was only a couple feet away from his house. He slammed his window shut and locked the door, grabbing his computer and hiding behind the couch. The figure stopped and reached it's hand forward. It was a human, and it was beckoning. A bead of sweat rolled down Damien's forehead. In the heat of the moment, he whipped his head around the couch and towards the window. But once again, he saw nothing. The figure was walking away, back into the forest from where it came. Only seconds later did Damien sprint out the door, and into the mist.
His irregular breathing was the only noticeable sound. The once quaint village had turned an eerie place of emptiness. He sprinted blindly in the direction of the where the figure had disappeared. Once he reached it, he fell into the underbrush and down a steep hill. His screams followed him until he hit his head at the very bottom. He'd fallen into a huge clearing where it was harder to see through than the fog. He pushed and stumbled his way to a standing position and then tried his best to survey the area. He felt a cool cobblestone path underneath his feet, and began to follow it. Strange beams of light occasionally poked through the treetops at random. The sound of the rustling bushes caused Damien to tense. However, after a couple of deep breathes, he began to follow in its direction. Once he'd made his way over to the brush, he pushed past the ferns and into daylight. He'd made his way to the other side. But…the other side of what? he thought. A castle stood rigid on the smooth hilltop. It's features were jagged, black, and imposing. Gothic arches were carved into the entrance and marble surrounding the windows. He approached the giant mansion slowly, and then began to run towards it. He banged on the door screaming "Mercy!" And in a minute, one heart-wrenching minute, the doors opened. The breeze blew them back easily and he let himself into the grand hall. Many candelabras scattered the walls, but none were lit. He slammed the door behind him, locking out his fears and the dreadful feeling that someone was following him.
He hurried up the stairs and into another hallway. Each door was painted a vivid shade of red. He ran to the door farthest a way from him and opened it without a single thought. He locked the door and turned to face the room. It was large, gloomy, and dark. Books scattered all of the desks and paper blew around the room like a funnel. He slammed the windows shut and noticed that the mist had followed him all the way to the castle. It was slowly making its way to the windows. His breathing quickened and he ran to one of the nearest bookshelves. If anything were to calm him down, it was a good book. He sat by the empty fireplace and began to read. He noticed oddly that his first choice was a book that he already owned. It was the 5th addition of "Applied Thermodynamics for Engineering Technologists" and one of his favorite books. However, he'd read the whole of it multiple times and decided to go for another book. To his surprise, he picked another book that he already owned. It was a collective book of Fitzgerald's short stories. In pure curiosity he grabbed for a third book. It was another one of his favorites, "Fluid Mechanics" 6th edition by Lynne Jack. He dropped it and began to frantically pull out every novel from the shelf. He looked at each and every title, and when he recognized it, he quickly tossed it to the ground. Soon enough, a great pile of books had formed at his feet. He knew all of them. Damien pushed his back against the wall and tried to regain his breath. Not only had he recognized the title of all of the books, they were his. A small and quick cursive scribble "Damien Livingston" was inside all of the covers.
He closed his eyes and pressed his hands tightly around his head as he began to hyperventilate. There was a knock at the door. He eyes flung open and his trembles began to worsen. "Honey, I'm home." it was his wife's voice.
"Who are you?!" he screamed.
"Damien? Can you hear me?" Amanda was crying. "I guess you're just in your mind palace again. dreaming about us…right?"
"What are you talking about?!" he screamed.
She was silent. "If only we could talk…nothing been the same since the car crash. I'm trying to pay all of your medical bills as soon as I can…but it's hard."
He was silent.
"If only I could just hear your voice again…"she sobbed awfully until she was slowly dragged away from the door by a kind-sounding voice. "Don't worry Amanda…it's time you go home now…"
All was silent.
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Amanda stood reluctantly as the nurse guided her away from her husband's bedside. She watched him closely. His breathing was soothing, but she could never imagine life without him. The hospital atmosphere was never calming for her, and the image of her husband stuck in a permanent coma with tubes attached made her feel disgusted. They'd gotten into a car crash only 2 weeks before. The nurses had declared him brain dead, but she knew this was not the case. Occasionally he'd twitch his fingers or show slight signs of movement. But the staff claimed he would remain non-responsive and in a vegetative state with breathing support for the rest of his life. She imagined that he spent a lot of his free time thinking of his past life. She called it his mind palace. Before she left, she held his hand tightly and whispered "dream well."
