Rule of the Fog

“The worst of fears acts like a contagion,” my mom, the bookkeeper, used to say, “like a rumor that seeks a wider audience.”

Slam... Slam... Slam...

The doors of our small town on a cliff sliced winds short, acting on their purpose, which was to shut out the unwanted. The fog had arrived with the evening, weighing down our roads. It was like a scorching poison to us. Our visitors would often ask why, and the quick question always earned a quick answer: people had been vanishing inside it—horrifying.

The fog hadn’t always been an enemy. It had been more like a neighbor who minded his own business, a killjoy that shrouded the view of the sea in the early evening. It’d seen how our town had grown through the sale and trade of our lumber, the lumber that came from Elderbark trees that grew within and beyond our borders. They fenced our outer roads, reached the edges of the cliff we called home, and shielded us from the footfalls of storms.

For a town of lumberjacks, Elderbark wood was our gold. Its natural scent repelled termites, burned longer than any wood, and outlasted the bones of others. Since it was handsomely sought after by neighboring towns, it had opened us up to brand new resources: salt, ceramics, corn, herbs, and chicken—yummy.

Included among the traded goods were stocks of an edible flower called Candledew—pretty. With their orange-tipped petals, they magnified the flavors of every meal, satisfied all empty stomachs, and embellished the aesthetics of every plate. It quickly became a part of our lives. Somehow, I never understood the town’s frenzy behind the chewing of petals. I sure did love the looks of it, but I could never bring myself to even swallow one every month.

Clink. Clank. Clink.

Knives and forks would poke and scrape our plates with haste on the dinner table. Something must have tasted good.

“Oh, Peapot, let me have those,” my lumberjack dad would say whenever I left the Candledews untouched on my plate, which was every time.

"Leave her plate alone, sweetie,” my mom would contest. “She might change her mind. She’s a growing girl.”

“I’m a growing boy too, honey,” Dad would reply. “Look at my ears. See? Growing…”

“Your ears are growing hair. That’s that.”

I would chuckle at their conversation, believing deep down that I’d won the game of chance with the people right in front of me. Yes, my mom may be a smart aleck quite often, and my dad may be a full-grown wimp in the eyes of many. Still, we were happy, content. That was before people went missing, before everyone else started being afraid of the nighttime fog.

Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong

“The fog is here!” the bell boy would shout from the bell tower of the church, pulling the rope. “Everyone inside!”

All merchants would rush to pack up their stores. Lumberjacks would haul ass to get their sweaty backs home. Students would cut short all outdoor games. Those who’d never make it back by dinnertime would lock themselves up in their place of work, making their loved ones worry for the whole night. Not a single person would dare to breathe in the night air outside. No one wanted their face on the sheriff’s wall of missing people.

Bang, bang, bang!

Dad, who was watching the fog through one of our closed windows, sprung from his waist and trembled. Someone was rapping on our door.

“Let me in, please!” the old stranger begged right outside.

“Dad, he needs our help,” I pleaded.

“No!” he shouted. “It’s too late, Peapot. He belongs to the fog now.”

“For crying out loud, Frank, let him in,” Mom said.

“If you have any respect for me as the man of the house, you would do as I say and keep that door closed!” he cried out, still shaking.

We fell silent and barely moved.

I peeked through the window. The old stranger, who was wearing a green scarf, carried on, knocking on other doors that may or may not let him in—sad.

“We used to look for each other in this town,” I said, almost like a whisper. “What happened to us?”

Mom and Dad didn’t answer.

Cock-a-doodle-doo!

Morning came with the song of roosters. The new day was business as usual, but like all the other days we feared the fog, it was shorter. For me, it was: go to school, play a bit, then get the hell home. Dad never failed to remind me. This keep-away-from-the-fog-of-the-night routine was choking me. I wanted to enjoy the sunset with my friends. I wanted to see the moon again.

Right after the final bell, I journeyed to the woods that lead to the cliff’s edge, hoping to see the early moon on the afternoon sky. On my way there, I passed the sheriff’s station. My soul sank to the ocean floor. On the wall of missing people, a few faces had been added. One of them was the spitting image of the old stranger who knocked on our door the other night—heartbreaking.

All of a sudden, I didn’t feel like going to the woods, so I went home. I became so mad at my dad for being selfish the other night. When he arrived home, I stayed quiet. He couldn’t get a word out of me. My mom later arrived, exhausted from work. She sensed the tension and was able to pry out an explanation from me.

“I’m the bad guy?” my dad asked, shocked. “I’ll gladly take it if that means protecting you both! It’s better to be alive than to be heroes in a time like this.”

“What if you that were you outside, Dad?” I asked.

“It never will be,” he said. “I’ll always be here when the bell rings. It ain’t my problem if the others can’t follow the rules.”

Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong.              

The church bell, sounding from afar, pierced the silent treatment that had ended our conversation. Mom tried to cheer us up with her Candledew-topped cooking. It almost worked, almost.

Crack. Hiss. Hiss.

I cooked for myself some fresh eggs, struggling to keep my eyes open during the all-too-early morning hour. I wanted to leave for school before Dad could even give his morning yawn. I did just that and got my wish—great!

The face on me was bland during school hours. My mind kept revisiting the face of the old stranger we’d left out in the fog. I know that my Dad deserved this guilt, but I didn’t understand why I was one carrying it. For several days, I felt the same way. The sheriff’s wall of missing people repelled me with such great force. I didn’t even want to hear anything about it, but the gossip of my friends still reached me, saying that the number of missing people was constantly on the rise.

I scrubbed my dad’s words from my memory. I had no desire to be a hero. I just wanted to save lives. I thought of a plan, cut back on my spending, and saved up to buy a coil of rope from the hardware store. Upon arriving home, I tied the rope around an outdoor post of our house. Dad wouldn’t have to welcome locked-out strangers inside when the fog comes. They just have to tie a limb to the rope until the fog clears—genius. I could even drop them some blankets from the upstairs window. With this strategy, I was sure that no one else would go missing.

Whip.

I hurled out the rope into a fashion that would be visible from afar.

The church bell rang, night came, and so did the fog. All three of us had filled the house. Our front door had an upgrade; Dad insisted on it. It was now under lock and key from the inside, taking away the option to open it for those who seek refuge.

While they were busy in the kitchen, I watched the rope I’d laid out through the window, waiting for any takers. About half an hour later, a young woman stopped by to knock on our door. Dad ignored it. Mom didn’t have a choice but to sit still. I, on the other hand, mimed the instructions to her through the window.

A smile rose across her face. She tied the loose end of the rope around her waist—success! While I gathered some blankets, I prayed every prayer in my head for her to endure the foggy night. Upon my return to the window, I was surprised to see the tail of the rope holding nothing but a dead end. I waited for her to come back; she never did—crazy. Just like that, it felt as if I lost a big sister.

Woof! Woof! Woof!

The neighbor’s dog woke me up, somehow labeling a new morning. Throughout the school day, I dwelled on a mission to get to the bottom of this, to know what was going on in the fog. I went straight home right after. As usual, I was the first one there. I gathered my rope, some crackers, a water jug, and a lantern. They all fit well in my backpack.

Some say that the curiosity of a child is unstoppable. Believe them. We just love waking up for the mysteries.

Crunch. Snap.

I was walking to the cliffside, breaking fallen twigs under my feet. It was not the best place to investigate, I know. I just hoped to watch the first few minutes of the sunset before I go into detective mode. The moment I reached the front row seats, I tied my wrist to a nearby tree using the rope. It was a safety precaution if ever I forget to relocate when the fog comes. Then I sat back and watched the sky slowly burst out warm colors—just wow.

Looking around, I enjoyed nature, the trees, and the sleepy chirps of the birds. But something was hanging on one of the low branches. It almost looked like leaves, but it was a strip of green fabric swaying in wind.

Ding, dong, ding, dong...

The church bell was more frantic than usual. Another thing that made me want to throw up was the fact that it was too soon. My heart banged drums. It was as if a few tweaks on the expected events made my world crumble. Random shouts swelled from the town proper, making the hairs on my neck stand. If this was a prank, it sure was a mean one. If it wasn’t, that meant one thing: the fog was early.

Convinced that I would be spending the night beside a tree, I tightened the knot around my wrist.

I was supposed to hold my post in peace, but hurried steps and screams coming from afar made it a bit difficult. Why would they be rushing to the cliffside? It didn’t make any sense. People tore from the distant trees, panicking. Waists brushed past me. High in my voice, I ran back and forth, begging them to stop; no one listened—no one ever listened to me!

The first wave of townsfolk expected another far step beyond the edge. Of course, they were wrong. They fell into the sea below and screamed out their dying breaths. The last of the sunset made a face in the mob glow; it was my mom’s—oh, God. She was running to the edge with a few books in her arms.

Blood surged to my limbs. Tears fell from my eyes. I cried out her name and chased her down with all my might. My free hand nearly got a strand of her hair, but the rope on me tugged, bringing my steps to a quick halt. Hoping she would look back, I kept shouting and crying. I tried untying the rope, but it required a couple more minutes; my mom didn’t have that kind of time—why won’t she stop?

When her foot kissed the edge of the cliff, I abandoned all hope—sorry, Mom.

Oompf. Thud.

The odd sound made me want to look. Dad had tackled her to the ground, saving her from an unwanted suicide—thank heavens! Mom took a hit to the head that made her weak. More than a worried look on his face, Dad turned to me.

“Peapot? Wh-what? What are you doing out here?!” He picked up Mom and walked her toward me and my tree.

“Dad, please, this my ch—”

I froze. Dad froze. The fog had arrived. It kept going, consuming the cliff with all its grace and terror. I could barely see the color of my dad’s eyes in front of me. With his back facing the cliff’s edge, he stumbled back and dropped Mom. His palms and heels slowly crawled back to the edge.

“Stay away from me!” he shouted, terrified.

“Dad, no!” I said, still leashed to a tree. “Don’t trust what you see. The fog is making you see things. It’s using fear to push you off the cliff!”

“Devil... Devil!” he screamed, crawling away inch by inch.

“Please...” I reached out a hand, hoping he would take it. “Reach. I’m sorry... I’m sorry I made you the enemy! I’m sorry I thought of you as a coward... because you’re not. You’re a hero when it comes to us, and that’s perfect. Right now, I need you to reach for me because I’m scared, Papa!”

As tears blurred my vision, a heavy hand grasped my wrist. Joy bloomed inside me. Dad was holding on, clear as could be. His eyes were sealed shut, his teeth clenched, and he was shaking all around, crying. With the other hand, he was carrying Mom, who was weak on her knees.

I pulled both of them close to my tree, leaned them on its bark, and looped the rope around both of them.

Shhh. Shhh.

Winds blew through the forest, making the place sour-cold. When everything went dark, I lit my lantern. All three of us stayed as the prisoners of the cliff, determined to outlast the fog. Mom had already fallen asleep. Dad, on the other hand, kept his eyes closed the whole time.

“You’re... the bravest of us all, Peapot,” Dad whispered, about to doze off.

I opened my mouth to reply, but his snoring beat me to it. “You’re not so far behind, Dad,” I said with a smile.

We all went back to the town proper the next fog-free morning and became the biggest news. A small family had fought off the fog and never went missing—amazing! It was one for the books. We told the sheriff everything. Mom and Dad both witnessed nightmarish daydreams within the fog. I, however, didn’t experience any.

And just like that, I turned heads. I agreed to cooperate in a few experimental rounds. Dad had protested against it, but I stood firm in my decision. Local researchers asked questions, then watched from the inside while I settled in a big cage amid the fog.

Hmm. Hmm. Hmm.

Bored inside my cage, I hummed a melody.

The researchers later concluded that those who had eaten Candledew flowers had embraced the risk of psychotic episodes, and somehow, the heavy water vapor in fog triggered them. Oddly enough, the victims saw the sea below as the only place of refuge. My picky tongue had saved me from all the trouble.

We condemned the town that had been selling us the Candledews, burned our extra stock, and scrubbed it off the recipes forever. After two months, the fog became friendly again. The town got to enjoy the sunsets they had been missing, and the moon, every now and then, peeked past the fog. I grew up proud to be part of a big family and a not-so-big family back home.

“The worst of fears acts like a contagion,” my mom, the bookkeeper, used to say.

I say, “The best of courage changes the game.”