The Autumn Fog

Marissa Anne Taylor was—by uncontested foreknowledge—the perfect opposite of a monster. She was ten years old, and had spent eight of those years living in the drowsy wooded village of Harlow, Maine. There was nothing remarkable about her life in Harlow. The town was of moderate size, the people were average, and nothing exciting had happened for at least half a century.

Marissa’s parents were the kind, mild sort. They raised Marissa and her brother to be just as kind, and just as mild. Marissa could compose no complaint about this. She found, more often than not, that she was inclined to be a sweet girl. She smiled honestly and often. She helped anyone who needed it. She went about her eight years in Harlow being generally liked and having many friends: from the old man at the butcher shop, to the scraggly cat who wandered through the alleys. She did well in school. She was generous to her brother, who—at an awkward thirteen—found kindness a little less forthcoming. Marissa loved quite casually. It took very little to put her in a pleasant mood. She loved her family. She loved her town. She loved the dew on the grass in the morning, the murmur of birdsong and laughter, the smell of rain on warm pavement, and the shivering hush of autumn creeping through the air.

Autumn in Harlow was a happening of little import. The town itself seemed to have been made for autumn. Its quiet bustle and mild constitution sank readily into the blankets of fog that settled anew every twilight. The cold mist afforded a certain modesty to the blushing trees surrounding the town, fluffing up their shadows until a metric of volume applied. The old ladies like to mutter about this phenomenon. They whispered warnings about the danger of the woods, spreading stories intent on frightening much children younger than Marissa. But the old ladies were only superstitious because there was nothing better to be in a town as inconsequential as theirs, and most children knew the woods well enough to think the notion of fearing them ridiculous.

Marissa felt similarly disposed. She rather liked the shrouded shift in seasons and the comfort it brought. To her, the draping fog seemed like the embrace of an old friend. Marissa was only ten—hardly anyone she’d known could be considered an old friend—but she’d made a habit of finding affection in unusual places. The tactic brought a peaceful satisfaction more often than not. So Marissa liked the fall, despite Harlow’s general indifference to it.

Marissa particularly enjoyed walking through the wispy fog between her house and school. These were leisurely times for her, in the late afternoon when the air was clearest, and the sun had remembered its warmth. She would carry on with her friends from the school building, and one by one they would peel away to their homes until Marissa was left to complete the distance by herself. She lived the farthest away, but she didn’t mind. The long walk provided ample opportunity to drink the fog in. Marissa smiled easily on her way. The weather was charming, she’d scored well on her math quiz, and her mom had promised pumpkin muffins when she returned home. There wasn’t a thing not to smile about.

On this specific day—some nugatory date at the middle of October—Marissa was no less content with all present ambiance than she had ever been. Having just waved away her last companion on the walk home from school, she continued through the small downtown of Harlow. It was Wednesday. The five square blocks of Harlow’s town center saw no cause for unusual bustle, just as drowsy and yawning as always. Many shops had erected seasonal decorations. The cutouts and wreaths and fake leaves were a poor imitation of the beauty of the woods around the town, Marissa privately held, but it gave the locals something to mark as positive while the weather lost its warmth. No one displayed decorations with untoward or potentially disturbing subject matter. Perhaps the old ladies and their superstitions were to blame for this. Harlow had never been known for the threat they attributed to the woods, and perhaps such good standing had been founded by no small effort on their part.

It was on this day—this arbitrary unimportant day mid-October—that a man approached Marissa on the sidewalk. If there was one thing Harlow excelled at, it would be sidewalks. The town was riddled with them. There Marissa was, pausing to consider the aesthetic effect of a small boutique her mother favored. And there the man came, by chance, walking in her direction.

He was painfully average to look at. His brown hair was kept short and tidy. His stride was relaxed. He had a simple pleasantness about him, brought upon by the clean state of his dress, his unobtrusive demeanor, and the faint smile he sported unfailingly. He had been married to the town librarian for three years. Marissa knew him as Mr. Jefferys, and she considered him—as most others she had ever officially met—to be her friend, despite not knowing the man very well.

“Hello Marissa,” He greeted her squarely as he approached.

“Hi Mr. Jefferys,” Marissa replied.

She offered him an easy smile of her own, because that was what friends did in pleasant meetings.

“Have you finished school for the day?” Mr. Jefferys asked.

There was no reason to lie. The thought hadn’t even occurred to Marissa. Lying was bad manners, and Marissa had never done something so ill-mannered in many years.

“Yeah, I’m just on my way home now.” Marissa gestured down the sidewalk, where the fog obscured the next bend in her route. Beckoning, it would seem.

Mr. Jefferys smiled warmly. “I know the weather’s getting cold, but how would you like some ice cream from Josie’s? You must not have had your afternoon snack yet.”

Marissa was prepared to assert that she was ten years old and well past indulging such childish traditions—when she remembered the pumpkin muffins her mother had promised. Perhaps Mr. Jefferys had known.

“No thanks, I’m not in the mood for—”

“Come on,” Mr. Jefferys insisted. “My treat.”

Marissa would really rather pumpkin muffins, but she hated to turn down such an earnest friend. It could be that he was lonely. A good friend would keep him company, and Marissa wanted to be polite besides. Surely her mother would understand. Her parents had raised a polite girl.

“Okay.”

Mr. Jefferys’ apparent thrill soothed some of the discomfort Marissa felt. She politely answered all his questions about what she’d done at school that day, and whether she was excited to go trick-or-treating this year. He complimented her intelligence and maturity. He seemed fascinated to hear about the new book series she was reading, full of dragons and princesses—and dragon princesses. He must enjoy hearing people describe their favorite books. His wife was a librarian, after all.

Mr. Jefferys led her to Josie’s diner, where Josie’s daughter Caroline prepared an ice cream cone for her, and—at Marissa prompting—one for Mr. Jefferys as well. Caroline didn’t give Mr. Jefferys a nice look. Caroline wanted to know where they were headed as they began to leave. Mr. Jefferys assured her lightly that he was seeing Marissa home.

He did begin to. But then there was an interesting shop just down the street, and a beautiful tree in the park, and Mr. Jefferys continued to find reasons to keep Marissa occupied. He would place a warm hand on her shoulder and steer her towards some new fascination, continuing until she had finished her ice cream. The fog was starting to chill. The sun was sinking into the trees, setting them alight in a brilliant haze.

Mr. Jefferys laughed when he saw Marissa’s face.

“Oh dear, you’re a messy eater, aren’t you?”

She was embarrassed—utterly mortified when Mr. Jefferys reached a hand out to wipe the leftover ice cream from her mouth.

“That’s alright. Why don’t we get cleaned up at my house? It’s just around the corner. Wouldn’t want your parents to think you spoiled your dinner, right?”

Marissa didn’t like that idea. She didn’t see the need. She could easily wipe her mouth on her jacket sleeve, if it was that noticeable, and there were pumpkin muffins waiting for her anyway. She hoped. Would there be any left by the time she got home?

“No thanks Mr. Jefferys.” Marissa said. She shrank back when he tried to reach out again. “I should be going home.”

“We’ll be fast.” He suggested. His hand settled between her shoulders. “Come on.”

The fog was cold. Marissa was cold. She dug her heels in.

“No thank you,” She repeated.

There wasn’t anyone else on the sidewalk. They’d left the drowsy downtown of Harlow some time back, meandering into the neighborhoods that sprawled out around it like spilled rice. They were closer to Mr. Jefferys’ house than Marissa’s. It was quiet now. It was foggy.

Mr. Jefferys’ face warped into something unpleasant. Marissa had never seen him without his gentle smile, and the sight startled her.

“Marissa,” His tone warned. “I’m trying to help you. Be a good girl and come with me.”

His hand now gripped the top strap of her backpack. Marissa wasn’t sure what to do. Something didn’t feel right. The urgency to return home was growing by the heartbeat, but Mr. Jefferys had been so nice—he was her friend. He was trying to help. She should accept it, even if she didn’t want it. Shouldn’t she?

A silvery breeze cut through the fog, coiling beneath her sleeves. Marissa shivered. She would not be warm at Mr. Jefferys’ house. He didn’t have any clothes that would fit her.

“Thank you, but I’ll just clean up at home. My mom really won’t mind.”

She was too busy trying to step away that she didn’t see his unpleasant expression become angry. His firm grip on her backpack prevented her from moving very far.

“That was rude.” He protested, wounded, heated.

Marissa tugged on her bag, but Mr. Jefferys began to pull her in a different direction down the sidewalk.

“Mr. Jefferys, please let go.” Marissa stumbled to keep her feet. “I’m not trying to be rude, but I—”

“Fine. You don’t want to go to my house? We’ll go somewhere else.”

Where else? Marissa felt a proper alarm. She did not want to go somewhere else. She wanted to go home. If she didn’t fight her brother for the pumpkin muffins, she might not get any at all.

But Mr. Jefferys seemed disinclined to afford the muffins any regard, and he did not bow to any of Marissa’s petitions. The tugging on her backpack grew painful. In an unusual flash of irritation, Marissa decided to slip her arms free of the straps. It jostled against her as Mr. Jefferys continued walking, and she stopped. He turned to give her a sharp look.

“I’m going home now,” Marissa announced. She took deliberate steps away from Mr. Jefferys. With the increasing distance, his features soured further.

“Marissa, come with me. Now.”

The fog swirled in the breeze in the street. Marissa turned into it and ran.

“Get back here, brat!”

If Marissa had gone to a nearby house and pounded on the door, perhaps she might have found immediate salvation in the form of another friend. But the woods were closer. The woods felt safer. And in the darkened embers of their dying glow, Marissa acquired the unfounded conviction that Mr. Jefferys would pose no threat to her here.

Her logic proved concurrently true. Scarcely had she set breathless stride across the treeline when Mr. Jeffery’s vocal indignation fell into fierce hush. The fog curled about her like a shroud, bearing all its shadows along. This suited Marissa quite perfectly. She could hide in the shadows. She could be safe. Heart pounding, Marissa scrambled through the undergrowth as quietly as she could. Her limbs were electric, and her breathing heavy.

She didn’t want Mr. Jefferys to find her. She’d never seen him angry before; she didn’t know what he might do. It was a long time before she was convinced she’d lost him. By that point, Marissa had also lost herself. She’d ventured far deeper into the woods than she’d ever dared in all her adventures with friends. She was cold when she caught her breath. Fog and sweat and a stale breeze. It was dark. The sun was gone. Surely the pumpkin muffins would be too.

Before she could trip on a dry branch, or step into a hole by mistake, Marissa sank down at the base of a very wide tree and wrapped her arms around herself. She felt very sorry for having run away. She didn’t want to be in the woods on her own. It was cold, and the fog was only so much comfort with the sun all used up. Crying felt like the right thing to do. It was the only thing left to do. No amount of wishing to be home would get her home, and no amount of determination would light her way in the dark, and Marissa hadn’t cried in a very long time, but she remembered how to do it.

Why was Mr. Jefferys so mad at her? She tried to be polite; she really did. She hadn’t meant to be rude. Had she overreacted?

She sniffled for a while, buried in her own shoulders, shivering against the moisture collected on her skin. Her parents must certainly be worried by now. Marissa swiped her sleeve over her eyes.

Then, when her knees began to ache, and her teeth began to chatter, she heard it. Or rather, she stopped hearing it. The current of wind in the branches went breathless. The insomniac murmurings of birds and squirrels had fallen asleep all at once. There were no crickets. There were no frogs. There was no sound but the dull creak of trees dying. The forest was eerily silent.

Marissa gasped haltingly and lifted her head. She could see no cause for alarm; she could hardly see the ground in front of her. Little light penetrated the canopy and glowing fog. Moonlight now, she noted with remorse.

There was no further noise for all the bated moments she held her breath to listen. She did, however, become aware of a rhythmic vibration plodding through the dirt. Thump, th-thump. Thump, th-thump. She was sure she couldn’t hear it. Marissa decided that the cadence—growing in force—was drawing closer. It didn’t scare her properly. It didn’t sound like footsteps.

When the source of the sound was close enough to see, Marissa could identify it only in vague shapes. The slant of it against the fog. An indistinct shadow. Thump, th-thump. Negative space. Marissa tried to make out more of the creature—it was certainly a creature and not a person: much taller and wider than anyone she’d ever seen, and with no symmetry of note. Her eyes produced nothing but black lines. The fog shriveled away from it.

“Hello?”

She could not explain how she came to feel its attention, but she did. Was it the creaking shift in its silhouette? The pause in the vibrations? The creature moved closer. Its presence was uncomfortably eerie in the same way as the silence, looming around Marissa the way the fog had. The darkness was much colder. Marissa didn’t shiver. She looked up, and up, and lost the top of the creature in the arbitrary shadows. It stank of wet leaves and crumbly logs. Marissa was sure she should find the smell repulsive, but the thought didn’t occur to her. She felt an inexplicable recognition of this creature. She’d heard about it as a child, hadn’t she? From the superstitious old ladies. And she’d never been afraid of it before. One grotesque limb extended towards her, gangly and undefined. That was her backpack clutched at the end of it.

Something fell to the ground between Marissa’s shoes, a sound flat and crisp and thundering. She couldn’t tell what it was with all the colors washed out. Perhaps a liquid—perhaps a viscous tree sap, or fog condensed on the chill of its head. What must be its head. When Marissa looked up from the darkened splatter, an abundance of it became clear above her. Drip. Drip. Dripping from the creature. Twin pinpricks of light winked at her like stars behind a tree. They might not have been eyes, but Marissa didn’t know what else they might be.

They looked kind, she decided. The old ladies would never agree with her. They would have called this creature a monster. But Marissa could see a warmth in the darkness: one that steadied her shivering limbs and scattered faith. The scorn it suffered had produced a wounded humanity. Difficult to find, but there. Marissa could feel it. Relief closed around her. It reminded her of pumpkin muffins fresh from the oven.

Marissa Anne Taylor lived in Harlow for eight years.