The Woman in the Mist

Her long silver hair was exactly as he remembered it, her white nightgown, too. Charlie Cowan watched from the sidewalk in the misty gloom as the woman resembling Margaret Cowan, his late wife, walked along the edge of the forest near his house. She glanced back at him, then turned and walked into the woods, fading out of sight into the achromatic haze.

Charlie glanced around the field and saw he was alone. He’d hoped by chance that someone might have been happening by—someone who could have confirmed the sighting. But he was alone like he’d been for nearly thirteen years, a lonely old man pining for his wife, missing her more each day, though his friends said the pain of loss would heal with time.

“Time heals all wounds, Charles,” his friend Lana had told him at the funeral.

“In time, you’ll feel better. I promise,” his college buddy Rick had said.

But time had not healed these wounds. And now, here she was, the only woman Charlie Cowan had ever loved, returned to him somehow. At least, that was what Charlie wanted to believe.

I must be going mad. The thought rang repeatedly in his mind. You’re losing it old man. You’ve been without her for so long, you’ve driven yourself crazy thinking about her all the time.

But what was Charlie supposed to do, go back to his house and drink more scotch? I can’t. I won’t. I must find this woman. But what about the wolves?

This area was known for them. Packs of wolves preyed on deer and rabbits in these woods. Charlie had heard a few of them howling only moments before he spotted the woman in the mist from his living room. He’d been afraid to come outside in the night, afraid of the wolves. But the woman so closely resembled Margaret, he found himself unable to turn back.

I must go to her. I cannot return to being lonely. If she is my Margaret, I must go to her and be whole again.

Charlie bundled in his coat in the cold breeze and started toward the edge of the woods. His full grey beard kept his face relatively warm, but his balding head made him want for his hat. He couldn’t go back to his house to grab it, though. The old man was unsure if he could catch up to the woman since his bum right knee made him slow, and she moved rather fast—graceful but fast.

She moved like an angel. Perhaps she is an angel, Charlie thought as he reached the edge of the woods. Maybe when we die, if we’re as lovely and kind and caring as Margaret was, we all become angels.

Charlie peered into the mist that blanketed the forest and saw no sign of the woman. He took a deep breath, his heart pounding, and stepped forward into the woods.

Ten minutes later, Charlie Cowan was so far into the forest that he couldn’t see the lights from his house anymore. He stepped over a log, and twigs snapped under his feet. He worried that if he made too much noise, he could be alerting the wolves to his presence.

But then he decided to hell with it. If the wolves find me and kill me, then so be it. I’d much rather die than live another day without my Margaret.

Charlie reached a stream and took a wide step over it. Ahead was a steep hill. When he looked up, he saw the woman in the flowing white nightgown, her face obscured in the darkness as she stared down at him.

Charlie’s eyes widened. “Margaret? Is that you?”

The woman turned and walked away, disappearing over the other side of the hill.

Charlie summoned his strength and started up the slope. He grabbed at rocks in the dirt and used them to pull himself up. His bones ached and his muscles hurt with every movement. Charlie grunted as he grabbed the final rock, then pulled himself to the top, groaning as shooting pain seared through his spine and surged in his legs. Then Charlie rolled over on his back and lay at the top of the hill, hyperventilating.

It’s worth it, old man. The pain is worth it if you can be with her again.

Charlie tensed at the sudden howling of a wolf nearby. He lay, motionless, listening, his heart thumping. A few more wolves howled from the same distance, and Charlie knew now they were a pack.

It’s a painful way to die. They will rip you apart. Maybe you should go back.

“You’re a coward,” he whispered.

He forced himself to stand, then dusted himself off. Looking around, he saw no wolves. They’re out here. Just because I can’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not out here.

The hill was not as steep on this side. A human-shaped shadow lurched through the mist at the bottom.

Come on, old man. You can do it. Go to her now.

Charlie hurried down the hill, pain throbbing in his right knee. He reached the bottom and stared ahead, seeing the faintest movement through the thick haze.

“Margaret, call out to me. Let me know it’s really you.”

But the shadow only moved deeper into the woods, so Charlie Cowan followed.

About five minutes later, he ran out of breath and needed to stop and rest by an oak tree. Charlie leaned against its massive trunk and sat on a bed of moss.

He began to question why he’d come out here. You’ve gone mad, that’s why. It’s just like you thought before. How could Margaret really be back? You’re a senile old man. It was wishful thinking and nothing more.

A wolf howled in the night, closer now than before.

Good. Let them come. I deserve my fate. I’m a useless old man chasing phantoms in the night. I should get what’s coming to me.

Charlie ran his hands over the damp bed of moss while he smelled the earthy scent of the forest with its hints of pine and floral odour. He felt a sense of finality. Of all places to die, this seemed a good one, here among nature.

He’d always loved being in nature. Charlie remembered fishing trips with his father when he was a boy. It was fun to learn the names of the plants and the animals. In those days, Charlie foolishly thought that he would eventually know them all as it seemed his father did.

But when you’re young, it only seems like adults know everything because you know so little. Now that I am old, I know the truth: I do not know the names of all the things. I know only what I know and know I cannot know it all.

Charlie sighed and stood up, then started again through the forest. But now he did not think he would ever find the woman. She was never really real. I only imagined her. Why then do I continue into the woods? Why do I not start back home?

But he knew the answer. Deep down, Charlie Cowan knew that his time had come. Perhaps in death, I will get what I want, be reunited with my sweet Margaret. Perhaps not. Either way, the hour has come for me to find out.

A few wolves howled again, and Charlie changed direction slightly to head their way.

But a few minutes later, when he arrived in a small clearing, he still had not encountered any wolves. He was tired and his legs hurt and his back ached fiercely. He’d tired not only of walking but of living and breathing, of thinking and hoping and feeling. He fell to his knees at the center of the clearing with a heavy sigh.

He shouted: “Come now. Come and find me, wolves. I cannot find you.” Then he screamed to give them even more reason to head his way.

He lay in the grass and rolled over on his back. Staring up at the black sky through a gap in the canopy, he thought: They will come soon. They will not pass up a good meal. They will come and perhaps I will find my Margaret, after all.

Charlie rested his hands on his gut and interlaced his wrinkled fingers. Periodically, he let out a shriek to give the hopefully encroaching pack directions to him. While he waited, he listened to the crickets and the owls and breathed in the thick forest air. And it was not long before he heard the panting of the wolves as they moved toward him through the brush.

Charlie kept his eyes locked on the black sky and smiled. Soon, dear Margaret. Very soon.