2021-03-17 - Open Vignette: Mad as the Mists

Fog is not a big deal when you grew up in an archipelago. The smell of this fog is familiar to Ravn Abildgaard from his native Denmark. Salt water, forest (granted, there's a lot more forest here than in the rural farmland of his home). Exhaust gases from cars, failing to escape upwards, lingering in the air. Low level industrial pollution from chimneys not tall enough to escape the fog. Human settlement smells like human settlement no matter where you are.

This is the kind of fog that cleans out retirement homes.

He remembers his uncle using that expression about a pea souper once. Harsh, but true. The fog is not doing Ravn's asthma any favours either. He will need to go pick up another inhaler.

There are few cars driving down Spruce -- visibility is too low and it is far safer to walk. When you walk, though, you have time to notice the shapes and the shadows in the fog. Childish fears. A chimney becomes the kneeling figure of an angel, terrifying in its judgement. A street lamp in the mist becomes the opaque yellow eye of some giant, silent creature on the hunt. An open window shutter rattling on the wind becomes the frantic movements of small prey.

In weather such as this, those who venture out rush to venture right back in. And those who have few or no places to go rush to what they have. The jungle drums have brought the news of the HOPE centre to the boardwalk, and to the people who live under it.

The people who live outside of society. The cardboard box dwellers, the highway underpass tribe, the lost and the misplaced. People whose lives have often repeated the lesson over and over; there is no such thing as a free lunch.

And yet a few of them have ventured here now. There is not much to visit the centre for yet. Its kitchen is not functional. The bathroom is, though, so washing up a little in hot water is at least an option. A few sleeping bags lie on the floor in the back room, along with a shopping cart of meagre belongings.

The homeless and destitute of Gray Harbor are not Ravn's tribe (should he even use that term anyhow? Somebody told him it's racist towards indigenous people). They don't know him, and he doesn't know them. But he's lived with people like them in other towns and other countries, and he speaks the language.

He doesn't ask questions they don't want to answer. He doesn't tell them things will get better. He doesn't promise them anything.

Of the few, one or two do want to talk. About the fog, and about the shapes and shadows they see in it. They talk about strange dreams. About waking up with cuts and bruises left by the teeth of creatures that never existed in this reality. About voices that call to them when they sleep. About friends who followed the call and wandered into the mists, never to return.

Of being prey.

Ravn tells them what he tells everybody: We're all playing for Team Humanity here. There are creatures in the Veil who prey on us. We are prey, but we are not helpless. HOPE is not about saving people. It's certainly not about getting to have the warm fuzzies from helping people in need. It's helping people help themselves. It's weaponising altruism, because these dark creatures feed on misery and pain. It's fighting back, it's arming the Care Bears.

To stop being prey. United we stand, divided we fall.

Outside, the fog thickens. Ravn pretends that the shifting shapes do not put him ill at ease. He tries to ignore that he has ghosts and fears of his own, waiting to take on forms of mist and shadows out there. He recites the litany against fear to himself as many times as is necessary. Thank you, Frank Herbert.

"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration .I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me .And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain."

There is lunch and there is fog that rolls up on Grant Baxter like he owes someone money (which is not an unlikely case). Roiling high like a slow motion tidal wave that he's not about to surf. It goes well over a mile up and the board under his feet rolls to a stop with a clatter. Before he is entirely certain He can no longer see where he's going. "Who makes visibility three feet?" There's a longer pause mentioning to no one, "This is entirely unsafe."

He's got plans to meet his boyfriend for lunch and if he's not there in reasonable amount of time he's gonna think Bax was stolen or found something shiny and fell into a hole, though at present one of these things IS fairly true. Something is definitely happening. Hearing anything for him is more than a bit disconcerting. Having poor hearing on the best of days he absently lifts a finger to his hearing aides to sync the pair up to a higher volume. There's what might be voices or tinnitus brought on by ambient sounds bouncing all over the fog to make any idea of source direction utterly impossible. He looks for it and hears what sounds like grinding of gravel and stone and water being smooshed.

No not behind him. To the right though there's a lady all in pale grey with alabaster skin with blue under tints and large dark eyes that lock into him with some recognition as if to place him. Bax utterly ignores the gazelle like bone spires that seem to spiral weightlessly off the crown of her head. He's more worried about that car. "LOOK OUT!" Is all he manages before tearing across the street and diving past the nose of the car to push her to safety. This would be very heroic if he didn't dive through her sending her evaporating into mist in the middle.

The ground greets him hard; elbow, knee, and shoulder hit as he rolls across the damp concrete stopping just short of the side of the building. Well if she's a ghost he certainly is not as his limbs are on fire and sting. There's a faint whimper of a swear as he resigns himself to doing his usual daily checks. "Is anything cold? That's blood... no. Anything tingling? that could be broken...no...copper taste in my throat? Yeah? Okay that's probably shock. Just lay here for a minute. Just sit. Shit my board's not in the road is it? Fuuuuck... okay. Yes. Good." The back of his head lays on the sidewalk to catch his breath. Fuck that hurts.

Looking over he sees the horned woman coalesce across the street barely visible in the dense fog. Is she smiling? Can't tell. The fog rolls again and wraps the space between like she'd never been. Looking at his board though? Well, he needs that and by a glimmerous force of will does it pop back onto all 4 wheels and come rolling back up to 'its boy' and stops.

Fishing for his phone he lays there, but texts Vyv a simple message to say he's going to be slightly late. Things are fine.
For gray Harbor levels of fine where no good deed goes unpunished.

The fog is the most annoying damned thing for someone who prefers to hunt for food. Oh sure, the vegetables are fine, and fishing's not affected, but what about dove and rabbit? Thank Christ this didn't happen in the fall.

August knows in his gut he absolutely shouldn't go out into the forest with the visibility this poor. Setting aside how other hunters are far less likely than him to play it safe and not go out with their guns, there's also the tiny problem of Firefly being overrun with strange, dangerous stuff.

But Eleanor's at work, and his inability to get dove or rabbit is irking him, like sand in his socks. He pauses in the middle of weeding the garden out front of his cabin and stares beyond the perimeter fence, where the chilly mist has rendered all of Firefly into a dark, looming wall. Ever since the equinox it's been full of strange and horrible things. Sometimes he thinks he can see the bombed out hulks of buildings, hear screams and gunfire. Other times he could swear there's something huge moving through the forest.

Like right now.

Mei mei hisses and honks, flapping her wings, and the geese all pile into their shed. The ducks begin to mutter and flap, also perturbed. The chickens scurry about, alarmed by something. Unlike the geese, they're not smart enough to head in of their own accord, so August sends them on their way with a gentle touch of Mind Glimmer.

In. Go in.

They don't need to be pushed. Nor do the goats, who have already begun moving from their outside pen into their little stalls. All around his yard, the animals take shelter. He can feel Latte watching out one of the cabin windows, mewing in concern, while Bessie and Coltraine watch the door, waiting for him to come in and begin dinner prep, settle on the futon to wait for Ellie to come home with his tablet or a book.

And he will. But first...

...first, he gets his aunt's rifle, and goes for a walk.

~*~

Going out into Firefly in this fog would be suicide for someone who can't 'see' in other ways. It's not all white wool to August, of course; through the shaping he can feel the trees around him, sense the faint game trail he's on a thin path clear of ferns and vines. He's walked this path hundreds of times, it's impossible for him to get lost. Lost, of course, that's another story.

He gets maybe half a mile before he feels something begin to encroach on his senses. It's ugly and looms over his Glimmer, presses down on his senses like a heavy hand. He can't see or hear it yet, but he knows it's there by the ache in his teeth, the nausea making his stomach roil.

He keeps walking. This is his forest, damn it. Whatever thinks it's moving on in can come and get some.

It takes him about twenty minutes to regret thinking that. Just as he's decided whatever is out here is too shy to come forward, he feels a single step shake the ground. Boughs snap, undergrowth and bushes crunch. Something drags along the ground, grinding dirt and rocks. He can't see any of this, just hear and feel it, like a heartbeat drawing close.

Another step. August holds perfectly still, feels around himself, trying to find the source. How big is it, that he can't find this thing with Glimmer, but can hear it just fine?

He just about blacks out when his shaping Glimmer bumps into it. The dead, cold feeling chills his mind to the point of agony, makes his heart thud in his chest. He stumbles to a fir, tries to lever himself upright. In front of him a stand of aspens are pushed aside and down, permitting a terrifying sight.

It's elk-like, or at least the front half of it is, but too big to be an elk, and that's to say nothing of the rich gold brown color of its coat, the bronze gleam of its impossibly huge antlers. There are far too many eyes, arranged around its face in clusters, all glowing green-yellow, it's hooves end in hooked nails. The hindquarters give way to glossy black, pearlescent scales similar to those on a fish, the tail coiling out of sight.

It looks right at him with those eyes. He has to look away.

give

August shudders. He knows what it wants.

"No," he says to the ground. In his peripheral vision he sees one of those deadly, cloven hooves draw closer. The thing's voice in his heart lowers to a snarl.

give

August clutches the rifle so hard his fingernails turn white. "No. It's mine."

It's not a being capable of complex conversation, so the next part is more feeling than words, twice and potent for that difference: he doesn't want his Glimmer, never wanted it, has only suffered for it. Why not let this thing take it? Devour it? He'll be free then. Free and then it can give the Art to someone who actually wants to--

He has the rifle up and the trigger pulled before he realizes he's done it. The shot's report is muffled by the mist and fog, a dull crack rather than the high-pitched, echoing noise he's used to. It strikes the elk-thing right in the neck, a solid shot. The fur ripples and warps, rings forming out from the wound like he's dropped a rock into a pond.

Slowly the thing's head pulls back, nostrils wide, eyes flaring.It opens that mouth with too many teeth, and screams at him.

He runs, sprinting full speed, rifle shouldered on his back. It's a good thing he does know this forest as well as he does, because he's not on any trail, game or otherwise. He knows the trees, though, knows that this small stand of spruce gives way to a cluster of hemlock and then comes the east edge of the rambling aspen grove that stretches clear to Olympic so he turns here and

He plunges into the cabin's clearing, bolts through the perimeter fence and shoves the gate closed, Glimmer giving it an extra push. He turns and points the rifle back along his path, heart hammering. He's sweating, his lungs are aching. He's not shaking. Not yet.

A handful of those slow, thudding footsteps approach. He thinks he sees it looming out in the mist, a dark shape between the hazy shapes of firs.

Disappointment trickles to him, sneering and spiteful. He could have been free.

"Fuck you," he whispers, knowing it can't hear him.

An ugly laugh echoes in his mind, makes his eyes burn. He squeezes them shut, sets his teeth.

the Art is a prison

"Maybe."

The thing is smug, but also frustrated. Somehow it can't come in here. Somehow...

August opens his eyes and looks down. He's standing next to the stump of the aspen he cut, the one Hyacinth used to make Gohl's coffin. He can almost see it still, standing there, the sovereign of this place. All around him the children of that aspen's dying moments stand, three to four feet high, saplings slowly coming into their prime. He and Ellie will live in an aspen grove in a few years.

The creature draws closer, defiant, but August can feel a curl of annoyance. Oh yes, it won't tread in this space. This grove won't welcome him.

He lowers his rifle. "Get out of this forest. Before we kick you out," he says, voice soft. The thing hisses in response.

so brave, cowering under their skirts

He remembers a time Peregrine's shadow on Ruiz's mind called him a coward, smiles at the memory of his response. "Maybe I am a coward. But I'm also not dumb enough to turn away a safe haven from something I can't take on myself." He turns towards his cabin. The shakes are setting in, his back is already flaring up. "You heard me. It wasn't a request."

Somewhere behind him it bellows, threatening to devour Itzhak and Ruiz in their beds, to tear Eleanor to shreds, to smash this ugly little town. He keeps walking, up the steps, into the cabin. The pigs greet him, nervous and relieved. Latte meows from a bookshelf; she's dumped numerous books on the floor in her anxiety.

He pauses in the doorway, tempted to turn and look, watch it retreat. He shouldn't, as it just gives the thing another opening to tempt him out where it can grab him.

Latte meows, waves a paw at him to come in. A book tumbles from the floor. The spell is broken.

August sighs, deep and tired, comes the rest of the way in. He gestures at the pile of books. "Really? Was this necessary?"

Her response is to leap from the bookcase to his shoulder and push her head into his hair. Bessie and Coltrane mutter and bump his feet. He stands like this, listening, feeling the shapes of the trees. Nothing lurks beyond them. Well, nothing like that thing, anyways.

He pulls Latte from his shoulder and cradles her in one arm, sets the rifle onto the rack. A final glance out at the white, swirling, mass of fog and mist before he turns his attention to simpler, immediate tasks. Chop wood, carry water.

The fog is as heavy and thick as his peacoat, and about as comfortable when wet. And after Grant “Crotchbiter” “Batrider” “Froglicker” “Goddammit, Boychik” Baxter made his wish, the fog is full of things.

Itzhak rolls along the sidewalk, passing the high school. He knows he’s walking past the basketball court--he’ll recognize the feel of that basketball court the rest of his life--but he can’t see it. He can’t see the high school. He finds himself sinking into the Song, using it like sonar, feeling out what he can’t see. Because all he can see is dark woolen gray, and the possibility of things.

He’s afraid of the things. He doesn’t want to be, but he is, in the way he knows a bad dream or a bad Dream is coming his way. That feeling of sliding helplessly into nightmare, screaming and clawing the whole way down a throat slippery with blood, gouging the slick flesh with his nails, unable to stop…

Yeah. That’s how he feels right now. He tries to concentrate on something else. The old trick he’s got of focusing on the judder of each boot hitting the sidewalk in stride, coming up with songs that match the rhythm--it’s difficult to pull off because of the fog. It clings. It seethes. It swirls and billows and he wants to watch it and he doesn’t want to watch it, the way he doesn’t want to look too close at a dream he can tell is edging towards terror.

Someone is smoking a menthol nearby. Itzhak wrinkles his nose. He can’t ever smell a menthol without thinking about--

The Exorcist is standing there in the fog. She smiles at him. “Get good,” she rasps.

Itzhak jolts to a stop. His eyes, almost the same color as the fog, go wide and shocked. “No--” but even as the word is forced from him like a gasp, the Exorcist is gone. “Fuck,” he rasps, himself. Did he slip through the border? Is he over There?

Then comes a voice, a gleeful child’s voice. “I’m so happy you’ve all come to play with me!” An enormous creature surfaces from the street, a whale-sized beast with a gaping needle-toothed grin.

It’s not there. Even as Itzhak’s eyes readjust like one of those pictures you gotta stare funny at and then you can see the T-Rex, hated those things, made me dizzy, a winged serpent washes by him. Then something much bigger than either, a legless dragon thing, fangs sizzling with venom, eases past as it moves through tunnels made of fog. Then there's a staircase which a horrible rotten corpse comes crawling down, a corpse without decency enough to lie down and be dead. Then a chair, just a regular wooden chair but one that’s tipping back and forth, dances by.

"I know you," Itzhak whispers. He doesn't realize he spoke. Standing rooted in place, eyes wide, hands fisted in his coat pockets, he can't help but watch the menagerie parade through the fog.

A handsome dark-haired man with great horns and the legs of a goat blows Itzhak a kiss. A dirty-white crow weeps tar, muttering Naomi. A lithe little gecko person sways in place, enchanted by something (me, she’s enchanted by me, I’m singing to her).

He breathes, "I know you all."

Out of the fog comes grinning Billy Gohl. Resplendently encrusted in the treasures the town heaped him with, he’s holding Itzhak’s sacrificed violin: a shattered mess of wood and strings.

“Well hey there, neighbor!” Billy says, all manic good cheer. “Nice to see you, been a while since you locked me in your fiddle case. Sure do appreciate what you got me. She sounds better than ever. Listen!”

The violin whines like it’s being tortured, warbly off-key. Itzhak sucks in a breath between his teeth, tasting fog, tasting fury.

“Yannow what, Billy?” His knuckles creak in his pockets. Nothing stops him back from launching after Gohl except knowing that all he’ll get for it is mocking laughter. “You didn’t deserve her. You didn’t deserve nothin’.”

As he says it, he realizes it’s true. “...you deserved to be put down. But that shoulda been the end of it. After that, it shoulda been between you and God. Nobody should get their soul tore up. Not even you.”

Billy fades into the fog. Itzhak’s chest burns like a forge. Jaw clenched, he stares at where Billy had been, longing to do violence like lust. Come back, Billy. Come back so I can do to you what you did to so many people. No nice funeral for you this time, no ‘Ave Maria’, come back and I’ll put you in the fucking ground, you prick.

At the sound of hoofbeats, he looks up. A solid shape comes towards him through the fog. A four-legged shape, maned and tailed and bearing a single jagged sickle on its brow, a shape that glows through the mist with vivid oranges and reds and yellows. The rage lifts off Itzhak as if it was made of fog itself. He smiles, quick and brilliant, all the grooves worn into his face crinkling.

“Liebchen.” Out of his pockets come his hands, no longer fists but open in welcome.

The unicorn paces up to him and places her muzzle in his broad, calloused palms, breathing soft and warm. Itzhak cups her sensitive nose and leans against her. She whispers to him, and he replies, laughing quietly. Then she’s fading too, the glory of her colors paling into gray.

Itzhak whimpers, reaching helplessly after her. No. She’s gone. He covers his face, shivering. Too much. Too much too much too much, but when has this town ever been anything except too much? And yet, here he stays, for love of his man and love of his friends and love of every other crazy who washed up in the Harbor, who fall into Dreams with him and get into trouble with him and see the things he sees.

Only they can understand. Like only another ex-con can understand life on the inside. Only Harbor people know and can look at each other with the knowing, with the Song ringing in their ears.

Only them. Only us.

Itzhak gusts out a sigh, tipping his head back. “This fuckin’ town.” Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and keeps walking. There’s a lot he’s gotta do.

This damned fog wasn't going to keep Kailey from getting her croissant craving, no sir! And while it was too far to walk, she took a parking spot two blocks away. The fog was thickening and she frowned at it in annoyance. "You better not try anything," She scolds the fog as she steps from her van and closes the door. It swirls around her in response and she waves at it as she makes her way onto the sidewalk. The sounds of downtown are muffled by the fog and it seems like traffic is slim today. Kailey passes no one on the first block though she hears people in the distance. When the second block yields no one she stops and frowns.

A scowl forms on her face as she tried to peer through the gray miasma. She saw hints of buildings and shadows of people across the street for a few seconds. This was ridiculous and she wrapped her arms around herself. "I really need to get the hang of making an exit," Kailey mutters as she decides to continue her way towards the patisserie.

"Hey! Wait up!" A male voice sounds close behind Kailey. There isn't anyone else and so she turns that scowl on the owner of the voice. He is taller than her, but that is no surprise, almost six feet. Sandy brown hair is kept short and styled handsomely. His eyes and face seemed familiar and that made Kailey smile hesitantly.

"Who, me?" Kailey asked hesitantly as the man closed the ten feet between them. The fog clearing quickly between them and as it did details stood out. Her had a thin goatee that he made look good, sharp cheekbones, and warm eyes. The man smiled a toothy smile and Kailey found herself replying with one of her own.

"There you are. This fog is crazy right? You hungry? And...what did you do to your hair?" He reached out to pluck at Kailey's hair which was spilling over her shoulders. That made her take a small step back and erased her smile. Who was this man? Why was he familiar and being overly familiar? It had to be the fog. It was playing games again right? Which meant she had to find her way out by working through. Probably.

Between one second and another she opened her mind to poke at his own. It was fuzzy and not quite there but there. Confusion and affection were all she gathered before her thoughts were shunted out by the other mind. Surprise registered on the man's face a second later and he stopped, stepping back. "When did you learn to do that?" He asked and seemed amused and impressed. "You're getting so strong," The praise made Kailey blush, his question only made her more hesitant and confused.

"Mmm...I dunno..." Kailey replies as she takes another step back from him. His smile returned and he chuckled, coming forward to take her hand in his once more.

"That's wonderful, Colly," He said and a faint chill went down Kailey's back. Colly was her mother's nickname. One rarely heard and always reacted to with anger and a snapped, 'Never call me that!'. It stuck in Kailey's mind so strongly because of her vehemence against it's used. She had only done it once, not knowing and being a playful child, and her mother had screamed at her while they drove through Oregon.

"Who are you?" Kailey asked. This time not retreating as he began to step into her personal space, leaning down as if to kiss her. Kailey leaning back, her brain running too fast for her to settle on a response beyond that question. Which seemed to be enough. He took a step back and straightened with a worried frown. It allowed her to take another few steps back, her hands pulled back and up against her chest. "I don't know you.."

"Colleen, it's okay. You're having a spell. It's me, James. We had a date tonight, remember?" The self named James says, putting a hand to his chest. He takes a step forward and his hand falls onto her shoulder and the grip was firm. "Time to snap out of it, come on," And he gave her a little shake with another smile. Kailey shook her head in response as her head swam for a second, but as it cleared she felt better. The fear had melted away to leave affection. That was what clued her in and made Kailey jerk away and step back.

"You...that was...no. I am not Colleen, sir. I don't know you...I'm just getting a croissant," And Kailey continues to back away as James' smile turned into a frown. She caught a gleam of anger and frustration in his eyes. That is when she turned and ran into the fog. There was hope the fog would swallow her up and spit her out where she was meant to be. And away from what was clearly to her a Dream. But behind her there were footfalls. Where was the bakery? The safety of the doors should have only been twenty feet away, but the fog just swallowed her and left her in fog so dense she couldn't even see the ground. But she heard James in the fog.

"Colleen, come on honey. The fog is dangerous. Let's go get dinner. It's okay," James' voice sounded like it was right behind her. Kailey turned to her right seeking the walls of the buildings downtown and found more fog. She was lost in the fog and James was not dissipating. So she did what she had been doing more and more often as the dreams came for her. She put out a mental call and from the fog came a reply. The swirling mass of gray darkened in a spot just ahead. The mist grew darker and within seconds coalesced into a dark black, feline form. The Uncat.

And she was having none of James' haranguing her human. The bobcat sized familiar coiled once around Kailey's legs, headbutting her head, before turning on the shadow of James in the mist. ~ He does not exactly exist here, no do you or I, my human...why did you call me? ~ Her voice purred into Kailey's mind as she crouched down to both pet and hide by the large feline. One hand reached out to stroke her from head to tail out of habit.

"Just...get me out of here?" Kailey asked the darkest of cats. Whose blackness glimmered now and again like stars were hidden within the endless void of her fur. And they sparkled as she turned her vibrant yellow eyes on Kailey. Amusement came from the cat and a sense of superiority.

~ Oh. That is it? But you're just about there...couldn't you tell? Are you sure you don't want me to do anything about the shadow chasing us? ~ Asked the Uncat as she turned those eyes away and onto the shadow that began to come towards the sound of Kailey's voice.

"Colleen? Please don't run. Last time I had to bail you out and I really don't think we want to go through that again," James called into the fog. Getting closer to the two of them.

~ Why does he call you Colleen? ~ The Uncat asked curious as she nudged Kailey to her feet and began to lead her away. Kailey followed but kept glancing over her shoulder worriedly. ~ Can I send my kittens to play hunt him? Moe would like that and needs more practice. The Queen wishes him to be one of Hearthome's guardians, ~ There was pride and glee in the Uncat's voice. And Kailey glanced down at her and was already nodding agreement. Then she remembered the kittens and paused, worried. She didn't want the man -dead-. Uncat purred in amusement, picking up on her human's feelings and said, ~ Don't worry. He knows not to kill or maim too badly. ~.

"Oh...I...yeah sure. If it will help to get us out of here," Kailey replied. Making decisions right now was proving hard as her mind raced and wouldn't settle on any one thing. She pressed a hand to her head and groaned. This was one time she didn't need her own issues causing issues and cropping up. And so the Uncat led her to the edge of the fog while she heard back by James the low warning growl of a cat. And the man very quickly fading into the dog. But she did hear him yell her mother's name one last time before the fog thinned.

Kailey was standing on the street. Right outside the bakery with the scent of fresh baked goods wafting from it. There were people sitting outside with their own treats. Glancing to her side she saw only the vaguest trace of Uncat as the sun broke through, casting her shadow onto the sidewalk. She heard a purr and the cat winked before disappearing within her shadow. And she stood there staring at her shadow for probably longer than she realized. Trying to process the weird encounter in the mists. Could he have been referring to another Colleen? That was possible. But he did say his name was James and that name was familiar...but her brain was spinning so hard she couldn't recall why.

The best solution for her current situation? Chocolate croissants. Half a dozen. And two cannolis. And hanging around the shop until the fog cleared enough she could see her van and make a run for it. This fog can't clear soon enough.

Fog on the hill in the forest the kind that keeps you from returning to your car with your shovel.
He still tasted her on his lips. Still felt where her lips had touched his.
From his stance by the patio doors that lead out to the backyard, Everett glanced over his shoulder towards the staircase that she took upstairs, listening to the creaking of the stairs and hallway hardwood as she moved further away. A promise of snuggles still hung in the air and all he had to do, the only thing keeping him from going upstairs and conversing water with her hot shower was going into the backyard and gathering up her painting supplies.

The same ones she had had set up prior to him going outside to bother her and bringing the dog out with them. His green-eyed focus slips back outside through the patio doors. The fog there was still thick. As thick as it was when the dog led them back in. As thick as he's seen it, sometimes, up on the hills surrounding Gray Harbor on the north, on the east, sitting in his car or fog thick enough to make it difficult to return from Fry Creek with his shovel. How silly would it be to use GPS tools in his backyard now? The dog, he looked, had lost interest in going outside. After her momentary experience with the fog when she returned inside after baiting the young girl in the fog.
And her mother too.

With a sigh of resignation, Everett withdraws the phone from his front pocket and activates the app anyways before putting it back where he keeps the out-of-date iPhone and slides the patio door open. While the light from the kitchen illuminated the fog as it advanced into the house, it didn't penetrate. With some idea of where it was, Kailey's things, he was able to make two trips, two quick trips before he felt it. Sensed that he wasn't alone anymore, like eyes being leveled on the back of his skull. He paused, in the middle of picking up a brush as he looked around. It felt like the fog was a darker shade of grays like iron or shadow. Like a sapient creature, the fog too sensed it was given away.

A singular headlamp instantaneously blossomed into being in front of him at eye level, momentarily blinding him. And with it, the full-throated rumble of a Harley-Davidson FL V Twin engine rumbled through and carried by the fog. For a moment lights sparkled in his eyes from the blazing light, and when he heard the familiar engine rev and sound like it was coming closer, Everett ducks, and rolls to the side. To crash loudly over the standing barbeque as his bulk bowled it over. The expletive escaped his lips quickly, with no children around, he knew he didn't have to censor himself while he used the frame of the barbeque to pull himself up. His lashes fluttered quickly, not to be flirtatious with the red tail lights of the motorcycle as it passed through space he had just vacated, but to get his vision back.

The headlamp betrayed that the motorcycle was turning around again, but underneath the thunder of the engine, he heard it. It was distinctive something few people would know of, nor use properly.
The cackle. Their cackle.
What their victims were supposed to hear last before they stopped hearing altogether.

It took a while for the bike to turn around in a fat circle larger, he knew because of familiarity not because of visual confirmation, than his backyard fence would allow without the sound of crashing through his tall fence.
"Tiny," said a voice, one he hadn't heard of for a long time. Club President. The voice didn't originate from the motorcycle rider if there even was one but from his right. He pronounced the word as though it was two every time. Even if he hadn't recognized the speaker, the way he said it was distinctive.

And, excluding his cigarette lighter, the last time he saw or heard that name was on his club jacket. His armor, his skin. What he had to work so hard for to earn. All of that was in the past, just like the motorcycle that had lined itself up for another pass while he stood in reverie. The motorcycle revved its engine like a threat. Then the back wheel began to squeal the familiar way it does when peeling off a layer of rubber. He knew, if he could see it, the tire would be causing a large plume of smoke behind it before the driver released the brakes and the headlight gun forward.

Everett dodged to the right, crashing into the shrubs, feeling new cuts on his face and neck. But he didn't hear the motorcycle crashing to the barbeque, he didn't hear it crash into the house.
He didn't hear it.

Lifting his head, Everett looks around again. The white, thick fog coiled around him like an octopus' limb. On the ground, both Kailey's remaining stand and a few paints remained along with the barbeque.
He didn't even check the propane tank to make sure it wasn't slowly leaking. That, he thought, could wait a few hours. When he came back. After those promised snuggles.

The nice thing about fog, as far as that goes, is that it tends to be outside, and Vyv, generally speaking, tends to be inside. Exceptions for moving to and from vehicles, down the street for lunch, and nice days. Fog does not qualify, in his opinion, for 'nice days'. Not to be out in, at least, and they don't do much for the view, either. Still... for the occasional day, it's not bad visually. Particularly up here, where the winds blow intermittent holes into it, allowing brief clear views of the sunset ocean to interleave with ghostly glows through the cloud cover. He has tea; he has a good book; he has an extremely comfortable and aesthetically-pleasing chair to lounge in. All in all, it's not a terrible set-up for an introvert's evening.

It takes a while for it to register, the way the fog retains a bit of pale glow after the sun's surely down, the way those brief clear moments become briefer and farther apart. Vyv glances up from the book to the glass, brow furrowing faintly. Lights from the town and the levels below reflecting off the mist, probably. And it has been thick as the proverbial pea soup the last few days, after all. (Silly expression. If it really were, it would have to be some sort of odd snow...)

He doesn't know how long he's been back to reading, not even how many pages have passed, before he's startled by a noise. A sort of thunk. The glance around is automatic, though logically, why? There's nothing alive in here but him and the fish tonight, and they haven't managed a thunk even once. But this is Bayside, and the exorbitant rent here covers really quite good sound-proofing. No one paying these amounts wants to hear the next-door neighbours arguing or the upstairs ones learning to clog. He briefly considers what sort of impact would be necessary in an adjoining flat to create a thunk that resonates in his, then decides he doesn't really care. Unless it was in Ginger's. A quick outward flick of a mental tendril, just to check -- all right, no more distress there than baseline. Not, therefore, his problem.

He knows he's only gone a page and half before a thunk interrupts him again, this time accompanied by a sort of rattle. His head comes up sharply, the annoyance as automatic as the visual scan that aborts almost before it properly begins. Outside the windows, the fog still swirls, crowding up against the glass, faintly glowing where it's presumably a bit thinner, just enough to set off how thick the rest is. Just enough to highlight the one spot on the balcony's sliding doors that isn't covered in misty condensation. The one spot shaped like a spread human hand.

The book's on the side table and the chef's on his feet before he's really thought it through, though once he's upright he goes still, eyes sweeping the glass before him as he listens for anything quieter than that thunk, and as he lets his mind reach out to scan the area as well. Nothing.

Sometimes we can fight each other's Arts.

It's the eighth floor.

But that handprint is there. And Rebecca lived on the fourth...

Getting near enough to touch a window hadn't been necessary for that, though, had it.

But the handprint is there. Still there, still a clear dry spot.

Still no sign of any minds out there in the fog. No feeling of anything inanimate he doesn't recognize. Warily, he moves toward the doors to get a better look. He isn't sure what, exactly, he expects -- something, someone lurking out there? The glass to explode inward? Absolutely nothing but meteorological oddness?

The fog shifts, roiling slowly, and here and there he almost thinks he spots something. A shape here; a flash of colour there; a movement that isn't quite right, too quick and sharp, too intentional... Half-formed creatures or simply cloudy turbulence, strangely real for a fraction of a second and then gone before he can be certain they were ever there. It lures him subtly closer, a fact he suddenly realises less than an arm's length from the glass, a fraction of a second before the sound of something heavily thunking into the balcony doors resounds through the flat.

Not these doors.

The ones in his bedroom.

Every latch and lock in the apartment fastens itself tight at once, though as it's his own brain that does it, that's not a surprise. The instinctiveness of it is, a bit. He moves away from the windows, back toward the center of the room, and eyes the now-locked door to his room for a moment.

Still no feeling of any minds around that oughtn't be. Still no feeling of anything inanimate he doesn't recognize. Still no explanation.

Just the wind?

The wind doesn't leave handprints.

Go look, part of his mind says. Go find out.

The rest has kept him alive for thirty years so far, and he can feel what the way it's regarding the first part would look like. He's given Bax that look more than once. Whatever's doing this has at least enough physical presence to slam into windows, and assuaging curiosity is far less satisfying if one fails to live to enjoy it. How can he investigate safely?

....what if it's not only his apartment?

As far as he's aware, his cousin still doesn't truly know about this place. What she can do. What it can do.

The lock that pops open is the one to the front door, and that one's not a surprise either. He's walking through a few moments later, holding about half the afternoon's experimental macarons as he heads next door.

Thunks or no thunks, Ginger may be about due for a talk.

Foghorns aren't necessarily the ideal alarm clock, and even less so if you were, say, up until four am the previous night sorting out interpersonal issues among a nightclub's closing staff. Rhys rolled over with a muffled and unintelligible protest, even more muffled and unintelligible once the pillow was over his head to block out the sound. The horn was already fairly unintelligible, but the pillow added enough 'muffled' to the equation to let him get back to sleep, and to stay there until more or less lunchtime, when a nearby shriek managed to get through the stuffing and into his tender and shell-like ears. Dammit.

The pillow hit the other side of the cabin with a thwap (not that it had far to go) and slid swiftly down the wall. Rhys rolled out of the berth, reached to grab his gun, and started for the door, still half-asleep. His free hand ran roughly through his hair on the way, but if anything it just made the bedhead worse. Even not fully awake, ingrained habit kept cover as he opened the door to check the situation.

Fog. Just fog. Fog like dirty cotton wool wrapped around the pier, wrapped around the boat, encroaching so thick and close it threatened to wrap right around him. He blinked and squinted, trying to get proper bearings through it. It didn't do much good.

Another yelp did a better job of getting through the mist than his vision could -- somewhere off to the left, farther down the pier.

"Is that--?!"
"Velociraptor!"
"Get-- get inside, don't let it-- run!"

Footsteps flapping on the boards, a thunk and sound of pain, scrabbling, probably someone trying to get to their feet in a panic...

Rhys rolled his eyes. Velociraptor, huh? He'd set the odds on heavy fog, day-drunk college kids, and that mastiff over on slip seven. The worst danger out there was that it might try to drool them to death.

He let the door fall shut again, fastened it, and dragged himself back to the berth. Gun traded for pillow and the latter over his head again, he managed to drift back off until the actual alarm went off to inform him it was time to get ready for work.

The fog wasn't any better, but at least this time it was quiet.