Tale Of The Fog

“You wouldn’t be able to see past the sandpit,” I say pointing to the end of the oval where our schools sandpit lay.
One end bordered with trees and logs covering the view from our classroom decking, the other end lay open to the basketball court.
“Really?” Levi a short boy from the class next door asks. His blue eyes widening at the thought of fog so dense.
“Really,” I reply with a knowing nod.
“Then how come it wasn’t here at Poonindie?” my friend asks. Kate is tall and dark haired and lives close by meaning she is always the first to school.
“Why because it’s only the farms with the tortured souls. They use the early morning fog to hide behind. To muffle the sound of their footsteps, but this morning they grew restless and wanted to stay. They called their friends and stole them from their graves,” I whisper in a spooky tone. My other friend Giaan, jokes around wailing and howling. I give her an exasperated look. “If you don’t believe me then you should come and stay. You should wait for the bus at the bottom of the hill watching them crawl from the creek, murky water dripping from their desperate faces, foul, green slime sliding from long, slim and dark limbs. Their moans just escaping the muffling mist and making its way to my ears. Their tortured wails long and sharp as they creep through the fog searching for their next victims. The victims that they then drag to the depths of the earth.” Once I’m done, wide eyes stare back at me. Even those who were sceptical look at me in amazement. Once again, I nod knowingly with a grave expression on my face.
Three years later, as I walk through the early morning fog down to the bus, I reflect on how as a young child I used to believe the story of the fog. I sit on a rock and pull out my phone to call my friend but half way through the ringing the signal cuts out. That’s odd. Little did I know of the black and unfocused eyes that stare at me from afar? But the keepers of those eyes dare not wonder closer out of fear of being seen like all those years ago. When my mother set out to hunt them after spotting a shadow near the muddy creek bed, no human or ghost ever saw my mother or the maker of that shadow again. The stories say that the ghost was the spirit of my great, great grandmother. But I know that they’re just stories. I know that the shadows I saw are just trees and the moans are just the sound of the creek. And so, as I settle onto the bus, the tale of the fog and its demons and ghosts remains a mystery.

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