Southern Weather

The wooded planks creaked eerily as I inched my way down the long boardwalk. Gloom was everywhere: the Spanish moss became entrails, the trees were reaching hands, the bog far below was a deadly soup, and the boards beneath me were teeth and bloody gums, gnawing and chattering. This mist must be haunted.

All night long I had been walking through the densest fog I’d ever seen. It billowed and wrapped itself around everything, padding the world, deadening sound, and rendering eyesight almost useless. My lantern shone bright, but the fog revealed nothing.

Any number of passersby would give yells or jump, startled, when I encountered them. Nobody could see anyone else until they were right up on them. I thought I had gotten used to it, until a pair of ragged little boys came barreling out of the fog just as the trailing moss looked its most gruesome. My mind was filled with distasteful images and so my heart could not take the strain of these sudden appearances.

I shouted, dropping the lantern as I threw my hands up in front of myself. It shattered, glass and kerosene everywhere. The oil spilled out onto the wood, and quickly caught fire. I tried to stamp it out, but the wood cracked and I fell through into the waiting bog below.

It was thick and goopy, and I struggled to tread water. The fog closed in, thicker and thicker. I flailed, my hands desperate to grab something. The poles from the boardwalk were too slippery to help me as I struggled. I looked up, just as someone else came tumbling down, and everything went black as they crashed into me from above.