"The Fog Was Watching":
I’d been at the club for hours, dancing with friends, the bass thumping through my chest. It was late, probably 4:30 a.m., and my feet ached in my heels. The city was quiet when I stepped outside, the air heavy, the streetlights barely cutting through the thick fog. It wrapped around everything, muffling sounds, making the world feel small and strange. I could smell damp asphalt and the faint musty scent of leaves piled in the gutters. My phone was down to 5% battery, just enough to call a taxi. I stood under a flickering streetlamp, shivering in my thin jacket, waiting for the car to pull up.
The taxi driver was older, with a tired face and a heavy accent. He kept glancing at his GPS, muttering about the fog messing with the signal. “Can’t get through your street,” he said, pulling over at the corner of my block. “Too narrow, too much fog. You walk from here, okay?” I hesitated, peering out the window. The fog was so dense I could barely see the stop sign ten feet away. But I was exhausted, and home was only a few blocks. “Sure,” I said, forcing a smile as I paid him. I stepped out, the cold biting my legs, and the taxi’s taillights vanished into the haze before I could blink.
My heels clicked on the pavement, the sound sharp in the silence. The fog seemed to swallow everything else—no cars, no voices, just me and the faint glow of streetlights, their light smudged into soft halos. My purse swung against my hip, and I tucked my hands into my pockets, trying to keep warm. The street felt different, like it wasn’t my street anymore. Every step echoed in my head, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone. I told myself it was just the fog playing tricks, making shadows move where there were none. But my heart was already beating faster, a steady thump I could feel in my throat.
I was halfway down the block when I heard it—a low hum, like an engine idling. I glanced back, and through the fog, I saw two faint headlights, moving slow. Too slow. My stomach twisted, a cold knot forming. I kept walking, faster now, my heels clicking louder, almost frantic. The car crept closer, tires crunching on the wet road, the sound deliberate, like it was following me. I moved to the edge of the sidewalk, pressing myself against the curb, hoping it would pass. It didn’t. The car stopped right beside me, the window rolling down with a soft whir.
“Hey, excuse me,” a man’s voice called out, calm and smooth, like he was asking for the time. I turned my head just enough to see him—a guy, maybe in his thirties, leaning out the window of a dark sedan. The dashboard light cast shadows across his face, hiding his eyes, but I could see his jaw, stubbled and sharp. “Do you know where Gian Galeazzo Street is?” he asked, his voice almost too friendly.
I swallowed, my mouth dry as sand. Something about him felt wrong, like the fog was hiding more than just the street. “Uh, I’m not sure,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I pointed vaguely to the left. “Maybe that way? I don’t know.” I took a step back, my heel catching on a crack in the sidewalk. I steadied myself, clutching my purse tighter.
He tilted his head, his lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach the shadows where his eyes should be. “You sure? You look like you live around here.” He paused, leaning closer to the window. “Pretty girl like you, walking all alone. You know this place, right?”
My heart slammed against my ribs. I forced a nod, trying to keep my voice steady. “Yeah, I… I think it’s that way,” I said, pointing again, my hand shaking. I started walking, faster now, my heels loud against the pavement. The fog seemed to close in, pressing against my skin, making every breath feel heavy. I heard the car move, the engine humming as it rolled forward, keeping pace with me.
“Come on, don’t be shy,” he called out, his voice louder now, teasing. “I’m just lost. Help me out. Why don’t you get in? We can find it together.” The words were light, but they felt like a trap, each one tightening the knot in my stomach.
“No, I’m good,” I said, my voice cracking. I kept my eyes forward, scanning for the outline of my apartment building. It had to be close—two more blocks, maybe three. The fog made it hard to tell. My hands were trembling now, and I shoved them deeper into my pockets, gripping my dead phone like it could save me. The car stayed with me, its headlights cutting through the fog, casting my shadow ahead, long and distorted.
“You’re scared, aren’t you?” he said, his tone shifting, lower, almost amused. “No need for that. I’m just being friendly. It’s not safe out here, you know. Not for someone like you.” He paused, and I heard the creak of his seat as he leaned closer to the window. “Come on, get in. I’ll take you home.”
I stopped, my breath hitching. My legs felt like they’d buckle, but I forced myself to stand tall. “Please, leave me alone,” I said, louder now, my voice shaking but firm. I turned to face him, just for a second, and saw that smile again, wider now, like he was enjoying this. My skin crawled, and I started walking again, faster, almost running, my heels slipping on the wet pavement.
He laughed, a low, guttural sound that echoed in the fog. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” he said, the car rolling forward again, keeping pace. “I just want to talk. Come closer. I don’t bite.” His voice was softer now, but it wasn’t comforting—it was a lure, pulling me toward something dark.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My throat was tight, my chest burning with every breath. The fog was everywhere, hiding the street signs, the buildings, everything but the sound of his engine. I glanced back, and the car was closer now, its headlights blinding, like eyes staring through the haze. I broke into a run, my purse bouncing against my side, my heels clacking so loud I thought the whole city could hear me. The car sped up, pulling ahead, then stopped, blocking the sidewalk. I skidded to a halt, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst.
The fog swirled around the car, making it look like a shadow itself. I couldn’t see him clearly, but I felt his stare, heavy and unyielding. “What do you want?” I whispered, my voice barely audible. I backed up, my heels scraping the pavement, my eyes darting for a way out. The parked cars on my right trapped me against the curb, and the street was too open, too exposed.
He leaned out the window, his voice low and cold. “Just a little fun,” he said. “Get in. It’ll be quick.” The words hit me like a punch, stealing my breath. My hands shook as I clutched my purse, my mind screaming at me to move, to run, to do something. But the fog held me there, heavy and suffocating, like it was part of him.
Then I heard it—another engine, faint at first, growing louder. Headlights flashed through the fog behind his car, another vehicle coming down the street. Its horn blared, sharp and angry, shattering the silence. The man cursed, his head snapping toward the approaching car. For a moment, he looked at me, his face unreadable in the dim light. Then he slammed his foot on the gas, the sedan lurching forward, tires screeching as it disappeared into the fog.
The other car passed by, its driver unaware, just a blur of red taillights fading into the haze. I didn’t wait. I ran, my heels slipping, my breath coming in gasps. The fog seemed to chase me, curling around my legs, but I kept going, my eyes locked on the faint outline of my apartment building. It was there, just ahead, the glass door reflecting a sliver of streetlight. I fumbled for my keys, my hands shaking so badly I dropped them. They clattered on the pavement, and I scrambled to pick them up, my fingers numb, my heart racing. I dropped them again, a sob catching in my throat, but I finally got them, jamming the key into the lock.
I stumbled inside, slamming the door shut, my hands trembling as I turned every bolt, checked every lock. The fog pressed against the windows, thick and gray, hiding the street outside. I stood there, back against the door, listening, my breath loud in the quiet. Was he out there? Had he followed me? Every creak in the building, every distant hum of a car, made my stomach lurch. I slid to the floor, my knees weak, and clutched my phone, now charging by the couch. I didn’t move for hours, just sat there, watching the windows, waiting for a shadow to appear.
I called the police the next morning, my voice still shaky as I told them everything. The fog, the car, the man’s voice. They asked for details—his face, his license plate—but the fog had hidden it all. They said they’d patrol the area, but I knew he was gone, melted into the night like the fog itself. I couldn’t stop checking the locks, the windows, every night for weeks. I got a new phone, kept it charged, kept a whistle in my purse. I never walked home alone again, not after that. Even now, when the fog rolls in, I feel it—the cold, the silence, the eyes watching from the dark. It’s like the fog knows, like it’s waiting for me to step outside again, to finish what he started.
"Fifteen Feet Away":
I was bone-tired, dragging myself through the end of a double shift at the diner. The kind of tired where your eyes burn and your legs feel like they’re made of lead. It was well past midnight, and I just wanted to get home, crawl into bed, and forget the smell of greasy burgers and burnt coffee. My old pickup truck rattled along the rural road I’d driven a thousand times, a narrow stretch of asphalt that twisted through dense woods. The trees loomed tall on both sides, their branches knitting together overhead, blocking out the stars. My radio was on, spitting out a staticky country tune, but I wasn’t really listening. I just needed the noise to keep me awake.
About ten miles from home, my headlights caught something up ahead—a car parked on the shoulder, its hazard lights pulsing weakly, like a dying heartbeat. It was an older sedan, gray and battered, with a dented fender and a cracked taillight. I slowed down, my hands tightening on the steering wheel. Out here, where cell service was a cruel joke, a breakdown could leave you stranded for hours. I wasn’t the type to just drive by. Not that I’m some saint—I just knew what it felt like to be stuck, alone, with nobody coming to help.
I pulled over behind the sedan, leaving a good gap between us, and kept my engine running. My headlights bathed the car in a harsh white glow, making the scratches on its paint stand out like claw marks. I sat there for a second, debating. Something about the scene felt off, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. The car’s driver-side door was wide open, swinging slightly, like someone had just stepped out. I scanned the road ahead and the trees to either side, but there was nothing—no movement, no sound, just the faint chirp of crickets and the hum of my truck.
I cut the engine but left the headlights on, grabbing the small canister of pepper spray I kept in my jacket pocket. Working late nights at the diner had taught me to be cautious. I stepped out, my boots crunching on the gravel, and the air hit me—cool, thick, like it was pressing against my skin. “Hello?” I called, my voice sounding thinner than I meant it to. No answer. I took a few steps toward the sedan, my heart picking up speed. The car looked empty, but the keys were still in the ignition, glinting faintly. A Styrofoam coffee cup sat in the center console, half-full, with lipstick smudged on the rim. A worn denim jacket was slung over the passenger seat, one sleeve dangling like it had been tossed there in a hurry.
I leaned in a little, not touching anything, just trying to see if there was a phone or a wallet—something to tell me who this car belonged to. That’s when I heard it: a sharp snap, like a branch breaking underfoot, from the trees to my right. I jerked upright, my pulse hammering in my throat. “Hey, anyone out there?” I called, louder this time, my voice echoing into the dark. Nothing. Just the rustle of leaves, faint and teasing. I told myself it was probably a raccoon or a deer, but my hand tightened around the pepper spray anyway.
Then I saw him. A figure stepped out from the tree line, maybe twenty feet away, where the shadows were thickest. He was tall, lanky, wearing a dark hoodie that hung loose on his frame. The hood was up, casting his face in shadow, but I could feel him looking at me. My stomach twisted, and I took a step back toward my truck. He didn’t move, just stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, his posture too still, too deliberate.
“Is this your car?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, like this was just a normal conversation. “You okay?”
He didn’t answer right away. He tilted his head, like he was studying me, and the silence stretched out so long I thought he hadn’t heard me. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low and smooth, almost too calm. “Car broke down. You got a phone I could use?”
Something about the way he said it made my skin prickle. It wasn’t desperate or panicked, like you’d expect from someone stranded in the middle of nowhere. It was flat, like he was reading a script. “I can call someone for you,” I said, keeping my distance, my hand still in my pocket. “Tow truck, maybe? What’s wrong with it?”
He took a step forward, just one, and I felt my muscles tense. “Battery’s dead,” he said. “You got jumper cables?”
I nodded, even though every instinct screamed at me to get back in my truck and floor it. “Yeah, I got some. Hang on.” I turned and walked to my truck, moving slow, like I was trying not to spook a wild animal. I could feel his eyes on me, heavy and unblinking. I popped the hood and rummaged in the toolbox in the truck bed, pulling out the jumper cables. My hands were shaking, and I fumbled with the cables, the metal clinking too loudly in the quiet.
When I turned back, he was closer—way closer than he should’ve been. He was standing by his car’s hood now, maybe ten feet away, and I hadn’t heard him move at all. My breath caught in my throat. “Whoa, you’re quick,” I said, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow even to me. He didn’t smile, just nodded toward his car.
“Pop the hood for me?” he asked, his voice still calm, but there was an edge to it now, like he was testing me.
I hesitated, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might burst. I didn’t want to get any closer, but I didn’t want to turn my back on him either. “Sure,” I said, stepping toward the sedan. I leaned into the driver’s side, my eyes flicking between him and the car. The air inside smelled sharp, like gasoline mixed with something metallic, almost like blood, but I told myself I was imagining it. I found the hood release under the dashboard and pulled it, hearing the click as the hood unlatched. He lifted it, and I stepped back fast, clutching the jumper cables like they were a lifeline.
“You don’t have to stick around,” he said, not looking at me as he leaned over the battery. “I can handle it.”
I should’ve listened. I should’ve just dropped the cables and run. But I didn’t. “It’s fine,” I said, my voice tighter than I wanted. “I’ll wait till you’re good to go.”
He didn’t say anything, just started hooking up the cables, his movements slow and deliberate. I stood by my truck, watching him, my pulse racing. The road was dead silent—no cars, no headlights, just the two of us and the endless stretch of trees. I kept glancing at the woods, half-expecting someone else to step out, like this was some kind of trap. That’s when I noticed the scratches on his car’s hood—deep, jagged lines, like someone had dragged a knife across the metal in a frenzy. My stomach dropped, and I felt a cold sweat break out on my neck.
“You live around here?” he asked suddenly, his hands still on the battery, his head turned slightly toward me.
“Yeah, not far,” I said, keeping it vague. I didn’t like the way he asked, like he was fishing for something. “You?”
“Passing through,” he said, his voice low. He straightened up then and looked at me, and for the first time, I saw his eyes. They were dark, almost black, and they didn’t catch the light from my headlights. It was like looking into a void. “You always stop for strangers?” he asked, his lips curling into a faint smile that made my blood run cold.
I forced a shrug, my fingers tightening around the pepper spray in my pocket. “If they look like they need help,” I said, trying to sound casual, but my voice was shaking now.
His smile widened, but it wasn’t friendly. It was the kind of smile that made you want to bolt. “That’s real kind of you,” he said. “Not a lot of people like that anymore. Most people just drive by.”
I didn’t answer. My mouth was dry, and my legs felt like they might give out. He finished hooking up the cables and nodded toward my truck. “Start her up,” he said.
I walked to my driver’s side, my boots loud against the gravel. Every step felt like it took forever, like I was moving through quicksand. I climbed in, locked the doors, and turned the key. My engine roared to life, the sound cutting through the silence. I glanced at his car, expecting him to try starting it, but he didn’t. He just stood there, right by his open hood, staring at me through my windshield. His hands were back in his pockets, and he wasn’t moving.
“Hey, you gonna try it?” I called through the window, my voice muffled. I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles white.
He didn’t answer. He took a step toward my truck, then another, slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking prey. My heart slammed against my ribs, and I revved the engine, hoping the noise would make him back off. It didn’t. He kept coming, his head tilted slightly, that awful smile still on his face.
“Stay back!” I shouted, my voice cracking. I fumbled for the pepper spray and held it up, my hand shaking so bad I could barely aim it. He stopped, maybe fifteen feet away, and just stood there, staring. Then he laughed—a low, quiet laugh that made my skin crawl.
“You’re smart,” he said, his voice soft but carrying over the rumble of my engine. “Most people aren’t.”
I didn’t wait to hear more. I threw the truck into drive and floored it, the jumper cables still hooked to his car, yanking free with a loud snap as I peeled out. Gravel sprayed behind me, and in my rearview mirror, I saw him standing in the middle of the road, his figure shrinking as I sped away. He didn’t chase me, didn’t move, just watched me go until the darkness swallowed him whole.
I didn’t stop driving until I reached my house, my hands trembling so bad I could barely get the key in the lock. I bolted every door, checked every window, and sat on my couch with a kitchen knife clutched in my hands until the sun came up. I didn’t sleep, didn’t even try. Every creak in the house made me jump, every shadow looked like him.
The next morning, I called the sheriff’s office and told them about the car. They found it right where I’d left it, still on the shoulder, but the guy was gone. No registration, no fingerprints, just the sedan with those knife scratches on the hood and a trunk full of ropes, duct tape, and a folded tarp. They asked me a lot of questions, took my statement, but they never found him. They said he might’ve been a drifter, someone passing through, but the way they looked at me told me they thought I’d dodged something bad.
I still drive that road to work sometimes. I don’t have a choice—it’s the only way to the diner. But I don’t stop anymore, not for anyone. Every time I pass that spot, I see those scratches in my mind, and I wonder how close I came to not making it home.
"The Smog Follows":
I stepped out of St. Thomas’ Hospital, my body aching from a twelve-hour shift. The air hit me like a wall, thick and bitter, burning my nose with every breath. It was December 1952, and London was suffocating. The hospital had been a nightmare—wards overflowing with patients, their coughs echoing down the halls, some gasping for air that wouldn’t come. Old men, young mothers, even children, their faces gray from the smog. I’d spent the night holding hands, fetching water, and praying we wouldn’t lose another. My white nurse’s cap was still pinned to my hair, my coat buttoned tight over my uniform, but it did little to block the sharp smell of coal smoke. I clutched my leather bag, its strap worn from years of use, and started the long walk home.
The streets were eerily still. No buses ran, their schedules abandoned days ago. Cars sat like ghosts along the road, their headlights dim, useless against the haze. I could barely see the pavement under my feet, and the streetlamps were just faint smudges of light, swallowed by the fog. My flat was a mile away in Lambeth, a walk I’d done a hundred times, but tonight felt different. The city was too quiet, the usual hum of voices and traffic muffled, like the world was wrapped in cotton. I pulled my scarf up over my mouth, the wool scratching my chin, and kept my eyes on the ground, counting my steps to stay calm.
I passed a newsstand, its papers unsold, the headlines smudged and unreadable. A man in a flat cap stood nearby, coughing into a handkerchief, his eyes red and watery. “Careful out there, love,” he rasped, his voice barely carrying. “It’s not safe tonight.” I nodded, forcing a small smile, but his words stuck with me. I’d heard whispers at the hospital—stories of muggings, people grabbed in the fog, their cries lost in the haze. I shook my head, telling myself to focus. Just get home.
A few minutes later, I heard it—a soft crunch behind me, like boots on gravel. I froze, my heart stuttering. The sound stopped too. I turned, squinting into the fog, but there was nothing, just a wall of gray. My breath came faster, puffing out in clouds that mixed with the haze. “It’s nothing,” I whispered, my voice trembling. I started walking again, faster this time, my shoes clicking on the cobblestones. The footsteps started again, slow and steady, matching my pace. I glanced back, and this time, I saw a shadow—a tall figure, blurred, maybe twenty feet away. My stomach twisted, and I tightened my grip on my bag, the metal clasp cold against my palm.
I turned down a side street, hoping to lose them. The road was narrow, lined with dark shopfronts, their windows boarded or empty. My scarf slipped, and the air stung my lungs, sharp and sour. The footsteps followed, closer now, deliberate. I could hear the faint rustle of a coat, the heavy tread of boots. My heart pounded so loud I was sure they could hear it. I stopped under a flickering streetlamp, its light barely cutting through the fog, and called out, “Who’s there?” My voice cracked, echoing faintly before the haze swallowed it. No answer, just the steady crunch of footsteps.
I kept moving, my legs shaky, my eyes darting for landmarks—a pub sign, a postbox, anything to tell me where I was. But the fog hid everything, turning familiar streets into a maze. I passed an alley, the smell of damp brick and rotting rubbish hitting me. The footsteps were louder now, closer, maybe ten feet behind. I broke into a run, my bag bouncing against my hip, my nurse’s shoes slipping on the wet stones. I turned another corner, then another, my breath burning, my chest tight. The footsteps kept coming, faster now, relentless.
I stopped, gasping, and realized I’d made a mistake. The street ended in a high brick wall, an alley I didn’t know. My heart sank. I pressed myself against the cold bricks, my hands trembling, my scarf damp with sweat. The footsteps slowed, then stopped. I held my breath, listening, praying they’d gone. Then, through the fog, a figure appeared—a man, tall, in a long dark coat and a hat pulled low. He stood at the alley’s mouth, maybe fifteen feet away, his face hidden in shadow. I could feel his eyes on me, heavy, unblinking.
“Please,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I don’t have anything. Just let me go.” My fingers fumbled with my bag, searching for something, anything—a pen, a bandage roll, anything to use as a weapon. The man didn’t move, just stood there, watching. My legs felt like jelly, but I forced myself to stand straighter, to look braver than I felt.
He took a step forward, his boots scraping the ground. “You’re out late,” he said, his voice low, rough, like gravel. “Not safe for a girl like you.”
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. “I’m a nurse,” I said, louder now, trying to keep my voice steady. “I’m just going home. I don’t want trouble.”
He laughed, a short, sharp sound that made my skin crawl. “Trouble finds you in this fog,” he said, taking another step. His hand moved to his coat pocket, and I saw a glint—metal, maybe a knife. My heart stopped. I’d heard stories at the hospital, nurses whispering about attacks, people disappearing in the smog. I thought of the man at the newsstand, his warning ringing in my ears.
“What do you want?” I asked, my voice shaking. I backed up until my shoulders hit the wall, the bricks cold through my coat. My hands gripped my bag tighter, my mind racing. The alley was a trap, but there was a narrow gap to his right, a sliver of space between him and the wall. If I could just get past him.
“Don’t want much,” he said, stepping closer. “Just what you’ve got.” His hand was still in his pocket, and he tilted his head, like he was sizing me up. I could smell him now—cigarette smoke, sweat, and something sharp, like metal.
I took a deep breath, my chest aching. “I don’t have money,” I said, holding my bag out like a shield. “Just bandages, medical stuff. Please, let me go.”
He didn’t answer, just kept coming, slow and deliberate. My eyes darted to the gap again. It was my only chance. I waited until he was close, maybe five feet away, then threw my bag at him with all my strength. It hit his chest, papers and bandages spilling out, and he stumbled, cursing. I bolted for the gap, my shoulder scraping the wall, my coat tearing on a jagged brick. I didn’t look back, just ran, my lungs screaming, my feet slipping on the slick ground.
The footsteps started again, heavy, chasing me. I turned corners blindly, the fog blurring everything. My scarf fell, tangling around my neck, but I didn’t stop to fix it. I passed a shuttered bakery, a broken bicycle leaning against a wall, but no people, no help. The fog seemed to press in, muffling my gasps, making every shadow look like him. My legs burned, but I kept running, my eyes scanning for anything familiar.
Then I saw it—a faint glow ahead, like a beacon. A police station, its windows barely visible, the sign swinging faintly above the door. I stumbled toward it, my hands shaking as I pounded on the wood. “Help! Please, someone!” I shouted, my voice hoarse.
The door opened, and a constable peered out, his face pale, his eyes tired. “What’s happened?” he asked, pulling me inside. The station was warm, smelling of tea and damp wool, but I couldn’t stop shaking.
“There’s a man,” I gasped, clutching my torn coat. “He followed me, in the fog. He had a knife, I think. In an alley, back there.”
The constable’s face tightened. “Stay here,” he said, grabbing his torch and calling to another officer. “Show us where.”
I shook my head, my knees weak. “I don’t know where it was. I got lost. It was a dead end, a brick wall.” My voice broke, and I sank into a wooden chair, the station’s gaslight flickering above me.
The two officers stepped outside, their torches cutting weak beams into the fog. I waited, my hands clasped tight, my eyes fixed on the door. Minutes dragged by, each one heavier than the last. When they returned, their faces were grim. “No one out there now,” the first constable said, brushing damp from his coat. “Fog’s too thick to see much. We found your bag, though.” He held it up, the leather scuffed, papers missing.
I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. They let me stay in the station, gave me a cup of tea that burned my tongue but warmed my hands. I sat there until dawn, when the fog began to thin, revealing the gray outline of the city. The constables walked me home, their boots loud on the quiet streets. My flat was cold, the windows streaked with soot, but I locked the door and checked it twice.
I never saw the man again, but I couldn’t shake him. Every creak in the floor, every shadow outside my window, brought him back—his low laugh, the glint in his hand, the way the fog hid him. I stopped walking alone at night, taking shifts only when I could get a ride. The smog lifted after a few days, but it left something behind in me—a fear that lingered, sharp and cold, like the memory of that alley wall against my back.
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