Misty Mornings

    Another Mist filled morning, which normally would not be ominous in our village nestled between three peaks to the east and the sea to the west. We are a close nit community despite the march of progress insisting upon such things as electrical line that cross over the mountains like a line of insidious mutant trees and vines from a far away unseen place. Despite this we are and always have been an isolated community of humble houses and family owned shops; the larger brands expanding over the globe tried to infiltrate our town once; the city council; which is its self made of these very same shop owners voted against them coming here to Donshire Port.

 

   That the power remains is nothing short of miraculous I’d say as I type away here at a computer instead of a type writer. Thankful for that as this makes far less noise; although I would not be remiss against a pad of paper and a pen. I pray however that when it is all over; if it is ever over, that at least my account may be recovered in some form.

 

  It began inconspicuously enough as the fog off the sea was thick one morning, as it often is this time of year. As I am retired and a bit of an admitted recluse I cannot say when it truly began, that day the radio I keep in my home; I never had much use for television to be honest, told of car accidents; as is to be expected in such weather. The fog continued thick throughout the day, even as the radio suggested to the people not to be out driving or walking if they didn’t have to as the fog was so thick, and so enveloped the entire valley of sorts in which we live that it blotted out the sun and one could hardly see their own legs as they walked. The night was just as thick, in the darkness looking out the window gave a feeling of dreaded unease as though staring deep in some forgotten space. I closed the curtains, and by some unknown instinct I took towels, tape, and whatever I could find to seal off the windows and door frames as the black mist tried to seep in through the cracks, not unlike an octopus with a jar I could feel I around my house trying to find a way in. So cocooned was I by the end of the night I feared I had cut off all my air and would suffocate by night’s end. Dawn did come, and with it the fog became while still thick with its relentless presence, a normal fog.

 

   That was when the sirens began, ambulances, what few we have in town were busy, and the radio was insistent that people stay indoors this day as bodies were being found. A slew of grisly murders had struck in the night, people found on the street torn to pieces, some inside their homes, windows broken, kitchens torn apart. What started early as a suspicion of a band of modern day bandits come from the hills was later suggested by the chief of police to be bears that became lost in the fog and perhaps had been drinking sea water. It had only been one day and night of thick fog, in all the many decades I have lived in Donshire Port nothing of that sort had ever happened before, and this was far from our first time of having such thick fog; although the ghastly black mist was nothing of the sort I had ever known. Perhaps my imagination had gotten away with me; however the six total deaths in the night in a town of barely five hundred people did nothing to help my state of mind for mine is a home barely in the town, far to the outskirts up the hill a ways. Normally when the town is covered in fog I have the pleasant view of see the cloud from above as it grows thin up my way, not so now, even at my elevation the fog remains thicker than any I had seen before.

 

 

 

   The next night I could hear it, the sirens, the screams that rose up the hill, and a rumble like thunder unlike any storm I had ever known in all my many years. The walls shook upon my house, a skittering sound outside the windows like something trying to find its way in. I stayed huddled in the cellar that night, over head I could hear something akin to footsteps, dragging, and moaning. I had the cellar door locked by a deadbolt from the inside, the light turned off, and huddled opposite the hole in the floor door. What would be a nightmare for me when I was child, to be alone in the dark in this cellar was now my only safe haven. My heart skipped, perhaps my liver and brain too as the handle of the cellar door was jingled. A moaning and hissing followed by something crashing in the kitchen; then silence. I fell asleep down there, awakened by the sound of birds chirping.

 

   I had hoped the fog was gone, it was not. I emerged into the kitchen to find it trashed, almost all the food taken in the night, not that, that was the true cause for my pale complexion and fearful gaze I no doubt had in that moment. For upon the floor was a trail of blood, bloody handprints all over the cellar door and then a mess nearby as whoever it was trying to get in was clearly dragged away, out the door. Thankfully I was able to put the door back up and nail it shut with boards, and piled what furniture I had available in front of it. Of course I tried to call the police; the line was busy, stayed busy throughout the day. I have now come to the conclusion as it has been three days since then that the phone is off the hook and no one is there. The town has been mostly silent since that second night; I was still hearing shouts and gunshots coming from the town for the next three days every few hours, but fewer and fewer and now I hear nothing. In my mind I hope and pray that as many as possible of the towns people fled into the mountains beyond the mist, or out to sea on their fishing boats and got help.

 

   I am not a brave man, and again I am amazed and glad that the power by whatever strange miracle by a capricious God has allowed that, is allowing me to leave this record of events as best I can tell. I was not in the town, I have not seen what is attacking us and pray I never do. While my kitchen was robbed my cellar holds preserves. If I am lucky and there is any justice in this world I will see rescue before I starve to death or whatever scurries outside the windows and just beyond the walls of the cellar does not find me first. I know better as I can hear them down there, the walls of the cellar won’t keep it out forever, the smell of the food down there is too strong. If I bring it all up here, the windows will no doubt not hold back anything just as the kitchen door kept nothing out before. I huddle in the cold nights as I dare not create any illumination. I remember the lights dimming one by one in the town. I don’t know, I don’t want to know. I pray only that I either be found, or be allowed to die peacefully by the cold or starvation instead of by some hungry maw.

 

  This has been the last writing by Thaddeus O’Brian jr,

  May God have mercy on our souls

 

 

(General McDuff)

 

The above statement is the recovered account found on screen at the residence of one Thaddeus O’Brian jr. As seen his account collaborates that of survivors of Donshire Port; although by admittance he saw very little. Unfortunately by the time the team found this residence the owner was nowhere to be found. The kitchen door was undisturbed, however a second story window had been broken, and a large hole found in the cellar wall. In neither location were any remains or signs of blood found. As of right now Thaddeus O’Brian jr. is listed as one of the lost of Donshire Port.