Coffee Time story. I’ve always thought that November is the most ghostly month of the year. Perhaps that’s because of Halloween and so many foggy days. FROM OUT OF THE FOG I got up and pulled the curtains back to look out and see nothing but a solid grey wall of fog. There’s something sinister about it. Makes me feel as if I’ve been swaddled in a blanket; isolated from everything. I went downstairs and put the kettle on to make instant coffee, before going through to the lounge and looking out through the patio doors. The fog seemed to be right up next to the other side of the glass, pressing against it with oppressive weight that I imagined to have the power to bend and then shatter it. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see tendrils of it forcing their way through any small cracks and gaps, to fill the cottage in a cold, choking miasma. The coffee was hot and black, and I sipped it as the invisible world outside my doors left me feeling totally isolated. I could have been the last person left on the planet: the mist a mindless creature consuming all in its path, absorbing the fabric of anything solid that it touched and clung to. I shivered. My imagination was running riot. And then I dropped the mug, and the coffee fanned out from its mouth like brown liquid lace to pool and then sink into the pile of the carpet, as the now empty mug bounced and rolled away from me. Figures were beginning to form from the nebulous murk, to gather in human guise and soundlessly advance and face me. Features appeared, and I was stared at by countless grey eyes that held me set as firmly as a deeply rooted tree by their accusing looks. Thank the good Lord that I had not ventured outside, for I am positive that the insubstantial spectres would have incorporated me into their mass. They wavered and lost and regained their shape, and beckoned me to join them, and I began to feel somehow spellbound by these unearthly beings and was almost compelled to open the doors and give up to whatever came next. The rising sun saved me. The glow from it cut through the fog and defined the edges of the figures sharply in golden filigree. They drew back from the floor to ceiling doors and began to dissolve as they floated back to the end of my garden, to pass effortlessly through a dry stone wall and into the old cemetery beyond. I watched in horror as each sank down into the earth next to gravestones. I made fresh coffee with shaking hands, and attempted to make some sense of what I had seen. The sun had quickly dispelled the fog, and it was almost impossible to believe that I had experienced anything more than a waking dream. Why would the long dead appear to be malevolent and rise to make their selves known to the living? Did they envy those that still enjoyed life, and wish to take them from it? The next morning I opened the curtain no more than an inch. It was foggy again, and so I climbed back into bed, not wishing to endure a repeat performance of the previous day. Perhaps I will put the cottage up for sale and move back to the city. ©MICHAEL KERR ~ 2014
Posted on: Mon, 10 Nov 2014 13:06:17 +0000
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