Tell No Tales

Part 1: Homecoming

The fog was thick. It crept across the yard and swallowed up everything in its path, devouring the hedges and trees until there was nothing but a sea of grey. When it was clear, you could see the entire road that wound up the mountain and led to the house, but now gravel driveway seemed like it just disappeared, heading straight into nothingness.

Martin had come to the window to watch for his family’s arrival, but the fog had made it pointless. Chewing on his cheeks, Martin checked his phone again. There was a message there, from his wife Christine, telling him that they had just turned onto that mountain road. It had been sent forty minutes ago. It usually only took thirty minutes to drive up, but Martin was not worried. Not yet. He figured his wife would take her time up a steep, unfamiliar road, especially with their young kids in the back.

So he waited. He paced the narrow parlour, walking the length of it; past the tall bookcase, past the granite fireplace with the collection of pictures set on it’s mantel, then past the other bookcase… Before doubling back and doing it again. It did not calm him, instead, his worries only grew. He regretted letting her do this on her own. They were driving out to meet him; he had to come out here early, to help tie up all the loose ends, to see his aunt before she passed. But why hadn’t he just gone back, after? Then they could’ve done this together.

What if they couldn’t see the sign? he fretted.

What if they had took the wrong turn?

Or what if it was just too bad, and they had they decided to turn around?

Yet again he checked his phone, but there were no new notifications, no messages conceding defeat. For a brief moment, he debated calling Christine, but quickly tossed that idea aside. Reception on the mountain was notoriously spotty—he, himself, only had two bars—and even if he got through, answering the call would just add another level for distraction.

What if they really did miss the turn? What if they’ve turned up the wrong driveway? Or maybe they’ve run off the road…

Unable to take it anymore, Martin stormed out of the room. He grabbed his coat off the hook, hastily pulling it on as he dashed outside and plunged ahead into the wall of grey.

The fog enveloped him, and the damp cold cut easily through his coat. It burrowed into his thin limbs, straight through the flesh and into his bones. It was eerie out here, with swirling cloud closing in from every angle. The only sure thing being the crunch of gravel beneath his feet.

He pressed on, planning as he walked. Just to be safe, he decided, he’d go and wait at the corner, right at the end of the driveway, so they’d know where to turn… Or perhaps catch them when they doubled back, if they had passed it. He’d wait at the corner for another ten minutes, then, if they hadn’t shown up, he’d head back to the car and drive down the mountain—

His phone chirped in his pocket. He stopped in the middle of the road and pulled it out. It was a message from Christine. His heart leapt, expecting some terrible news, as he pulled it up.

Found the turn! it read.

See you soon.

He released the breath he was holding with a great whoosh. All that worry for nothing. He reached to tuck the phone away, about to turn around and head back, when a truck suddenly appeared, slicing through the fog.

Martin was right in its path. He leapt aside, stumbling down the sloped edge of the narrow driveway, falling against the hedge that lined it. He heard the spraying gravel, a cloud of dirt kicking up into the air and mixing with the mist, before everything went quiet. Scrambling back up to the road, he emerged behind a familiar maroon truck that sat at an angle across the road, one tire teetering off the opposite edge. In the gravel, he could see path of the tires where they fishtailed.