Footsteps in the Fog

My family...  If only I'd been at their side...

It had been a drab and dismal day at the shore, but that had only heightened my anticipation.  That night my friend and I, both ten, were going to see Tyrone Power in Crash Dive.  So intent was I on Tyrone (whom I would surely meet and marry once I grew up), that I'd barely noticed the serpentine tendrils of mist that crept from the shore to reach for our ankles.  The Boardwalk Theater was only four blocks from the bungalow, but in my fevered longing for him Tyrone seemed a world away.  My friend, fated for Cary Grant, commented on the smoky swirls, but I was not to be distracted.

Throughout the show I sat in blissful worship.  When it ended, Tyrone heroically triumphant, my girl friend rose to leave. 

"C'mon," she said.

"I'm gonna stay and see it again."

"But it was misting up out there.  It could get worse.  It might be real bad right now."

Pledging Tyrone my life as well as my love, I demurred.  Anxious to leave, she argued no further and waved goodbye.

Blissful hours later I too left the theater‑-and stepped into a world of white.  It was not the crisp, clear, and comforting white of freshly laundered sheets, but a sickly, milky opacity through which I could hear the surf thudding with invisible menace against the shore.  My resolve to be worthy of the brave Tyrone faltered.

Into my mind came the phrase, "Can't see your hand before your eyes," and I raised mine toward my face.  It was eight inches from my nostrils before I could make out the curved fingers and palm.  The sight of it, even though it was my own with its fingers curled but moving toward me, was unnerving.

Toward my right, I knew, lay home, but the four blocks that had seemed so long on my way to the theater were now a blind infinity away.  Uneasily and with mounting concern, I felt my way along the theater wall, my hand seeking the boardwalk rail.  Where that stopped would be a ramp leading to a street.  The third house from the fourth ramp was mine‑-the only safety I could remember.  It was to there that I meant to feel my way.

Avoiding the benches that stood about twenty steps apart in front of the rail, I carefully inched my way.  How loud the punishing surf sounded!  I paused at the first ramp, and it was then I heard, or thought I heard, the other sound.

A footstep?  Behind me?  I listened intently, but there were only the waves and the pounding of my chest.  I resolved to walk faster and take whatever bruised shins the benches would inflict.  The rail, when I found it past the ramp, was noticeably clammy; I thought of other clammy things and paused again to wipe my hand on my frock.

There was no mistaking it this time.  There had been a footfall after I stopped!  Someone or something was behind me.  An icy hand clutched within my chest, and I stood paralyzed, listening.

Silence.  Whoever, whatever, was following me had paused as I had.  I determined to get off the boardwalk at the next ramp and knock at the first door‑-anything but remain trapped between the rail and the sea, fog pressing at my face, and sounds, threatening sounds, behind me! 

Picking up my pace, I continued into the shroud ahead.

Behind me the footsteps moved faster too.  Were they louder?  Closer?  An inky panic flowed into my mind, and I plunged desperately forward.

There was no escape.  I could hear the footsteps; they no longer matched my pace but were growing swifter, louder as I moved.  Almost hysterical, I found the next ramp and ran down it, whimpering softly.  And behind, the footsteps too were running.  "Oh, God," I thought, "oh, God," as they came closer.  Then a strong hand grabbed my shoulder, turning me.

I screamed twice before the other hand came down hard across my cheek.  "Shut up, you little fool!" hissed my uncle.  "We've been looking for you half the night!"