Mist Mad – Part 1

A rather chilling little story, set in the world of Everwood.  A young boy discovers something on the beach and learns a frightening truth.

“Mist Mad”

I discovered the Mist Mad body the day I lost my favorite ball.

The ball sailed over the cliff and I watched it plummet to the beach below.  I stood at the edge, my bare toes clinging to the rough rocks, icy air chilling my lungs.  My red ball lay against a dark bundle of cloth.  From that distance, I didn’t know what it was.

At the shoreline, the ocean boiled and frothed against the pebbles.  The White Mist rose in stark contrast to the iron gray water, a distant wall of fog that reached right up to the clouds.  Ships dragged too close to the Mist vanished beyond, never seen again.

Dad told me those stories.

The closer I walked toward the bundle, the heavier my steps grew.  I’d never seen one before, but I recognized the size and shape.  A man-sized bundle, wrapped in strips of dark linen.  Dad described to me how they buried fallen sailors at sea.  My eyes darted to either end of the bundle, seeking the ropes that would have tied it to weights.

They must have slipped off.  A part of me urged my legs to run home, abandon my ball, and tell Mama.  But another part held sway, and pulled me closer, eyes fixed on my ball.  My Dad’s last gift to me.

Closer, a chill tightened my spine.  Thunder rumbled overhead.  I reached for my ball.

The body flopped over.  I stifled a scream, and leapt backward.  My foot slipped, and sent me sprawling, smacking my backside on the wet rocks.  I started into flat gray eyes.  And they stared at me.

Mist Madness, the fate of a sailor that breathed in the White Mist.  I imagined the panic of the other sailors.  A Mist Mad would do all they could to turn the other sailors, sabotage the ship and sail it straight into the fog.

The body, I could not tell if it was a man or woman, writhed, tied arms straining for freedom.  The mouth opened, and let out a wet, strangled sound.

My heart pounded.  My fingers clenched around a rock.  The body flexed, freed one arm.  Fingers reached for me.

I flung the rock with strength born of terror.

It struck the Mist Mad square in the forehead.  The glassy eyes sparked with emotion, fear, pain, sorrow, before the light died again.

I turned and scrabbled back up to the top of the cliff and ran all the way home, leaving my ball behind.

****

Tears poured down my cheeks when I reached our cottage.

Marten, my step-father, stood outside chopping firewood.  He frowned and dropped his ax when he saw my face.  “What happened?”

Sorrow clogged my throat.

Marten grasped my shoulders and shook me.  “Out with it, boy.”

“A Mist Mad washed up on shore.”  I swallowed back another bout of tears.  “I lost my ball.  The one Dad gave me.”

Marten’s eyes darkened.  “Greta!”  He went into the house.  Seconds later he emerged, tucking his knife into his belt.

Mama followed him out, and wrapped her arms around me.  We watched Marten walk the road toward the village.

“What will he do?”  Panic seized me at the thought of Marten facing the Mist Mad.

Mama squeezed my shoulder.  Her normally ruddy skin gone pale.  “Don’t you worry about Marten.  He took care of himself long before we came along.”  She gave me a brief smile, though her eyes flicked toward the cliff.  “Help me get dinner ready.”

*****

Join me next Friday for part 2.

*top image credited to Tasja Brewis