Rising Fears (11 page)

"Sean?" he said again, and began slowly moving files off his lap so he could move quickly.

The figure moved, walking - still utterly hidden - into the kitchen.

"Hey, wait," Jason shouted, and quickly followed. But by the time he got to the kitchen it was empty, the side door that led outside swinging shut with a low thud. He ran out after the child, and found himself in forest in only a few feet. His house was on the outskirts of town, well apart from any neighbors. The mist that was still making inroads on the town below had arrived here in full force, laying on the ground like an impenetrable blanket, writhing around his feet and legs like some alien being trying to slowly make its way to his face, where it could suffocate and eat him.

The town looked darker than usual from his vantage point, though the football lights that attested to continuing cheerleading practice were easily visible, like banners above the mists.

"Sean!" shouted Jason.

A twig snapped in the trees, and he barreled off in that direction, only registering in the tiniest part of his mind that he had no gun; that he had left his service pistol behind in the house. He ran into the forest unthinkingly, his only thought the idea that if he could save Sean, even at this late period, that he could save the town, could reverse whatever strangeness had come to the sleepy town and make everything as it once was.

In the forest, the mist clung to the trees like a disease, rolling in thicker and thicker all the time. Soon, Jason could barely see one tree from the next. All was shadow and dim white mist. Shadows flitted all around him, moving at the corners of his vision, disorienting him constantly. He felt like he was in the middle of a ghosts' ball, the only living - and therefore uninvited - person to stumble onto the place of their partying.

"Sean!" he cried again, and spun around, feeling disorientation rise up within him and begin to take control of his normally tightly reined feelings. He couldn't see anything now. Not the football field, not Rising, not his own house, not even a single damned
tree
.

Then there was a flash of black in the corner of his vision. Jason swiveled to face it; followed it. The shape flitted ahead of him, always moving, always just ahead, like the lingering edges of a nightmare better left forgotten.

Then, at last, the shadow stopped. Jason caught up to it.

And felt himself begin to breathe again, though he was not aware of the exact moment he had stopped.

It was
Sean!

The little boy stood in bright blue pajamas, slump-shouldered, his back to Jason so that his face was not visible. That was disturbing, but Jason pushed away any negative feelings. Here was the boy that could put things back together at Rising, he felt sure of it.

Then the boy spoke again. This time, however, his voice was different. Bubbling. Like he was speaking the words through a throat that had been viciously torn out.

Jason screamed. The face had been torn and destroyed by something out of this world, something for which he had no name. He was taken by a primal panic, a fear that went back to the days when people huddled in caves during thunderstorms and prayed for the gods to stop throwing fire at them. He stumbled backward, seized by an irresistible need to flee, to escape, to fly away from this place and this horrible specter that confronted him.

It was Elizabeth and Aaron, dressed as they were in the picture on his desk; as they had been dressed on that day, that fateful and horrible day of days when everything changed.

Jason looked around, and saw that the forest was gone; disappeared. In its place, he was now standing on a city street. One that seemed familiar. He heard a tinkling laugh, and turned in time to see....

His wife and son were disappearing around a nearby corner, laughing and practically dancing with joy as they ran from him. "Hide from Daddy!"

They turned the corner. "NO!" screamed Jason, a shout that came from deep in his gut and took every ounce of his strength and converted it to sound. "NO!" But neither of his loved ones heard. He ran after them.

The TV was on, but there was no reception; only snow played on the tube. Jason rubbed at his eyes. He must have fallen asleep for a moment.

He had fallen asleep - had had The Dream - while working on the files that pertained to Sean's disappearance, so small wonder he had jumped right into a dream like the one he had had.

Then the case files on his lap drew his attention. On top of them was a now familiar piece of white paper. Black crayon writing in thick letters. This time, however, there was no cryptic message about a crack in a dam or about being next. The message was short, and to the point.

iT'S sTarTED

***

***

Jason looked out a nearby window, casting about for anything that would take his mind off the horrifying appearance of this newest - message? threat? - whatever it was from beyond.

Outside, the mist was so thick that he could barely see anything. Just a few shadows. Maybe they were houses in the distance, maybe they were just nearby trees.

And maybe they were other, less harmless things.

That last thought came unbidden into his mind, and he tried to laugh it off and cast it out without another thought. But he couldn't. It was a real concern. And a moment later he could see why he
had
such a concern in the first place.

Because some of the shadows seemed to be moving.

He went slowly to his front door and opened it.

The mist was a blanket. Thick, impenetrable, unworldly. He couldn't see ten feet away, so thick was the sudden fog that had descended like a veil meant to cut him off from the town and from memory itself.

The fog was so thick that it was itself frightening.

But as dark and thick as it was, Jason could still see them. Could still see the...
things
that were moving about in its depths.

Whatever they were, he got the distinct impression that they were not friendly.

***

Throughout Rising the mist penetrated each yard, each house. People's televisions blinked on and off and then dissolved into snow as the fog came, as though it were an electrical storm that had somehow compromised the integrity of the electronics. People tried to call one another, but the phones were not working and the isolation they felt was only amplified by their failed attempts to reach others.

On the football field, the cheerleaders broke up their practice early, rushing for their cars at a hurried pace, looking back into the fog that seemed to leer at them like a living beast.

Sarah, the head cheerleader and nemesis of the unfortunate Albert, looked into the mist herself and shivered. She had no ride, her home was close enough to the city center that her family expected her to walk to and from school. Because after all, what could go wrong in Rising?

Throughout the town, the mist invaded. Televisions turned off, radios lost their reception. People came out of their houses, looking into the mist. In some cases they were as little as five or six feet from one another, but could not tell, so thick was the preternatural mist that surrounded and isolated them one from another. They couldn't see each other; couldn't see much of anything.

Many of the people of Rising were holding notes in their hands: notes that they had inexplicably found themselves writing during dinner, or instead of helping the baby down for bed, or even in the middle of sex. Notes that they had no control over, but had felt constrained to write, as though for a time they were mere marionettes on a joint string.

Some of the notes were direct, and simple, and Jason would have shivered to see them: "iT'S sTarTED" in black crayon.

Other notes bore a single word, a word that the people could all agree they felt, but none had any idea how to avoid or change: "FeAR."

Then a wind whipped up, blowing tattered bits of the fog at people's faces as though the mist were reaching out tentacles to grab them and make them its own.

Shapes could be glimpsed in the mist: ghostlike wraiths that flitted quickly in and out of view, moving too fast to be seen directly. Dark, forbidding.

Traces of hornlike shadow could be seen on the heads of some of the apparitions, and more than one of Rising's residents crossed themselves and knew that the Devil had at last come to claim them.

Then, almost as one, though unseen one by another, the townsfolk moved back to their houses. They closed their doors and hid inside their homes like frightened rats in the middle of a maze of horror and despair.

What else could they do?

***

***

Sarah West was damned if she was going to let a little bit of fog get to
her
. She was on the main street, she was only a few feet from any of a number places where she could get help in a pinch, and, most important, she was Sarah West.

And Sarah West was not someone who got screwed with. Sarah West was the one who did the screwing. She was one of those rare people who understood the truth: that being called "bitch" was what happened when people were jealous of you, and that people like her always won in the end.

The wind whipped up, flapping her small skirt against her thighs, and she shivered. She wasn't
afraid
, girls like her didn't get afraid for any reason. But even so...she picked up her pace as much as she could in the thick fog, trying to keep the bright - but rapidly failing - lights of the football field at her back. Finally, though, she had to resort to walking with one foot in the street just to make sure she was walking in a straight line.

She thought of Albert as she walked. Pervy little snot. How many times had she caught him filming her ass over the years? Too many to count. Not that she could blame him for trying. Asses like hers were one in a million, and definitely part of the whole package that was going to be her ticket out of this one-horse hellhole in the middle of Nowhere, Washington. She'd finish high school, then it would be off to Los Angeles for a career as a movie or TV star, or maybe she'd be a pop recording star. She hadn't decided which one she would yet, but knew that whatever one she decided on, it would happen. She was, frankly, perfect for stardom. She had long legs, muscled without losing their femininity; a nice butt; and a rack that was the closest thing to perfect that God had ever created.

And Albert thought he even had a chance at speaking to her! She couldn't help but laugh at that.

The laugh drew her up short, but as soon as the thought had fled she realized something that...disquieted her: she, Sarah West, was completely lost. She couldn't make out anything in the heavy fog, not even the powerful lights over the football field. Not that it was dark, exactly: the fog itself seemed almost to glow with a pale light. But even so, there was no visibility, and she had lost herself in her daydreams to the point that she had no way of making it home.

She sighed and dug out her cell phone. She hated calling her parents for rides: it reminded her that she should have had a car by now. God knew her parents could afford one. But every time she broached the subject they started babbling about "responsibility" and "earning privileges" and even saying such ridiculous twaddle as "you'd have to pay for your own gas." As
if
. Sarah West had things paid
for
her. She did not pay for them herself.

The cell phone was a perfect example. It was her fifth one in seven months. None of the others had broken or lost, they had simply gotten old. So when a new one came out a month or two after hers, and when the new one (inevitably) had some feature that hers lacked, or was faster, or even just cuter, she could always convince her parents to fork over the cash to get it.