The Fog

Girlfriend, her sister and I were out driving around one Summer night. We wound up at a small lake and stopped to just enjoy the quiet and the moonlight over the lake. My girlfriend says, “What’s that?”, pointing out toward the center of the lake. There was a small patch of what looked like fog just sitting there.

As we sat and looked at it, I realized that it was expanding almost imperceptibly. My GF sister asked, “Is it getting bigger?” I said it was, and we kind of just laughed and watched it.

Then it started getting much larger much faster. In about 30 seconds it was very dense and about 100 yards across. It was also about 75 yards from shore. We got into the car but didn’t leave yet as we were mesmerized by how fast it was growing.

As it got closer to the shore, and more dense, we then got properly creeped out enough to high-tail it out of there. As we drove out via the winding road, we could see that the whole lake was engulfed in fog and it was lapping over the shore but not quite advancing past it.

We decided to mark that lake off of our “go back” list.

Bruised by a ghost

There’s a small graveyard near my home in Michigan. About two years ago a group of my friends and I went ghost hunting there. It was a warm night, clear skies, and I was raring to catch a ghost on my friend’s camera or tape-recorder. Even a cell-phone video would do.

The cemetery is less than an acre, so it didn’t take long to scope out. We broke into groups of two and three and traversed the grounds. I wandered with a few people, changing from group to group. I felt restless. Usually when we were ghost hunting, we cracked wise, but nobody was saying much.

A group near a tall monument, at least seven feet high and shrouded in vines, called us over. There seemed to be a cold-spot about the size and shape of a very tall man. I waved my hands through the air. It did feel a bit cooler, but that could have been my imagination. Everyone began taking pictures, claiming they could see a figure in the digital photos.

I hung near the back of the group, not seeing anything. I still felt disquieted. I didn’t want to be here.

That was when a cold shock squeezed my hand, right between the web of flesh between my right thumb and forefinger. I cried out, yanking my hand away. It hurt. The cold radiated slowly off my hand, and I retreated towards the gate. “I’m out. Something grabbed me. I’m out.”

I was quickly followed by the rest of the party: not so much because of my encounter, but NOBODY wanted to be in there anymore.

It wasn’t until the morning the bruise showed up.

Deep in the meat of my hand: not a bad bruise, not bad enough to turn black and blue, but definitely there. Yellow and painful, right in the spot where I’d been grabbed by that cold hand.

I haven’t been back.