LITERAL REMAINS

The fog didn’t roll in until late, creeping across the water, stretching like a slow yawn, like a bone white blanket being pulled up tight to shore. It was ten-thirty when Doug drove up from Northside past the docks. The fog bank was just overtaking the pier, swallowing the boats in whirling mist. The buoys were ringing, fog horns blasting in baritone.

Traffic was minimal. Spring had yet to begin and the tourist dollars wouldn’t be filling the town coffers for at least another month. A vacant downtown is what met Doug. The gas pumps of Haley’s All Nite were a lonely sight to greet him. The neon glow, the glaring lights.

His cell phone beeped. He flipped it open. A text message from Brea: be careful hugs and kisses i love you. Doug smiled and slipped his phone into the pocket of his hoodie.

The scarecrow apparition of Sally was leaned against the wall, smoking. Next to the propane tanks. She and her twin sister Mattie worked the evenings at the All Nite. They were both semi-retired, and only worked, as they said, “to try and get by”.

Doug parked at the corner of the lot next to the out of order car wash. The seaside serenade made it all the way to here; low and lovely. He breathed in the crisp air.

“You’re going to blow us up,” he said, approaching Sally. “There’s no smoking.”

Sally flicked her cigarette on the pavement. Her wrinkles creased into a vague semblance of a heavy red smile. “If I don’t kill you, honey, something else will.”

“Most likely your sister,” Doug said. He didn’t think either of them knew how to apply make-up. With them, it seemed it was always Halloween.

Sally laughed. “Either or.”

“Business good?”

She fished in her blouse pocket for another cigarette. Her yellow Haley’s vest was pock marked with burns. “This damn place is dead, honey. Deader than I look, trust me. That fat ass Curt Haley is going to go broke with this twenty-four hour nonsense.”

“The factory workers, the dock hands,” said Doug, “they get us by.”

“While they last,” said Sally. “Most of them have been sent packing with pink slips. The cannery shut down its night shift. The boats don’t catch the hauls they once did. If the mill lays off any more people….” She shook her head, “I’m telling you, this rinky dink store is going to bleed money being open all day and night.”

“It’s a job while it lasts,” said Doug.

“You don’t hear me complaining,” Sally said and lit up. “I’m more than happy to wait on the customers that never show.”

“Tourists will be flooding in soon,” Doug said. “Then we’ll never get a moment’s rest.”

“At least you’re young,” she groaned. “Me and that old bat in there, we can’t keep up like we used to. Can’t hold out to do a lot of what I used to do. A lot of things,” she winked at him. “Know what I mean, honey?”

Doug pushed the door open. “Sadly,” he told her, leaving Sally giggling hoarsely.

Mattie was wiping down the counter, dusting off the register. She was as different from her twin sister Sally as day was different from night. Two opposite sides of the coin. Mattie was the worker, she didn’t mind getting her hands dirty, didn’t mind trying to keep busy. “I try to earn my money,” Mattie often said. Sally, more than not, rolled her eyes at that statement.

“Nothing much for you to do, Dougie,” Mattie said. “The cooler’s stocked, the pumps are checked, the shelves are full. The deli selection has more than we’ll sell all week. Probably have to throw most of it out by noon tomorrow.”

“You ladies have been busy,” said Doug.

Mattie frowned. “Yeah, we,” she huffed. “While I’ve been running, she’s been handling the register. The place has been slower than slow; she’s been chain smoking all night out there.”

“Sally said as much.”

Mattie rubbed a meaty forearm across her sweaty brow. She stared out the window. Beyond the parking lot, the fog was creeping up slowly from the water. The streetlights it devoured made it glow sullenly before it became too thick even for them to light its heart.

Doug said, “A thick fog tonight.”

“Yeah,” said Mattie. “So heavy it can barely move.”

“Let’s get this shift change done so you ladies can go home.”

#

Static pricked at the speakers. Doug tuned the dial on the radio. Music and news broke in and out, voices garbled. He turned the dial, the stations and numbers flicked past. Static, white noise. He repositioned the antenna. A reassuring voice was reading off the weather forecast; cool, foggy, nothing new. The forecast led to commercials, the commercials to country and western.

Doug sat on the stool behind the counter. C&W was better than nothing. He sipped from his soda and skimmed through the tattoo magazine. The nasal whine from the radio sounded as if it were being broadcast over string through tin can speakers.

His phone started playing a sweet love song that embarrassed him to no end when other people were around. It was their song, his and Brea’s.

“Hello.”

“How’s business?” She sounded sleepy.

Doug glanced over the empty store, the empty parking lot that rested under the fog.

“Nonexistent,” he said. “What are you doing up-” he looked at the clock over his head- “it’s after midnight.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said. He could hear her rolling over in their bed, the coves sliding against her body.

“You’ll be tired in the morning.”

“Well, tomorrow is my half day, anyway. So I should be able to make it just fine.” He could tell she was smiling.

“I forgot,” he said. The pen factory only worked half days on Thursdays. They didn’t work at all on Fridays. The change in schedule had come two months earlier when production had to be reduced. Doug was grateful she still had a job. He prayed his continued.

“That’s what I’m here for,” Brea said, “to remind you of these things.”

“Thank you, babe. Don’t know what I’d do without you.” He kissed the receiver.

“That’s why I called,” she said. “I just needed another kiss.”

He kissed the phone again. “One more for good behavior.”

She breathed. Covers sliding. “So it’s slow.”

“That’s the routine lately. The fog’s so thick, I don’t think anybody could find us if they wanted to.”

“It’s heavy here, too.”

“It’s nice, though,” Doug said. “The way the lights make it glow.”

“Pretty.”

“Pretty.”

“Romantic,” she said.

“Only if you were here,” he told her.

“Aww. You’re too sweet.”

“I can’t help it,” he said, “I’m just made that way. Naturally sweet.”

Brea chuckled. “Aren’t I lucky?”

“More than you know.”

“Well, sweetness, I just wanted to call you so that you could hear my voice.”

“It will help me through the night,” said Doug.

“You were on my mind,” she said. “I just wanted to call before I got good and asleep.”

“I was thinking about you, too. I’m going to tattoo your name across my forehead.”

“Oh, God.”

“Well, at least my arm.”

“That is a wonderful sentiment,” she said. He knew she was rolling her eyes.

“Or maybe my butt,” he laughed.

“I’m going to sleep now,” she said sternly.

“Okay,” he was still smiling. “Dream of my butt.”

“Have a good night.”

“Sweet dreams, I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Doug laid his phone on the counter. It was twelve-thirty. He closed the tattoo magazine and put it aside. He took two sandwiches from the deli shelf, scanned them at the register. The drawer opened and he took five dollars from his wallet, put it in the till, and closed the drawer.

He walked through the humming and bubbling store to the back. He unlocked the back door and stepped outside. The door closed with a bang that made him jump.

The fog moved in slow motion, turning the refuse bin and tossed crates and boxes into monsters and nameless forms. The security light over the door offered little comfort, its beam dull.

Something shuffled. A box moved, fell.

A shape came towards him from the fog. An immense shape in tattered, dirty clothes.

“Roadie?”

“Doug,” the shape said. “What’s up?”

“Not much,” said Doug. “I got your dinner.” He offered the man the sandwiches.

“Thanks, man,” said Roadie. He politely took the meal. “Thanks. Want one?”

“I’m good,” said Doug.

“Slow night,” Roadie said. He pocketed one sandwich and gently tore the cellophane from the other.

“You noticed.” They sat on a crate.

“Sally and Mattie are worried.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll just say, donations are down all over town.” Roadie bit into his sandwich. “Turkey,” he chomped.

“You’re favorite.”

“Just like mom used to make.” He swallowed his bite. “The whole town is on the verge of going belly up.”

“I know.”

Roadie peeled away more of the wrapping. “Have you talked to Brea?”

“Just now, she called.”

Roadie looked at him. “You know what I mean?”

“About moving?” Doug looked at the filthy pavement. “No. Not yet.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“I don’t know,” said Doug. “I’m scared, I guess. Scared she’ll say yes. Then we’ll have to find a new place to live, new jobs. And jobs are getting hard to come by, Roadie, you know. I’ve been looking in other towns, and people just aren’t hiring.”

“Brea know you scouting around?”

“No. I’ve not breathed a word to her.”

“Having a turkey sandwich with a big old chicken,” Roadie said.

Doug smiled. “It just scares me, Roadie. I mean, even thinking of asking her to marry me- it terrifies me.”

Roadie had finished his sandwich. He brushed crumbs from his clothes and patted Doug on the knee. “It all works out in the end,” he said. “Trust me. Look at me: I came from nothing, and here I am now.” He stood up, bowed politely to Doug. “And if you’ll excuse me, I have friend down at the docks who has run upon a little bad luck. I think I’ll take him a sandwich.”

“Okay,” Doug smiled.

“It always works out, Doug. Always. We are men of good fortune. We have friends who care for us, and you, dear boy, have a woman at home who thinks the sun rises and sets on you.”

“Yeah. She is great.”

“Fear of a woman is justified. After all, she is a woman, and you are just a man.”

“Tell me about it,” Doug said.

Roadie patted his pocket, felt the sandwich safely stowed. He looked off into the fog, toward the sound of the distant buoys ringing. “If you don’t hear from by tomorrow night, you know I got lost in this damn stuff and ended up lost in the waters.”

“If you’re not here tomorrow night, I’ll lead the search party myself,” Doug said.

Roadie patted Doug’s crewcut blonde head. “Take it easy,” and he set off, whistling a show tune.

Doug listened to Roadie’s whistle merge with the complaining buoys. He went into the store, closing the door softly, and locked it.

Coming up the center aisle from the back, there was a man a row over looking over the candy selection.

“Oh, hi.” Doug stopped, mildly surprised. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

The man turned. His earth brown suit was spattered with moisture. His skin appeared clammy. The man smiled. “Just looking,” he said, a lilt to his words.

“Sure.” Doug continued to the front, securing himself behind the register. He would have to remember next time maybe to prop the back door open when he was talking to Roadie, or lock the front doors.

Doug checked the monitors above his head, out of sight of customers. Four of them: a view of the parking lot, the back area, the front doors, and an excellent covering shot of the interior market. The interior view showed the man had his hands in his pockets, milling about the aisle. The outside cameras showed fog and little else.

“I didn’t expect much traffic tonight,” said Doug, “what with the fog.”

The man said, “There isn’t much.” He was scrutinizing a pack of sour hard candies hanging from a peg, his nose and eyes scrunched as if reading the fine print.

“No, I just meant-”

The man smiled at him. “I know what you meant.”

“Sure,” Doug fiddled with the displays of lip balm and cigarette lighters. “It sure is foggy. You see to drive okay?”

“I walked,” the man said.

“You walked?”

“I walked.” He strolled around to the other aisle and perused the salted snacks. Hands clasped behind his back now. “It’s not too bad of a night.”

“Where did you come in from? You local?”

“Not local,” the man said. “I came in by the ferry. Walked here.”

“By the ferry?” Doug mulled the information over. “The only ferry I know of is up at Johnson Township. You walk all the way from Johnson Towns? That’s, like, fifteen miles.”

The man had moved up the aisle, eyes still pouring over labels. “I’m not certain,” he said. His voice found a pleasant confidence. “I used to own a candy store. You know that?”

Doug smiled as if to ask, How could he?

The man shook his head. “I guess not. I did. Quite a few years ago. Several. I know, I know, I don’t look too old.” He cast his eyes down to his feet, his dull brown leather shoes. “These old things right here…well, I’ve gone many miles.”

Doug leaned against the counter. “But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.”

“Something like that,” the man said. He turned around to the snack cakes.

“So you had a candy store. Did you have to close it or something?”

The man crossed his arms. “I’ve always loved sweets. Always had a tremendous sweet tooth. I was the child who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Forever will be, I suppose. I was notorious in our family for never knowing what I wanted when our mother would take us to the malt shop.” He smiled big. “Or the candy store.”

“I have all night,” Doug said. “And we have a good variety.”

“Indeed,” said the man. “Saturdays. Our parents would take us to town on Saturdays. Sometimes to see a movie, most often for lunch at this little diner on the town square. A real greasy spoon. Then for treats. And they would become so frustrated with me, my parents, and my brother and sister. But,” the man grinned, “I was a kid in a candy store.”

“And so when you grew up-”

“I opened my own store,” the man said, elated, relishing the memory.

“Too bad you had to sell it.”

The corners of the man’s lips slowly arched down, erasing his smile. “Yes.”

Doug suddenly felt bad. He turned to the windows. “That’s how things are these days, I suppose,” he said.

A woman walked down the sidewalk. She passed the store and strolled up the street.

“I guess you’re not the only one footing it tonight.”

“No, I’m not,” said the man. He was back on the candy aisle.

“How long did you have your candy store?”

“Twenty-eight years.”

“Wow,” Doug said. “That’s…wow.”

“A long time. A lot of life. Twenty-eight wonderful years. I loved every minute of it.”

“I imagine it would be fun.” Doug was looking out the windows again. A man walked down the middle of the street.

The man said, “I wouldn’t have traded anything for my time spent there.”

More people passed by outside in the fog, some clear, some only silhouettes. Doug watched them. Groups of four and five. Some larger clusters, some smaller. A lone pedestrian going headstrong. Some moved with casual strides, others hurried, jogging.

“Look at these people,” said Doug. People were cutting through Haley’s parking lot. “Has there been an accident? I don’t hear any sirens, do you?”

“No,” said the man.

People were going by in droves. Men, women, children.

“Damn, look at them.” Doug was out from behind the counter. He pushed the doors open. “Is everything okay?” he called out.

The people passed. No one bothered to answer him.

“Excuse me!” he yelled. “Hey!”

Some of the moving crowd looked at him, but didn’t oblige a reply or response.

The man was talking still. “I used to go in every morning at five-”

Doug stepped outside, letting the door swing closed. “Is there something wrong?” he shouted.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have spent so much time with the store,” the man was saying. “You know the old story.”

Doug held the door open, trying to listen to the man, wanting to learn more about the migration outside.

“Your own business, your career; no time for the family. Soon the family has no time for you.” The man paused in contemplation. “Everything was just so tiring. Trying to make time. Running around mad in the rat race.”

There was a sudden change in the atmosphere, Doug could feel it. A nervousness. The chatter of voices, panicked words that Doug couldn’t catch. He turned. The man was at the door staring at him.

A scream came up from the fog. Close.

“A woman,” breathed Doug, “that was just down the street.” He yelled to the people, “What’s happened?”

The people started to run. They rushed by, stirring up the fog.

Doug sprinted inside, retrieved his cell phone from the counter. “No, store phone, store phone,” he chanted, trying to keep cool.

The people were stampeding cattle. Children were snatched up by mothers and fathers or caring adults, screams erupted, garbled shouts.

The phone buzzed with static. “Shit,” he hit the connection button. “I bet a bus took out some lines or something.” He opened his cell. The screen winked, went out. “What! I just charged this thing!” he pounded the power button with his finger.

The man was looking out the door. “Oh my,” he said.

“The cops have to know or something,” Doug said. “They have to know if something happened. Look at those people. They’re not even running in the direction of the hospital-”

“We’ve been found.”

Doug shut his mouth, opened it. “Excuse me.”

“It’s caught up to us.” The man was watching the people run. They were lost to the fog; dark, frantic, shapes flitting and scattering.

Doug clutched his cell phone tightly in his hand. Brea was on his mind. “What are you talking about?”

“We move with the fog. The mist. It hides us,” the man said. “We wander.”

“Wander,” Doug repeated in a whisper.

“We don’t know why. Maybe it is unfinished business like some people speculate. I don’t know.”

Doug’s mouth was dry. He wanted a drink. He wanted to hear Brea’s voice, see her in the flesh, hold her.

The man said, “I don’t know where we’re going. None of us have any idea. We know we’ll know it when we get there. I believe we are looking for our proper harbor. The spirit’s homeland, you know.” His smile was weak.

“I, I need to call someone,” Doug muttered, stepping backwards from the man.

“We’re spirits,” the man said. “Dead. Dead people running for safety. It hunts us, you see, that’s why we move in the fog. Always moving, running. No rest. It will find us.”

“It?” said Doug, trying his phone but not taking his eyes off the man in the brown suit. The phone refused to cooperate and work.

“The thing, the creature. We don’t know what it is anymore than we know our destination. We do know it wants us. We…I have seen it devour its victims. I call it the Eater.” He met Doug’s gaze. “It eats us spirits. Us souls.”

Doug said, “I’ve been drugged, haven’t I? This is….I’ve been drugged haven’t I?”

The man watched the shapes running. The fog had thickened.

“It’s the fog,” said Doug. He was sweating. “It’s a chemical spill, or, or, it’s a dirty bomb, but who would bomb this rat town?”

“Watch them,” said the man. “My candy store, it was sold after I died.” Someone ran by, a little girl, close to the glass doors. “Funny,” said the man, “even in death, I’m tired. I worked hard all those years.”

“I’m breaking down. It’s stress,” Doug said. “I worry too much, and this is what it’s causing.”

The man didn’t push the doors open, exactly. He put his hands to them, not touching them, and they opened.

“Where are you going?” Doug followed after him. He was hesitant to touch the doors and pushed one open with his body.

The man strode calmly among the running spirits, the souls. Doug stayed close to the store entrance. The screams and shouts were muffled, but the feeling of panic reverberated throughout the mist, the roiling drops of moisture.

The man was saying something, but Doug couldn’t discern it, couldn’t understand it. The fog, thought Doug. Then he thought, I’m insane, I’m tripping, somebody slipped me something.

The wanderers ran. Slowly their numbers dwindled. The last of them passed, the shapes in the fog were gone.

It was just the man and Doug, with his heart playing speed metal and his stomach doing flips.

The man in the brown suit was saying something again. Not to Doug. He was speaking into the fog. It sounded like humming to Doug’s ears, then electric sparks. Then silence. The buoys rang out on the waters. The man stood still.

Doug forced himself one step from the door. The cell phone was still glued in his fist so tight he thought sure it would break.

“Mister,” Doug could barely hear his own voice.

The man stood in the fog lit by the lights, bright as the field lights at the softball field. Doug made another step. It was quiet. Doug pushed mist away with a hand.

“Hey, mister.”

The man looked up.

A hand came down through the fog. Leather and scales, black nails sharpened to points. Huge, glistening.

Doug stepped back, fell. He crawled to the door, reaching for it blindly, eyes wide on the hand enveloping the man. Doug screamed, yelled, but couldn’t hear himself, his voice was gone, stolen by the white haze.

The hand closed around the man in the brown suit. It squeezed and lifted him. Up, and it was gone.

The fog converged where the man had been standing.

Doug was propped against the doors. He heard his heart, his breath. He was chilled with sweat.

His phone beeped and he nearly threw it. He stopped himself. He opened it.

A text message from Brea. love you.He replied: love you 2.

the_novacula