The House in the Fog

This story has a bittersweet feeling to it in my opinion. I like the story because I like the ending and the main event. I don't like it though because I couldn't seem to build up to the event very well. This was the first story I wrote that spanned a longer distance, and I learned a lot from it. I typically refer to this as simply a practice writing I did, and one of these days I'm probably going to go back and clean it up a bit. The house in the story itself is actually a real house that my brother and I swore we kept seeing on a road trip up to Maine. And yes, it was on a hill in the fog, but no, we didn't go into it.

The House in the Fog

Déjà vu is an amazing phenomenon. We have all experienced it. Whether it is in our dream life, spiritual life, or real life, everyone can relate with this French phrase. Yet we always pass on these experiences as being pure coincidence, and never give it a second thought. But eventually, everybody comes to a point in their life where they must question the nature of their situation. For not all things are as they originally seemed.

I. The Trip

It was an unusually warm December day when Rachel and I had finished packing our car. And even though well more than half of the suitcases in our small Toyota Camry belonged to my daughter Audrey, she had contributed very little to the task of placing them in the trunk. But I suppose you should come to expect that from a teenager who cares more about boys and high school gossip than helping her father.

The snow had long ago melted from all the heavy rain we had received during the past week. But today the skies had finally seized its horrendous downpours, allowing us to emerge from our small Massachusetts home. We were planning our annual Christmas trip to my in-laws up in northern Maine where we would spend a week hunting, drinking hot chocolate, and playing Yahtzee by the fire late at night. But this year was looking like a very dull Christmas, due to the sixty degree weather and the fact that the only evidence that it was even winter was presented by the large piles of sand on street corners. It surely would not be a white Christmas, like the kind you always see on L.L. Bean magazine covers. I would soon find out though, that this Christmas would be far from dull.

As we pulled away from the driveway, and bid our house one final goodbye, Rachel inserted a holiday CD into our cars stereo system. Saying that the music would help put all of us in the “Christmas spirit”, and even though I doubted her statement, I didn’t object, since I knew we had a long trip ahead of us. By the time we merged onto Interstate 495, Audrey had become lost in her world induced by her iPod and cell phone and stopped contributing to any of the conversations. Which meant I was the only person my wife could tell her stories about who did what at her job or how she met an old high school friend at the grocery store while in the ice cream isle. It’s moments like these that I have a strong amount of envy for my daughter’s iPod.

Around lunchtime, Audrey had broken free of her hypnotized spell of technology, and was once more talking. Only this time the only thing she had to say was how bored she was, or how hungry she was. So Rachel and I decided to make a quick stop at Hampton Beach to get some lunch and see something other than asphalt and white lines. Hampton Beach was where Rachel and I had our first real date together, so we found it to be rather romantic to revisit the birthplace of our relationship. And after a quick stop at McDonalds, we paid a visit to the beach, and the famous boardwalk. This was where I had my first experience with déjà vu on that trip. This time though it was the very welcoming kind of déjà vu, the kind that reminds you of another time when you were much younger. For very little had changed since my wife and I first visited here. Everything from the arcade, to the casino, and the t-shirt shops was exactly the same. It seemed as if we had stepped into that photo my wife kept tucked away in her nightstand, the one of us holding hands while sitting on a cement retaining wall at the far end of the beach. Even Audrey loved this place, since there were more boys for her to flirt with here than there were in our whole town. And even though it was the day before Christmas, the beach had as many people as it would in August. Brought out by the rare winter weather, since this might be the last time it hit sixty until April. Very few people we’re in the water though, which I assumed was because the ocean was still trapped in its arctic temperatures. This seemed to disappoint my daughter, since it meant she couldn’t show off her new bikini that my wife bought her (against my consent), and likewise, she couldn’t see the local football team in their swimming trunks. After another half hour or so of reminiscing our long lost youth, we decided it be best to head back to the interstate and continue our journey up into the Maine wilderness, we didn’t want to be traveling through upstate Maine in the dark after all.

II. The House

Darkness came early however to northern Maine on Christmas Eve that year. The darkness brought with it a thick blanket of fog as well. This brought visibility down to about two feet and brought our car to the daring speed of twenty miles per hour. The first recollection I have of the house was around the time we crossed over the Penobscot River in Bucksport, Maine. The only reason I recall that time as the first is simply because I remember commenting about how well the house stood out even in the dense fog. The house was a two story Victorian that was built at the top of a gentle noel of grass. It had a path of stairs leading up to it, lit by three lampposts that reminded me of a picture I once saw of London from the late 1800’s. It was around dinnertime now, and my daughter was once more barking for food. My wife had become increasingly nervous because of the thickening fog brought on by the remains of the melting snow. She asked on more than one occasion if I wished to pull over and have her drive so I could get some rest from the road of a little while. But being the stubborn male that I am, I refused to do any such thing. We were now on a barren backwoods road in Maine, and the only cars we saw were few and far apart. The road had very few houses as well, one to be exact, only we saw that one house nearly five times during our trip.

The second time I saw the house, it was once more perched up on its little grassy hill with its lampposts shinning brightly through the fog. This time however, one of the rooms on the bottom floor was lit with a yellowish glow. The third time I saw it the opposite room on the bottom floor was lit instead, but still, it was the same exact house on the same exact noel. This time I took note of the lack of any sort of driveway, which I found to be odd, but not enough to give it a second thought. The forth time my daughter was the one who took notice of it. And by this time we were all a bit nervous about this road and wanted to get off of it as soon as possible. Audrey had stopped listening to her music and had long ago lost any sort of phone service. She was now trembling in her backseat and holding tightly to her stuffed pig that she’s brought on every family trip since she was eight. My wife had also stopped talking and was fixed on the road ahead. Making sure to be ready to warn me if a deer or a bear, or even a crazy person happened to jump out into the road. I turned on the radio to try and break this unbearable silence, but the only station I got was the strange broadcasting of an old World War II report. I simply passed this off as being some sort of program they broadcasted every Christmas Eve up in these parts of Maine. Thing had already been pretty strange that day after all.

It was around seven when our car started to make a terrible hissing noise. Then suddenly, the engine burst into a cloud of black smoke that prevented me from seeing anything in front of us. Rachel managed to guide me off of the road and onto the shoulder safely. And when I popped up the hood of the car the engine was still smoking, preventing me from seeing any sort of damage that might have been inflicted. We were now faced with the decision of either staying at the car, and hoping that a passing car might help us, or we walk to the nearest house. Neither of those options seemed like a good idea, but we didn’t want to wait all night hoping someone might drive by and manage to not hit us in the dense fog. That left us with the option of walking to the nearest home. So we started our long walk through the fog, trying to stay, as far away from the road as possible so an unsuspecting car wouldn’t hit us. Rachel was now trying to comfort Audrey in her soft, welcoming voice. The one that made me fall in love with her so many years ago.

After about a half hour of walking, we were about to turn around and head back to our car. But my eye had caught a light up ahead in the darkness. As we got closer, two more lights emerged from the fog. My heart suddenly sank, for I saw that the house that we were about to seek refuge in, was the same house we had seen four other times while in the car. Only this time we weren’t protected by a metal and glass shield. I climbed the rocky steps up to the door cautiously; making sure nothing might jump out of the darkness and scare me. All of the lights downstairs were aglow and I could see the silhouettes of nearly half a dozen people. The sound of laughter and music projected from the house. I assumed that there must be a Christmas Eve party taking place in the house, yet wondered at the lack of cars. I rapped my knuckles on the door in two quick strokes, embracing myself for what might appear when the door opened. To my relief though, a short, elderly lady that could be no more than seventy years of age greeted us with a warm smile. When I told her about our predicament and asked if we could use her telephone to call my in-laws, she replied by telling us that she had no phone since she had no use for one, but would be delighted to have us stay for the night and in the morning, when the fog cleared, could help us on our way.

III. The Party

We were led into the living room, where there were about five people sitting in couches or chairs and listening to a gentleman play a rather large piano. When we entered, all faces were turned toward us, and the music stopped playing. The elderly lady told everybody about what had happened and we were soon introduced to everyone. Elizabeth had been the name of the lady that greeted us, William was the name of the man playing the piano, Susan and Emily were the two ladies on the couch, Michael was standing next to the piano, and James was sitting in a rocking chair next to the fire. Everybody greeted us with a welcoming smile and we quickly joined in with their conversations and activities. I was astonished by the lack of any sort of technology in the house; there was not a single television, computer, or even a radio to be found throughout the entire house.

We spent the night singing Christmas songs, drinking tea and hot chocolate, and playing games to see who could be the wittiest. Audrey spent most of the night talking with James, since he was in high school that automatically meant Audrey must flirt with him. I hadn’t seen her that happy though in years, and it made me smile to see my daughter talking to a boy that didn’t have long hair or a guitar pick in his hands. Rachel spent the whole night telling Susan and Emily about all the same, boring things she told me on the interstate, but somehow they managed to look interested in them. William continued to play the piano until the clock struck ten, he then read Charles Dicken’s “A Christmas Carol” to all of us, and he received a well deserved round of applause at the end of his tale. By now it was nearing eleven, and we began to retreat to the bedrooms upstairs. Rachel and I were brought into a room with a large bed, and were told that there was a bathroom adjacent to the bedroom. Audrey slept in the room next to us, which was another spare bedroom that was all to herself. The last memory I have of that night was hearing the clock in the parlor below strike eleven, at that moment my body fell into a sleep I shall never forget.

IV. The Dream

My dream started with me appearing in the parlor. The smell of smoke was in the air. I ran into the living room and discovered that the Christmas tree was ablaze from a stray spark from the fireplace. I rushed upstairs to warn everybody of the fire, but it was all in vein since my voice fell on deaf ears. No matter how loud I shouted or tried to waken my fellow tenants, they were all in a comatose state and refused to awaken. I looked for my daughter and wife but they were nowhere to be found in the house. Then I ran outside hoping to see Rachel and Audrey safe and sound away from the fire. Sure enough they were huddled together on the shoulder of the road, both crying because they to had no success in waking our new friends. The last recollection I have of that horrible dream was of me running toward the house in the hope of rescuing anyone that might still be alive. But I was never able to even get to the porch steps before I was awakened by a disembodied scream that seemed to come from the burning house itself.

V. The Clincher

Upon my awakening, I noted two things. The first of which was that the scream I had heard in my dream had originated from a frightened Audrey. The second thing I noted was the reason why Audrey was screaming. When I woke up, I was no longer lying in a soft bed with cotton sheets; instead I was lying on a leaf littered ground surrounded by large granite slabs. Rachel had also woken from Audrey’s scream, and we all stared at each other in pure puzzlement. Our first thought was that we were somehow dragged out of the house at night and placed in the nearby forest. But when I stood up to survey the area, this theory was quickly put to rest. For the first thing I saw were three lampposts descending a gentle slope. Only now, as I approached the first lamppost, I saw that it was covered in brown vines and eroded by years of rust and winter weather. The house itself stood no longer, and in its place was a shallow, rectangular ditch that once served as its basement. Even the fireplace lay in a crumbled heap of brick and terracotta pipe. My family and I descended down the now broken and chipped stone steps to the road below, and made our way back to our car. Our car had stopped spewing black smoke, but it now refused to start, and unable to find the cause of our problems, we were forced to use our original plan of sitting in the car. Not soon after though, a Ford pickup drove by, and stopped to ask us if we needed a ride. Rachel and I hesitated at the thought of getting abducted, but we had no other options. We soon reached my in-laws house, thanked the driver and gave him some money in payment, but the Mainer refused to accept such charity for doing a simple act.

Later that day, I asked my father in-law if he knew anything about a white Victorian style house that may have once existed in his town. Puzzled by the question, he retreated into his study and remerged soon after with a yellowed newspaper in his hand. He handed me the front page, which had been worn by years of neglect and was ripped in multiple spots because of the poor storage conditions that it laid in for so many years. Despite its worn look however, I could read the date of “1940” very clearly, and the headline was still very distinct and readable, and in large, black letters on the front page were the lines “Family Dies In Tragic Christmas Fire”. The article proceeded to tell of the terrible incident, but I picked up very little of it since I was in a state of shock and astonishment, and the only thing I remember from the article was it telling how the fire started around eleven at night on Christmas Eve. My father in-law them told me how he had even gone school with the boy in that house, “A Mr. James Peterson was his name” he told me.