Ghost of the Mist
Ellen Lynn
Death
is the Great Mystery, the fearful Unknown. People never cease
wondering about the Hereafter. Where do our loved ones go? Do they
ever return to this earth? There are endless tales of spirits who
have come back from after death, legends of ghosts. People tremble at
them; I don't. My story is a strange one—but I can never again be
afraid of death.
When
Jessica Stevens invited me to her party on Saturday night, I refused.
My family had moved to North Bay only a short while before and this
was the first party invitation I had received. She had asked me to
bring an escort and there wasn't a boy in town I knew well enough to
ask. Besides, I never cared for parties as a rule. Yet something kept
urging me to go to Jessica's Saturday. Even my parents pressed me to
call Jessica and ask if I could come alone. Dad bribed me to go,
saying I could have his car that evening.
Everything
seemed to conspire to alter my decision. On Friday afternoon, as I
was coming out of Arnold's Store, I bumped into Jessica. "Oh,
Dru," she exclaimed. "I thought you were going out of town
with your family this weekend!" "Our plans were changed,"
I managed to say. "Well, then, you must come to my party,"
she informed me. "My brother, Jim, is coming in tomorrow and I
need another girl. Say you'll come!" I agreed.
It
was raining as I drove alone in my car to the Stevens house. The air
was warm and I had a keyed-up sense of anticipation. Why had I not
let Jessica's brother call for me? When she telephoned to arrange
that he pick me up, I made an excuse. I really wanted to drive out,
alone. There was something eerie in the misty rain. I continually
looked around—I don't know why—as though looking for someone.
When I arrived at the house and entered the room it was full of
chattering, laughing girls and boys. I had an impulse to turn quickly
away and run out of the house. Just then a young man came up to me.
"I'm Jim Stevens," he said. "You must be the new
girl—Dru—is that right?" "My name is Drucie Fleming,"
I answered. "Everyone calls me Dru." He walked with me to a
chair and we sat down. He tried to make conversation, but I felt
restless, distracted as though someone else was calling me, wanting
me and so I could think of nothing to say in return. I'd answer a
question and then we'd both fall silent. Eventually, I knew, he would
try to escape—and he did. I felt restless sitting alone. I felt
compelled to go out into the fresh air. Finally, I found Jessica,
pleaded a bad headache and made my escape before she could answer.
The
rain had stopped, but I had to grope my way through a thick mist to
my car. I sat for a moment at the wheel and heaved a sigh. Why had I
felt compelled to run away? Jim was a handsome fellow, very
pleasant—why couldn't I be interested in him? It was good to be
here, away from that thick atmosphere—so many strangers, all
talking at once. I'd have to drive very slowly in this thick fog.
Visions of the party floated through my mind—distorted
shapes—grinning faces. Then suddenly, looming up in front of the
car, I saw a dimly outlined figure, arms outstretched! I came to an
abrupt stop to avoid running him down. A pale lamp light glowed on a
man in some kind of a uniform. For a moment I thought—Was this a
phantom, something out of my imagination? Then he moved over to my
window, and I was strangely afraid. "Stop, stop—don't go on.
There's a bridge down ahead. You'll have to detour!" he spoke
softly but excitedly. "Oh—thank you!" I said. His worried
expression relaxed. Even, white teeth gave charm to a boyish smile.
He was wearing an army uniform. "Don't be afraid," he said.
"I'm Stephen Lockridge. I live on White Shore Road. You seem
confused. Shall I come in and guide you out of here?" His hand
was on the door-knob. I leaned over and raised the lock. A blast of
wind shot through as the door opened. He sat beside me and I could
see he was strangely good-looking. His eyes looked directly into
mine, though they seemed unusually brilliant. "You're not very
talkative, are you? You're not afraid of me?" He asked both
questions at once. I said, "No—I'm not—to both questions."
We laughed.
"Please
don't be afraid of me," he said, "but this is awful weather
for so pretty a girl to be out alone. And to be stopped by a stranger
must be frightening." I peered out the window. "I see I am
lost," I said. He leaned close to me and gave me directions,
advising that I drive in low gear—the fog was growing thicker and
we were a long way from my house.
"Funny—my
not being afraid," I said. "Usually I'm the most timid
person in the world." "You could have been killed, if you
hadn't stopped," he said. "But it's not your time yet."
His voice was musically soft, comforting—yet what a strange remark.
I replied, "Yes, I might have lost my life but for you." I
turned to look into those shining eyes. They seemed to be looking
through me and far away. He wasn't smiling now.
"I've
just come from a party—I ran away!" I don't know what made me
blurt out this confession. He answered, "Parties can be bores."
"The truth is," I went on, "I'm afraid I was the
bore." It didn't seem unnatural when he placed his hand over my
fingers—"No girl as pretty as you could be a bore." I
then said, "Somehow—now—I'm glad I left that party."
I
didn't notice time, nor even where we were going. We drove and drove.
He was mostly silent. At one time I had to stop the car to wait for a
heavy mass of fog to thin out. It was like being in another world of
grey mist. I was happy. I didn't want it to end. Then, without
warning, we were in front of my house. I stopped the car. My free
hand was clasped in his. He lifted my fingers and kissed them. His
lips were cold. "This ring, Dru, is this your school ring? I
must leave now, you know. Would you—would you let me wear it? This
ride has been wonderful. Knowing you has been wonderful." I took
off the ring and as I leaned over he held me in his arms and kissed
me. Suddenly, I shivered. "Stephen, the dampness, you're so
cold. I'll see you soon again. Meanwhile, take this ring. Yes, I want
you to keep it." Then he stepped out of the car, and walked
silently away, the mist enveloping him. His cap was left on the seat.
He had forgotten it.
It
took me a long time to warm up—but I tingled with happiness, slept
all night and next morning rushed to the telephone book. There was a
Lockridge on White Shore Road. I picked up the receiver and asked to
speak to Stephen. I heard a gasp, and a woman's voice said she was
Mrs. Lockridge. She asked who I was. "Dru Fleming," I
answered. "Will you tell Stephen, please, that I have his cap.
He left it in my car." Mrs. Lockridge asked me if I was sure it
was Stephen Lockridge whom I meant. When I told her briefly the
events of the previous evening, she still sounded puzzled—begged me
to come over at once. I thought of Stephen's charming face, appealing
smile. My heart was beating rapidly as I drove out to his home. It
was Sunday and both his father and mother greeted me. They were
tense, nervous.
"Miss
Fleming—are you sure of what you told us over the 'phone?"
Mrs. Lockridge began, as we were all seated. I showed them Stephen's
hat. It was my turn to be puzzled by these questions. The father
handed me an opened telegram. It said that the body of their son,
Stephen Lockridge, who had been killed in action two months before,
would arrive at North Bay on Saturday, the sixteenth—yesterday! I
gasped.
"Oh—I'm
sorry about your son," I cried. "But there is a mistake.
The boy last night, out of the mist, is someone else!"
Mr.
Lockridge held out the cap I had brought and showed me on the inner
band the printed name: Stephen Lockridge. "But it cannot be—it
cannot be," I protested. Then Mr. Lockridge said, "Will you
come with us to see our son at the Chapel?" I nodded and we
silently left the house. As we walked up the chapel steps I was
clenching my hands so hard I later found little wounds where my nails
had dug into the skin. With dread of what I might see, I approached
the bier, Stephen's parents on each side of me.
I
screamed. "It's he—look he's wearing—my ring!" I fell
in a faint.
