As Pete Jacobs stepped out, the fog immediately swallowed up his house and he could see nothing but the white blanket all around him. It gave him the weird feeling of being the last man in the world.
Suddenly Pete felt dizzy. His stomach did a flip-flop. He felt like a person in a falling elevator. Then it passed and he walked on. The fog began to clear and Pete’s eyes opened wide with fright, awe and wonder.
He was in the middle of the city.
But the nearest city was forty miles away!
But what a city! Pete had never seen anything like it.
Graceful buildings with high spires seemed to reach to the sky. People walked along on moving conveyer belts.
The cornerstone on a skyscraper read April, 17, 2007. Pete had walked into the future. But how?
Suddenly Pete was frightened. Horribly, terribly, frightened.
He didn’t belong here. He couldn’t stay. He ran after the receding fog.
A policeman in a strange uniform called angrily. Strange cars that rode six inches or so off the ground narrowly missed hitting him. But Pete succeeded. He ran back into the fog and soon everything was blanked out.
Then the feeling came again. That weird feeling of falling then the fog began to clear.
It looked like home
Suddenly there was an earsplitting screech. He turned to see a huge prehistoric brontosaurus lumbering toward him. The desire to kill was in his small beady eyes.
Terrified, he ran into the fog again
The next time the fog closes in on you and you hear hurried footsteps running through the whiteness…call out.
That would be Pete Jacobs, trying to find his side of the Fog Help the poor guy.
11
NEVER LOOK BEHIND YOU
George Jacobs was closing his office, when an old woman felt free to walk right in. Hardly anyone walked through his door these days. The people hated him. For fifteen years he’d picked the people’s pockets clean of money. No one had ever been able to hook him on a charge.
But back to our little story. The old woman that came in had an ugly scar on her left cheek. Her clothes were mostly filthy rags and other crude material. Jacobs was counting his money.
“There! Fifty-thousand, nine hundred and seventy-three dollars and sixty-two cents.”
Jacobs always liked to be precise.
“Indeed a lot of money,” she spoke up. “Too bad you won’t be able to spend it.” Jacobs turned around.
“Why – who are you?” he asked in half surprise. “What right have you to spy on me?”
The woman didn’t answer. She held up her bony hand. There was a flash of fire on his throat – and a scream. Then, with a final gurgle, George Jacobs died.
“I wonder what – or who – could have killed him?” said a young man.
“I’m glad he’s gone,” said another. That one was lucky.
He didn’t look behind him.
12
IN A HALF-WORLD OF TERROR
King's first published story; he was 18 when this thriller appeared in a 1965
issue of
Chapter One
It was like a nightmare. Like some unreal dream that you wake up from the next morning. Only this nightmare was happening. Ahead of me I could see Rankin's flashlight; a large yellow eye in the sultry summer darkness. I tripped over a gravestone and almost went sprawling.
Rankin whirled on me with a hissed oath.
'Do you want to wake up the caretaker, you fool?'
I muttered a reply and we crept forward. Finally, Rankin stopped and shone the flashlight's beam on a freshly chiseled gravestone.
On it, it read:
DANIEL WHEATHERBY
1899-1962
He has joined his beloved wife in a better land.
I felt a shovel thrust into my hands and suddenly I was sure that I couldn't go through with it. But I remembered the bursar shaking his head and saying, 'I'm afraid we can't give you any more time, Dan.
You'll have to leave today. If I could help in any way, I would, believe me...'
I dug into the still soft earth and lifted it over my shoulder. Perhaps fifteen minutes later my shovel came in contact with wood. The two of us quickly excavated the hole until the coffin stood revealed under Rankin's flashlight. We jumped down and heaved the coffin up.
Numbed, I watched Rankin swing the spade at the locks and seals. After a few blows it gave and we lifted the lid. The body of Daniel Wheatherby looked up at us with glazed eyes. I felt horror gently wash over me. I had always thought that the eyes closed when one died.
