About the Author
Evan M. Elgin is a writer of both published and self-published fiction. His work has been previously featured in SERIAL magazine, while his debut novel Vive La Superior! is available on Amazon. He currently lives in a black void of “suburban weirdness” that makes up greater Chicago.
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Website: https://evanmelgin.wixsite.com/writer
Jodie’s spot
Mark Towse
The ring of fog looks other-worldly from the top of this hill — impossibly symmetrical and well-formed, and my mind wanders with all the wondrous possibilities that could produce such a phenomenon. My parents say that I have an overactive imagination, but it’s better than not having one at all.
If Jodie was here right now, she would be bouncing up and down with excitement. Her eager voice hangs in my head, “What is it, Steve?”
“I don’t know, Sis,” I whisper.
I have been walking for hours now — the blue skies have given way to matte dullness, and it’s impossible to tell what time it is. Shrugging off the backpack, I unzip the front pocket and take a mouthful of the tepid water. The pause in movement allows the cool air to wrap around me, and goosebumps prickle my skin.
I like to lose myself in nature, become part of it, and I refuse to bring a watch or phone out with me. Mum and Dad used to insist, but not anymore — not now that it’s just me. It’s a gamble, though. The car is a long way back, and I know I would never find my way in the dark. Jodie would want to investigate, though. For her sake I thread my arm through the strap of the pack, and march on.
“This is for you, Jodie!”
I was sixteen when my sister went missing, just over a year ago — and I still struggle to accept that she’s gone. Sometimes, when I’m hiking, I think I see her climbing a tree or scrambling down a rockface, but I know it can’t be so. She’s here somewhere, though. It was always our favourite place, and I think she used to love being out here even more than I did. Since the day of her disappearance, I have been haunted by bad dreams. I guess Mum and Dad figure I’m old enough to deal with it. It sure doesn’t feel that way. Besides, they have nothing to give.
They do not look at me the same way anymore.
Occasional, distant whistles from the birds fill the air and break the hushed soundtrack of my feet on the soft grass. The snap of a branch underfoot suddenly startles me, and I mock myself with a snigger. It is so quiet out here — exactly how I like it. That is how we both used to like it. Nobody knew she was coming out that day. She never told a soul — left a note for Mum and Dad that she had gone to her friend Melissa’s house. She did not return that night, so they rang Melissa and uncovered the lie. It was me that checked her closet and found her hiking shoes and favourite backpack missing, the one I bought her last month for her fourteenth birthday.
The closer I get to the ring the more I expect the magic at some point to fade, and for the imperfections to show, but the mist is not getting thinner or any less alluring. It is only a few feet away now, but it is impossible to see through — so dense, and full of mystery.
I have never seen anything like it before.
Jodie would have gone into overdrive now, non-stop chattering about how awesome it was. Even now, as I draw up to its outside edge, it is no less impressive. Slowly, I raise my arm and plunge my hand into its smoky coldness — the illusion is quite spooky — my handless limb emerging from the grey vortex. Tentatively I step forward, into the vapour-like wall. My body gives out a shudder as the iciness hits, and I am immediately disoriented by the deafening silence and starkness that greets me. Regardless, I continue walking towards the centre. Visibility is poor, and I cannot see the arm in front of me nor my legs beneath me. It is making me lightheaded, and slightly nauseous. The absolute quiet has prompted a ringing in my ears that is getting consistently louder, and the cold has well and truly wrapped its coat around me.
The walls of vapour did not look this thick from the hill. I seem to have been walking for ages. I am getting worried, and momentarily consider turning back, but then the relief kicks in as I finally emerge from the greyness and can see my limbs once again. I did not realize how fast my heart was beating, but as I double over and suck in some of the less icy air, I feel it relentlessly pounding against the wall of my chest
I made it, though. I am here.
It is like a perfect circle inside and the grass here is so incredibly green and lush, as though the wall around it serves only to preserve its beauty. It is flawless — every blade appears to be the same length, and the colour is luxuriantly emerald throughout. How could there be a rational explanation for this? What bullshit would Dad come up with?
It is then I realize I can no longer see the top edge of the mist — as though the walls have extended towards the sky. Suddenly, I feel disoriented — which way was I facing? I grab the compass from my pocket only to find the arrow is stuck — immobile — as if there is no magnetic field here. Shit! The flawlessness of mist formation and grass beneath my feet gives no clues at all, and an urgent panic sets in — a sense of dread — I need to leave.
Which way?
Everywhere I look I see grey — a cocoon of blandness that no longer offers mystery — just an oppressive entrapment. And, spurred by
