The mists are all I claim them to be, Mr. Hasrad, and more. They are evil, and threaten mankind with a danger perhaps unequalled in the history of his evolution! About three weeks ago the farmers began finding their stock killed in a most peculiar manner, which I attribute to the mists, and two weeks ago it took the life of an old farmer—at least I’m nearly positive it was responsible, although I couldn’t prove it in a court of law. The nature of these attacks I prefer not to describe on paper lest you put me down as a mildly interesting lunatic and suggest I seek psychiatric help. But join me here at Shadow Lake, and I will give you full details.
This letter was signed: “Bayard C. Fletcher”.
Alan’s eyes moved to the nearby bookshelves in his study after he read the signature, strayed and paused on a tall volume in red leather bearing the gilt words along its spine: Before the Stone Age—Bayard C. Fletcher. The writer of this letter was more than likely the very same Bayard C. Fletcher, a renowned paleontologist and author of sundry technical works of which Before the Stone Age was the last and most exhaustive and regarded by his colleagues as a rare contribution to the progress of their science.
Alan felt his doubts as to the sanity of the writer dissolve as salt does in water. If this were indeed the Bayard Fletcher, it might well be that something strange was haunting the vicinity of Shadow Lake. Alan knew Fletcher by reputation to be a man along in years, possibly sixty-seven or -eight, but certainly not far beyond the prime of his mental faculties. As Alan recalled, he had only recently retired from his Miskatonic University curatorship to gain more time for writing and private research. Known as a quiet man, with little social contact among other scientists, Fletcher had only recently dropped from sight completely. Probably only his publishers, intimate friends, and museum officials knew of his whereabouts.
Mists that were sentient? Alive? Capable of intelligent action, perhaps? A vague suspicion began to stir in Alan’s mind, prompted by shuddering passages he recalled from midnight readings of the Necronomicon. But, no; the thought crossing his mind was unworthy of further consideration as it simply could not be possible.
Originating from almost any other man than the reserved, levelheaded old scientist, the thought of sentient mists would have been too preposterous for comment. And even so, Alan certainly did not believe for one moment that Fletcher’s flamboyant assertion was correct. He merely paid Fletcher’s genius the tribute of assuming that he had stumbled onto something decidedly abnormal and markedly outside and beyond the ordinary. And, in his lonely isolated quarters, the manifestation had probably gripped his mind and prayed upon his imagination until he had come to unreservedly admit to an impossible condition. But Fletcher still needed help; and, if a visit from Alan would cheer and reassure him and perhaps find an obvious, easily overlooked explanation for these unnatural happenings, he decided he could do no less than go.
Alan prepared to leave, with the grudging approval of his editor, for Shadow Lake the following afternoon.
The drive from Arkham, that festering, witch-cursed community squatting along the Atlantic, led southeast to Bramwell and was one he had always enjoyed. Something in his own restless nature responded to the wild primitive call of old, nearly impenetrable forests that stood sentinel along his route, barren meadowlands stripped of their harvests that undulated into the distance, stone fences falling into disrepair, and dilapidated farms and barns that tottered and rotted on the brink of irrestorable decay. Alan marveled at the hills and woods arrayed in their autumn colors of assorted golds and oranges and crimsons.
The slanting rays of a late afternoon sun were throwing shadows across the main street of Bramwell as Alan came to a stop at its single traffic light. He turned his car to the right, crossed the railroad tracks, and drove to the pumps of the town’s only filling station. A sign above the door indicated the owner of this establishment to be Harold Webber, a round-faced middle-aged man whom Alan had met before.
Out of the gas station, with leisurely strides, stepped the proprietor. As he approached the car, wiping his hands on torn and grease-smeared overalls, he recognized its driver; he squinted and the grim line of his mouth curved in the suggestion of a smile.
“Afternoon. Mr. Hasrad, ain’t it?”
Alan nodded. “How you been, Hal? Fill it up, please.”
Harold retreated to the pumps. Inserting the nozzle into the gas tank and setting it to automatic, he ambled over to where Alan waited with window still rolled down.
“Haven’t seen you in a spell,” he said idly, beginning to wash the windows.
“No, I haven’t been out this way for a few months. Bramwell seems to be about the same.”
“Well, it ain’t!” was Howard’s terse, unexpected assertion. He rubbed briskly at a few insect specks then drew his squeegee across the window, wiping it dry.
“Oh?” Alan looked at him curiously. “Something new? Story in it for me?”
“Well, now, I don’t know. You might think so.” The gas station attendant shifted uneasily from one foot to another and the level of his voice dropped.
“We’ve had two extremely queer killings—any killing hereabouts would be queer, of course—within a mile of the village; not to mention the loss of considerable livestock in the same—ah, manner.”
“I heard about one of the deaths—fellow named Moss Kent?”
“Yup. That was the first un. We had another just three days ago.”
Webber shifted his gaze, looking up and down the street, as though he were about to reveal something that perhaps he shouldn’t. “Well, this time it was the Widow Fisher. She was found dead ’bout ten o’clock at night in her own rear doorway. She lived just down the road from here. She’d gone out back for fire wood, and when she didn’t return her children thought she’d dropped in at one of the neighbors. So it was a couple of hours before she was found.”
“Certainly strange,” Alan commented.
“I’ll say it’s strange! I don’t suppose the deaths themselves would seem startling to a city man like you, especially a newspaper feller, but they’ve surely created one big excitement in this county; most people around here are getting to be afraid for their lives when it comes to going out after dark.”
“As bad as that?”
Webber nodded. “There was no outcry—no noise of any sort.” He leaned closer, his head almost inside the automobile. “But she had been crushed and was found limp and cold, lying across her own back steps! No one here ’bouts is anxious to go out after dark—especially with that damned mist that seems to invade Bramwell every night—if it can be avoided!”
“I can understand why. But you said she was crushed?”
“Yes, sir, crushed she was; just like Moss Kent. That’s about all I know, and them that does know more don’t seem to be saying much about it to anyone.”
This was indeed news of a startling nature, and Alan could not help but wonder if the strange occurrences in the village were connected in some way with the uncanny activities occurring at nearby Shadow Lake. Leaving the station, he drove down the darkening street. Already, lights were beginning to glow from the forlorn huddle of houses. He turned at the general store at the crossroads onto a dusty gravel road which he knew led to Shadow Lake and picked up speed. Webber, he reflected, had seemed almost morbid with his unexplained inferences.