The Story Of Fog Of The Night

Fog of the Night

HOLLAND, 1872: I suppose my story began on a midnight in September back in the year of 1872, when I was but seventeen years of age. A lone carriage made its way down the lonely cobblestone street that led to my residence near the abbeys of Amsterdam. The frigid air was coated with a rather dense layer of fog. There was something eerie about it, the fog, as though it were forewarning for a terrible event that was nigh upon occurring. At least, that was how the locals had fancied it. I, otherwise, was unconvinced, dismissing their superstitious beliefs as childish. My belief was that only logic and reason told the truth. The only source of truth above those was God Himself, as John Calvin had said.

I watched the carriage draw nearer and nearer to my house, as the silhouette of it became more and more defined. I had lain awake because of a waking nightmare. In that nightmare, I had been surrounded by fog, and I could see nothing past it. I had heard a voice: “Come to me,” it had said, “give me a host so that I may fulfill my duties of revenge.” Then it echoed, “Come to me… Come to me… Come to me…” It seemed that the owner of the voice had gone, until it reached out its dead hand, grabbed me, pulled me into the foggy abyss, and… that’s when I had awoken.

Somehow, I knew whom was inside the carriage. It was, without a doubt, my maternal English uncle, Thomas McBrown, and my cousin and friend, Simon McBrown. They had come all the way from Rotterdam, undoubtedly with business of great urgency, for they had sent no letter notifying their departure. They eventually pulled up near my house and began to dismount from the carriage. I was about to answer the door when I heard my mother do it herself. Why is she up at the pres...

... middle of paper ...

...o do it,” she said in a weak voice with tears streaming down her face, aiming the knife at her neck. “Cecile,” I said as I began to move for her, “Don’t.” “The wicked must pay,” she said, “Well then… let it be done, Wesley, just as you wanted.”

That was how my sister, my innocent and loving sister, had taken her own life. It happened all because she wanted to protect me. I’m sure she is with the Elect now, in Heaven, but I shall miss her dearly. So here I am today, as I watch my sister be carried in a casket at her own funeral, thinking that I was wrong; perhaps it is not dangerous to believe that the impossible is possible. I now say that skepticism is the way in which most are the real fools. Many did not believe our story after that. Simon and I knew that until minds were opened, the incidents that occurred in the fog of the night would remain a mystery to all.