The Fog

[pervipete]

The woman stood in the middle of the room of the bombed out farmhouse, the floor surrounding her covered in symbols, the only illumination coming from the flickering candles, whose flames cast flickering, dancing shadows around the walls, her upturned face sightlessly looking at the stars through the missing ceiling.

All was hushed and silent; the only sound a short three word litany emanating from her lips, spoken in barely a whisper.

“Muramber Sulana Carlera” repeated over and over again, until suddenly a wind that came from nowhere swirled around; billowing her diaphanous gown around her slim body, before one by one the candles flickered out. As suddenly as it appeared the wind dropped, and then, slowly a fog rolled in across the Essex coast, rolling across the fields and towns, blocking the light from the stars above.

The first tendrils reached the old farmhouse, covering the woman, whose voice started to rise to shout in ecstasy, an ecstasy that almost sexual in intensity, entering he open mouth, the heavy sound of thunder could be heard around the farmhouse, and a bolt of lightning hit squarely where she stood. She glowed for awhile before dissolving, becoming one with the fog.

At the Army shooting range at Shoeburyness four Centurion tanks of the 4TH battalion, the Prince of Wales Tank Regiment were making their way towards the range for a night firing exercise when they ran into the fog. The tanks stopped, changed direction and headed to the little village of Chelmer.

The tanks stopped again at the outskirts, and then started to fire salvo after salvo of high explosive shells into the defenceless buildings.

Shells exploded in between house and the village pub. Shell after shell pounded into the villages 13th century Church, its bell tower collapsing into the street, crushing people running to hide from the bombardment. The thatch in the cottage roofs caught alight, adding choking smoke to the fog. People would run out to escape the flames, where they would be caught and killed by the blasts and shrapnel from the shellfire.

And still more shells poured in.

The shells hit houses, shops and the village pub, causing more damage in a couple of hours then Luftwaffe had done in the six years of the war, until with a final salvo the four tanks suddenly reversed away, aimed their main guns at each over, and then simultaneously, fired an armour piecing shell, within seconds all the tanks were destroyed, their crews perishing in the flames.

The stench of burning flesh would be smelt for days to come.

And the fog rolled on, across the hills, villages and towns of Essex, leaving chaos and destruction, death and rape in its wake, rolling on inexorably towards London, unstoppable, uncaring. Rolling its way along the banks of the river Thames that made its way through the countryside, past Southend, Westcliff, Leigh and Tilbury.

The Liberty ship MV Empire Sun was sailing up the Thames on the final part of its journey, bringing goods from Britain’s colonies to the wharves’ in London, when the fog caught up with it as in came to the town of Grays.
Albert Springham, the old pilot onboard the ship had never seen anything like it in his four decades at sea, the fog did not just chill his body, not just his blood or go through to his bones, it chilled his very soul. Like all old sailors he was superstitious, and this fog did not feel right to him, there was malevolence to it, a brooding feeling of evil, as if it was something alive.

He was about to call out to the crew to slow the ship down when he felt himself being grabbed and wrestled to the captain’s cabin. The last thing he saw as he was being dragged off the bridge was the ship turning towards the shoreline, towards the lights of an old Trinity Lightship, the ‘Gull’ being used as a clubhouse, before feeling the ship shudder as they collided and the mass of the Empire Sun caused to rise over the smaller, lighter boat, forcing her down into the river bed, shuddering as she rose up onto the bank, water pouring in through myriad cracks and holes, her crew oblivious to the cries for help coming from the river.

And still the fog rolled on, through towns and villages still showing the signs of war, bomb damage still unrepaired even five years since the end of the war.

There was no discernable pattern to whether or not you would be effected that day, its evil could turn one man wild, while leaving others largely untouched, yet in another town it would affect the majority of the population. Maybe its evil intelligence had a plan, maybe it worked to no plan, just randomness, or maybe it was just some great demonic joke, picking people to amuse itself as it rolled up towards the capital over the war ravaged land.

Reverend Mayhew was in his pulpit, delivering another of his Halloween fire and brimstone sermons, shouting his message as if the sheer volume of his voice would drive evil from his congregations, his eyes blazing with Gods wraith, the skin of his face reddening with his fury.

“Tonight is evils night” he roared at his congregation of east London dockers and factory workers, all huddled in his Plaistow church “a night when witches and demons are abroad in our world. And anyone who is caught by these creatures and who is not pure of heart” his voice rising even louder to make his point “will be lost and forced to suffer the torments of hell for all ETERNITY. So make you are pure of heart and ask forgiveness for your sins, that is right I know that you are all sinners, and are all heading for the fiery torments of Beelzebub and his minions. So pray to God for your sins to be forgiven.”

His daughter, Mary, looked up at her father from her place in the pews, her face full of adulation for her father. Sometimes she thought he was too hard on his parishioners, but it was not her place to say anything, as he said, how could she, a mere woman understand the complexities involved by the devil in tempting people to sin, she knew instinctively what he would say, he would tell her that her words come from the devil, and then use his belt to beat it out of her, even though she was 21 and legally an adult.

“Fornicators, liars and thieves” he carried on “yes I know what you are. Adulterers and sinners, greedy in your glutinous pursuit of pleasure, repent now before this service is over, or ye shall face the fiery pits of hell itself.”
At the word fornicators Mary looked over at her fiance, the Reverend John Askwith, her face coloured as she remembered dream she had the previous night, of her and John coupling, and how she had found a strange wetness between her legs when she woke up the next morning. She was glad for the darkness of the church hiding her face, as she prayed extra hard for forgiveness. John just looked up at her father, his face wearing the same expression a faithful dog does when it looks at its master.

She looked closely at him, she didn’t love him, but she knew he was a good match, loyal and pious, a good man of god, her father said. So when her father had suggested the match, she agreed, anything to get out of the oppressive atmosphere of her father’s house. It’s was only later that she realised her mistake, that John was a younger version of her father, and by that time, it was too late, the match was made, the wedding was announced, and her father would have been too humiliated to let her break the engagement. All she could do was pray that it would be better after the marriage.

She wished her mother was around to give her advice, but she had died when she was a baby, so there had only been her and her father, and while her father was pious and passionate about god, he could not translate that into warmth and love for his only daughter, in fact sometimes she caught him looking at her with blame in his eyes, as if he blamed her for her mother’s death.

The fog paused when it reached the church doors, as if it was listening for something. A thin tendril detached itself, and found its way into the church, through a thin gap where the doors met. It hung there, its head moving about as if it was looking around, searching, and then, just as quickly, it withdrew back into the main body, where it then carried on its path of destruction.

As it started to roll on, an even larger tendril broke off, floating down an alley, where it commenced to change density and shape, eventually evolving into a resemblance of a man, malformed certainly, as if a child had tried to make a doll from wet clay, but the basic resemblance was there.

The ‘thing’, for there was no other way of describing the creature that stood there, had no real features on its face, just two eyes, maliciously glowing red, and slits for its ears and nose. All that existed of its mouth was a gapping slash, which was open in a snarl, as it sensed more than heard the sounds coming from within the church, whose service was drawing to a close. Its skin was grey, a dingy, mottled grey, pulsing with the malevolence contained within its shell.

Mary smoothed her skirt down as she stood up to sing the last hymn, watching as her father walked down the aisle to the door, taking up position so he could show his parishioners out, shaking hands with some, adding a further admonishment to others when they eventually left, all the while she would stand dutifully to one side.
It was when the church warden, Peter Groves, opened up both sets of doors that everyone noticed the fog that had appeared during the service. From her position Mary could here snatches of murmured conversation “oh Lord” “where did this come from” and the like.

And then silence, blessed silence as the door closed on the last person. All that could be heard was the sound of her of fiance and the warden moving around, putting away books of prayer, hymnbooks and blowing out the candles, while from the vestry came the sound of her father changing out of his cassock.

“Mary you going to help or just stand there in a dream” she looked up sharply at the sound of John’s voice calling her, soft in his home counties accent. She looked across at him in his black suit, his brown hair tousled by his exertions, straight into his hazel eyes.

“Yes, sorry” she replied, blushing slightly, colour serving to highlight her English rose complexion, shaking her head, causing her auburn hair, tied up in a lose bun, to shake from side to side “what do you want me to do?”, the lilt of her accent filing the room.

John looked around “Take over from Peter will you? He’s got to rush off to look after his sick wife.”
Peter walked over to the girl, explained to her what needed finishing, and then with a “your wife is in our prayers” from both people, left to go out into the fog.

John watched his fiance or a while, thinking deeply that he would need to change her only slightly to turn her into the perfect vicar’s wife, before picking up some rubbish and exiting through the vestry out into the side alley.
The cold hit John as soon as he opened the door, pulling his suit jacket close around him, he walked out into the foggy alleyway, groping along the wall until he found the metal dustbin, easing of the lid so as not to make a noise and disturb the people in the flat, and put the rubbish inside.

As he closed the lid he became aware of a presence behind him, turning around, he expected to see a tramp, and at first that is what his mind told him he saw, the fog made the figure standing there silently too indistinct to make out properly, a problem not helped by the lack of lighting in the alley as the illumination came from the Church windows, and that was woeful at the best of times. “Hello” he called out “cold night” and then remembering his Christian teachings “would you like a hot drink” only to met with silence each time.

With not a little trepidation he noticed that the figure was between him and the door. As John slowly approached he started to realise that something was wrong, the closer he got the more the fog dissipated, leaving the figure more and more distinct, but still the figure looked misshapen, like it was out of focus.

If he was not so intent on the figure standing in front of him he may have noticed that, while the fog was thickening up again, the area around the two of them was miraculously clear. Even weirder, was that even though there was little or no lighting, there was a strange luminescence in the air. Suddenly it hit him what was the matter with the figure, it was not out of focus just hideously malformed, but by this time it was too late, he was within touching distance of it, and that is what happened.

The creature reached out one of its strange misshaped hands and touched John on the chest. John gasped as it made contact, and then, emanating from this spot, a hot, searing pain spread its way through his body, as if he had been branded. He looked down, expecting to see his chest in flames, but just saw that the hand looked like it had attached itself to his body, almost as if it had grown from him and was reaching outwards.

As he stared into the creatures malevolent eyes, he felt as if the two of them were coming together, despite the pain, his brain was still functioning perfectly, he knew that he was now face to face, as he stared he could see features start to develop, a nose, some lips, even hair had started to sprout from the top of its head.

As the searing pain spread, a soothing numbing cold followed behind it, and then could feel everything reach his head. As this spread, he could feel his brain start to shut down, his vision grew more and more cloudy and it became harder and harder to think, until he sensed more than heard a voice echoing “Reverand John Askwith, your soul is mine now” and that was last thing he even heard on this earth as his body disintegrated, his knowledge and thoughts being absorbed into the creatures mind, leaving just his clothes in the creatures hand.

The creature looked down at his new, human form, standing there naked, and quickly dressed, and then started to move towards the door, stopping when he realised that Mary, his target for tonight, was standing at the door, next to her father.

It was her father who now spoke “Uh John, can you walk Mary home for me; that was the warden, his wife has taken a turn for the worse I’m afraid and I have to go and see him”

‘John’ just smiled and nodded “of course sir” he replied, walking up and taking the overcoat and scarf from her hand. “It’s late, better get who before the ghosts are abound” and with a wave goodbye, they walked off towards the boarding house being used as a temporary vicarage

As they reached the corner of the alleyway John stopped dead, muttered a quick “oh no” as he patted his pockets “I’ve left my keys in the vestry, just wait here” and before she could say anything, turned and went back to the vestry door, quickly opening.

The Reverend Mayhew turned in surprise at the sound of the door opening, “who is that...oh it’s you John, what’s the matter?” “Nothing, I just have a message from Tara” “Tara, Tara who?”

John just laughed evilly “typical, only you could forget the mother of your child”. As Mayhew stood there shocked, speechless for the first times since he was ordained, Johns face changed shape, and for a moment it was replaced by the face of Tara Mayhew and the voice he heard changed to his wives “Mary’s mine now”.

He recovered his wits, “begone witch, leave her” and he reached for a bible and crucifix, but before he could, John/ Tara picked up a knife, and with a deft flick, sent it flying towards him, embedding it forcibly in his heart, killing him instantly.

Tara’s face dissolved leaving John’s in its place, and he left the church. Walking back down the alley, he took Mary by the arm and started to walk her home, leading her past the ruins of the original vicarage, still unrepaired since it was hit by Luftwaffe bombs during the height of the Blitz.

Ten minutes later, after a walk in silence, they reached the gate.

Mary turned looked at the darkened house, and entered the front garder, leading them to the door, just as they got there and John started to take his key from his pocket, Mrs Muggeridge, the widow who run the house opened the door.

“Sorry we’re late” John said to her, “oh, by the way, the Reverend Mayhew may be sometime, I’m afraid Mrs Groves has taken a bad turn, so he has gone there”

Mrs Muggeridge just smiled wanly “that’s ok ducks, she never was the same since their Chris was killed at Normandy” she said, leading them into her comfortable living room, the photo of her husband, killed when the Hood was sunk, still taking pride of place on the mantelpiece, wishing them a goodnight when they refused her offer of a drink and went to bed, looking over her shoulder to see both of them following her up the stairs to their respective rooms.

As she went to close her bedroom door, she felt a hand covering her mouth, another on the back of her neck, and then the last thing she either heard was a crack, as her neck was broken, and she was pulled into the bedroom, and the door closed on her body.

He walked back down the stairs to the door to Mary’s room, listening intently at the sounds of her moving around.
Mary quickly undressed, shivering intently at the cold hit her naked skin, even thought Mrs Muggeridge had thoughtfully lit a fire in the grate, the room still felt just above freezing.

Carefully she unzipped her grey skirt, hanging it up next to its matching jacket in the wardrobe, her virginal white blouse followed it, leaving her standing there in just her slip and lingerie, when she thought she heard a sound at the door.

Snatching her dressing gown from the back of a chair and quickly putting it on, holding it closed with her right hand, she walked the couple of feet to the door, and went to pull it open, but before she could the door was thrown open, leaving her shocked to see John standing there.

“What..what...you shouldn’t be..if father came...” her words falling over herself in shock, confusion and anger. “Get out” but John just stood there, unmoving.

The entity that was posing as John just moved forward, forcing her to back into the room if she was to maintain the same distance, as he did so something started to strengthen inside her allowing her to find her voice.
“You should not be in here John darling, what would Mrs Muggeridge say, you a vicar and myself the daughter of one? And if father came home, you know what he would say and think. He would think I was no better than those fallen women who wait in the public houses down near the docks, waiting to sell themselves to the....”

John stopped her by reaching his hands up and pulling her arms apart, causing her dressing gown to fall open, revealing her in her bra and slip.

“JOHN STOP THAT NOW”

Her only reply was the feel of the back of his hand as it fell across her face in a slap, causing tears to fall from her eyes and then his hands moved to the top of her shoulders and started to push the gown off of her.
“Don’t do that John please, I beg you, I am a respectable girl, you know that, we shouldn’t be doing that, and what if Mrs Muggeridge sees you?”

“She is dead, so it doesn’t matter” John replied in a voice no longer carry hints of the home counties, but that sounded like came from the earth’s bowels, as he carried on pushing the gown down her arms, releasing it so that it landed at a bunch at her feet.

“Dead” the tears flowed more quickly from her eyes as she took in his words “what do mean dead?”

“I killed her”, if the voice and statement didn’t scare her, the matter of factness with which it was spoken would have “and don’t worry about your father coming home, he is dead too”.

As he spoke his hands went to her large, bra enclosed breasts, squeezing them through the material.

“FATHER’S DEAD” she shouted as she pulled away, turning to try and flee. As she did, she caught her foot on the bunched up dressing gown, almost falling forward, she caught herself, catching hold of the bed, but this allowed John to just grab her and pull her back by her bra strap, which snapped under the force, spinning her around so that she landed on her back on the bed, as she feel her, now loosened bra slipped down slightly, allowing the tops of her large, milky white, breasts to come into view.

“What are you doing, leave me alone, what has come over you” the words tumbled out of her mouth.

He reached down to pull the ripped and damaged bra clean of off her, throwing it into the corner, and in the process being the only man except for her doctor to see her naked breasts. His hands went straight to them, massaging, caressing them at first, but when she only responded to his advances by trying to slap his hands away, he started to maul them ruthlessly, forcibly squeezing them so that she squealed in pain and shock, her squeal alternating with sobs and cries or mercy, his silence and immunity to her cries only heightened her fear.
She managed to pull herself together for one last attempt “Leave me alone John, and I won’t tell people you tried to do this”

“I have a message from your mother”

“My mother is dead, she died in childbirth”

The only response to this was his hands gripping the sides of her head, and then her vision darkened, and when it cleared she could see a woman in a room.

The woman looked down at a baby in its cot, laying there in new born innocence, when the door flew open, hitting the wall with a crash the sent the infant into a spasm of wailing.

“Now look what you...” she started to hiss at the man standing there, a sentence she never got to finish. The man was her husband, though the look on his face was not the usual look a man has for the woman who has given him a healthy daughter, but a look filled with malice and hate.

“Silence witch” he roared, his voice competing with the babies to be heard, “I have seen the truth” and with that he threw an object at her. It was an ancient book of spells, its leather spine cracked with age and use.

“Be gone witch leave this girl, she is not yours to have. Or I will smite you down.” From his pocket he drew a knife. “I thought” she said calmly and evenly “that your god considered it a sin to kill.”

He angrily shook his head “killing a witch is god’s work” and with that he started to move closer to her, as he got closer, she removed a bottle from her pocket, throwing it and smashing it on the ground, with a sharp crack, thunderously loud in the small room, a fog like barrier appeared between them, and then with a further loud crack, she disappeared, leaving the man standing there, alone but for the child.

Mary’s vision darkened again, and when it cleared she realised that the man was her father, and she knew her mother was a witch, and there was no hope for her. She knew she should scoff at the idea, but the way she had seen it, and the change in John served to undermine any feelings that the vision was not real.

She looked up at the man’s face, she knew now that this was not her fiance doing this, she assumed, wrongly, that he had been possessed by an evil spirit, to see that his eyes had turned from hazel to a flaming red.

Its hands moved back to her body, grabbing hold of the waistband of her slip before starting to pull at it, she took a chance at trying to fight back, and started to attempt to push him off, but he proved too strong for her, all she succeeded in doing was to hurt her hands.

Suddenly her slip was torn open, leaving just her panties to give her some degree of modesty, but there did not last long as they too were ripped away, leaving her lying there in all her nakedness, she looked down her body, and then up at him again, fear started to rise again in her, leaving her there paralysed, unable to move or defend herself.

The creature stood back and seemed to become almost a blur, at first she thought it was just the tears affecting her vision, but she realised that everything else around the creature was still in perfect focus. When the creatures reshaped, it was still in John’s image, but it was naked, giving Mary her first ever view of a man’s penis, which to her eyes looked absolutely massive. She knew the theory of how couples have sex, one of the girls at her grammar school took great pleasure in giving her full, gory details, of how the man’s penis, which she had called a cock, would get hard, and he would then insert it inside her, and keep moving it there until it spit some white stuff inside her. Well, she thought to herself, as the memories of the fear and disgust she had felt when she was told came flooding back to her, if he inserted that inside her, she will be split in two.

“Please no” she begged “I’m a virgin. Please I was saving myself for my husband.” More tears flowed down her cheeks, for her father, for their landlady and for herself, for the fact that moment she did not know whether she would survive the night, or if she wanted to,

She just closed her eyes as she saw the creature bend forward, suddenly she felt its weight on her, moving up her body, as his head drew level with hers, she could feel his hard penis, suddenly the word cock flashed into her mind and the image of her and John from her dream the night before followed close on its heels, the effect was the same, down in between her legs, she remembered the girl had called it a pussy, she could feel a strange moist sensation, a moistness which made it easier for the creatures cock to slide along her lips.

Suddenly, with a growl, she felt it enter her all the way, pain shooting through her body, such pain that she thought she was being split apart. And then she felt the cock start to thrust back and forth, feeling the cock slide against her muscles in her pussy, no, no she thought to herself, she shouldn’t use these words, they are bad words, sinful words. And she should fight this thing off of her, what they were doing is sinful, wrong, against god’s teaching, but she could not deny that, once she was over the initial painful entry, it was starting to feel good.
The pain was adding to the sensation, adding to the pleasure of her first fuck. Fuck, where did that word come from, she is being raped, raped by something who is pretending to be her fiance, but here she is enjoying it.

Suddenly, as the thrusting continued, she started to move her own hips in concert with it, allowing John’s cock, it was becoming easier to think of him as John again, to enter her deeper and deeper, until she could feel new sensations, an almost electric tingling emanating from her pussy, the forbidden sex words came easier now, moving through her body.

“Oh yes” she said, her voice breathless with desire “that’s it, fuck me, fuck me hard. Give me what I want”
She could feel John’s hands all over her body, squeezing and mauling her breasts, moving down and around to grab her arse, kneading the white cheeks.

And still John continued his thrusting, harder and harder, until, with an animal like growl, it shot its load of semen inside her, load after load filling her up, entering her unprotected womb.

Even after he had finished cuming, he had carried on thrusting mechanically, as slowly he started to dissolve, firstly back into the misshapen lump he had started out as, and then back into a tendril of fog, floating out though the gaps in the doors to rejoin the main body.

Over the next few hours, more and more damage was caused by the effects of the fog, riots led to the looting of the stores around Oxford Street, with the Dickens and Jones department store being completely gutted by fire.
Some soldiers sent into Westminster to quell the riots actually turned their guns on their officers, mutinied and stormed parliament. At least half of the MP’s hiding there were slaughtered before it was brought under control.

Over the next few days the fog continued on its path, rolling across the southern half of England, bring with it its trail of destruction, until it slowly dissipated into the Atlantic Ocean.

Over the course of the next few weeks, as more and more of the damage come to light, the government, or at least what was left of it, sought to cover up the worst of the incidents, and of course the murder of a vicar, his landlady and the rape of his daughter went virtually unreported, and the disappearance of the Rev. John Askwith was nothing out of the ordinary when it was taken into consideration that a quarter of the population in the affected areas were missing, most never to be seen again.

[pantyhosethief]

Well, that was most enjoyable

[pervipete]

Thank you pantyhosethief