Jennifer Stokes braked to a stop, her heart thumping, her hands suddenly cold on the steering wheel. She'd hit something. She'd definitely hit something. In all this fog, she hadn't been able to see clearly, but a last-minute glimpse--

She'd better check. She was required by law to check. But her eyes - they must've been playing tricks on her. She thought of what she'd seen and shook her head. It couldn't have been him. He couldn't be out there. It was impossible.

But she couldn't afford to just drive away. He could be lying there, broken and bleeding but still alive. If that were the case, and she drove off and left him there - why, she'd never forgive herself.

She stared out at the fog, dreading the idea of leaving the safety of her car. For a fraction of a second, she flashed on every horror movie she'd ever seen. Every single one in which a woman finds herself stopped and alone in a broken-down car on a deserted country road.

Now, she was stopped and alone and on a deserted country road. Ingredients for trouble. But her car hadn't broken down and she could still drive off. Just put her foot to the pedal and--

What? Leave him there?

If he was there. If anyone was there.

You've got to go and see. You've got to get a hold of your nerves and go an' see.

But that fog -- it seemed to have a life of its own.

She stared out, over the rim of the steering wheel, her eyes huge. One minute, the road was there. The next, it was gone. The fog had swallowed it and was rolling toward her with the slow determination of an ocean wave.

Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, put her hand to her chest and tried to calm her pounding heartbeat. Henry, her husband of ten years, loved fog.

"It's a blanket I'd love to wrap my soul in," he'd say.

But she'd always been terrified of it. As a kid, she'd read some horror story by Stephen King about people trapped in a supermarket by mist and she'd never forgotten it. Over the years, her fear had deepened into a phobia. Under normal circumstances, she did not drive in fog. Under normal circumstances, she would've pulled her car over immediately and prayed. But the circumstances of that night were far from normal. And now, to have seen Henry, to have seen his face framed for that split-second in the fog - well, the thought just about undid her.

Just the product of an overworked imagination, she decided.

But you've got to go out there. The longer you sit here, the worse it'll be. Maybe, he's alive back there. And if he is, you've got to do something.

Her hands were trembling so badly she could barely get the door open. She stuck one foot out, then thought better of it. A flashlight wouldn't help much in this pea soup, but it would be better than nothing. Leaning across the front passenger seat, she fumbled around in the glove compartment, found the flashlight Henry had given her for her birthday and pressed the switch.

Nothing happened.

She whacked the flashlight against her palm and heard the batteries rattle inside. She pressed the on button again and again. Still nothing. Still sitting in darkness. And now with the door open, tendrils of fog were reaching into the car.

Something cold ... quite cold ... stroked her ankle.

She screamed and jumped and yanked her foot in, fully expecting--

What? Don't be losing your head, girlie-girl. Now is not the time.

Steeling herself and still clutching the dead flashlight, she eased out of the car. Moonlight filtered through the trees. The fog caressed her. She recoiled. It was damp and clammy and--

Get a grip.

Way back when, her mother had tried to allay her fears by telling her that fog simply consists of clouds that have descended from heaven. They conceal angels who like to play among humans but are too shy to be seen.

Her eyes darted around. But these clouds, she thought, these clouds don't conceal angels. If anything, they--

She heard a moan, a man's moan, and a sick feeling spread in the pit of her stomach. My God, he really was out there. In the middle of the road. He was there. But how? He should've been back at the house. Where she'd left him. How in the world had he managed to get all the way out there?

The moan came again, filled with pain. Edging along the side of the car, she made her way to the back end. She jiggled the flashlight again and this time, when she hit the on button, the flashlight spilled a pool of ghostly light. It reflected off the white wall of fog and illuminated a small circle of road, about three feet deep.

Someone lay at the edge of that circle. She could see a hand, one large but very still hand. Her heart lurched against her ribcage. She'd recognize that hand anywhere. It was Henry's. She'd run over Henry. She clapped a hand over her mouth and moaned. Please, oh, please, she prayed, don't let it be true.

Ignoring the chill that was seeping into her bones, she tottered forward with cautious steps. The hand seemed to fade the nearer she got to it. First it was there, fully solid. At her next step, it was translucent; at her third, it was transparent and by the fourth, it was gone.

She stopped and stared at the spot where she was sure the hand had been. There was nothing there. She crept a five inches further, gathering confidence in the spill of light from her flashlight. Nothing.

Girlie-girl, you really are losing it. Try to hold on. All those years of worry. All those years of fear. They're finally over. They're finally done. Don't go crackers. Not now.

The vise gripping her chest eased. She hadn't struck him. Of course, she hadn't. There was no way Henry would be down on the road in the middle of all that fog. He was still back up at the lodge, where she'd left him with a neat bullet hole in his chest.

Her forehead puckered with thought.

Henry was a big man. She'd known it would take a lot to kill him. But the hunting rifle she'd used had packed enough punch to stop a bull elephant. And it had only taken her fifteen minutes to drive down to the gas station (they had no phone at the house. Henry was against one), phone the sheriff's office and report an accidental suicide.

Only fifteen minutes.

There was no way Henry could've left the lodge and made it down to the road in that time. Especially not in the condition she'd left him in, leaking over his old bear-skin rug.

No way.

She chuckled uneasily. That bump and lurch she'd felt - it must've been a tree branch or something. As for the face she'd seen. Oh well. She was obviously more rattled than she'd realized. The thought of Henry surviving had simply given her a bad scare. Henry was not the forgiving kind. If he'd survived that bullet, she would've had to 'kill' him again, get in the car and mow him down, grind him down until he was a fairly unrecognizable pulp. She would've done it, too. She would've had no choice. Henry wouldn't have left her one. He'd have come after her - her and his brother, Johnny.

Now, Johnny was a real man. He made her happier than Henry ever had or ever could. Sometimes she wondered whether Johnny wanted her or Henry's farm more. But then she'd decide it didn't matter. What mattered was how Johnny made her feel. She was hungry, starved even, and he knew how to feed her. All she had to do was fix Henry, he'd said. If she didn't fix Henry, they'd never see another night's peace.

For four several exquisite seconds, she got caught in the memory of Johnny's hands, of how they touched her, where they went and what they did when they got there. Now that Henry was gone ...

But was he? That was the 50-gazillion-dollar question.

She played the light beam all around. Nothing. ... Nothing but a wall of fog.

She blinked.

A wall of fog?

Her eyes widened. Banks of mist had surrounded her. She aimed the flashlight right, then left, then right again. She swept it around, up and down, turning in a complete circle. Fog everywhere. A low atavistic moan pressed out of her.

Her sense of direction had never been dependable. Now, it utterly failed her. She spun around, took a few tentative steps, first one way, then another. The fog grew thicker, pressed closer.

Fingertips crawled up the back of her neck. She spun around with a cry. A single glimpse of a face, his face, and then the flashlight went out.

There was really nothing now. Only an encompassing darkness. Even the moonlight had been extinguished. She glanced up. Clouds were moving across the moon. They'd be gone in a minute, and then--

Somewhere out there, her car engine turned over. She went icy with fear. Her car? How could that be? The sound was muffled, but distinct enough for her to hear it. She had an awful thought.

No, she shuddered. No, that can't be.

But it was...

He'd tricked her. It had been Henry's hand she'd seen. His right hand. How could she ever forget that hand? She would see it in her dreams as long as she lived, would feel it slamming her, pounding her, shaking her by the shoulders, closing around her neck. Ten years of being beaten and battered by Henry's hand. No, she'd never forget. And now, just when she'd thought she was free of him, he'd come back.

The fog. It was the fog. He'd wrapped his soul in it. That's how he'd managed to leave the house and reach the road so quickly. And now, he'd lured her from the car and Johnny was nowhere near to save her and--

Car wheels screeched. A shaft of moonlight pierced the clouds. The car slammed into her and the impact gave her wings. For a moment, she was silhouetted against the moon like a broken Kewpie doll. In that fraction of a second, she flashed on every horror movie she'd ever seen and knew that her end would be worse than any of them. Because it was hers. It wasn't fantasy. It was real and it was now.

She began her downward arc and, with the sad, small, muted part of her that still clung to life, she recognized Henry's ghostly hand as it came up to slam her.