Chapter 3: Fog and Fear

I tried to sound brave, but I couldn’t help asking. The questions burned inside me, and I was scared of what she’d say.

Before today, I’d never heard of blood-bought rice. All these years, my grandparents had never mentioned it. It sounded like a ghost story—just a scary story.

I remembered all the times I’d heard grown-ups talking in low voices, thinking they were just spinning tales to scare us kids. But now, with the fog curling around the house, it didn’t feel like a story anymore.

My grandma pulled me into her arms and sighed. “No one knows what it is. They say anyone who ever saw its real face didn’t live to tell about it. The rice is hoarded by it, waiting for a famine to buy meat. When people are strong, it hides; when people are weak, it comes out to eat.”

She stroked my hair, her voice barely more than a whisper. I could feel her heart pounding through her dress. The way she spoke made it sound like something older than the hills, a nightmare folks have whispered about every time the winter got too long.

My mom’s face was pale. “Does such a thing really exist? Isn’t there any way to stop it?”

She bit her lip, glancing at the locked door. She twisted her necklace between her fingers, and I could see the fear in her eyes, even as she tried to stay strong for us.

My grandma shook her head. “It’s not that there isn’t a way… but by the time it shows up, everyone’s too hungry to fight.”

She looked out at the fog, her shoulders slumping. I saw her mouth a silent prayer, fingers twisting her cross necklace.

At that moment, someone knocked at the door—three knocks, then three coughs, exactly three times.

The sound echoed through the house, sharp and clear in the fog. We all froze, glancing at each other. My heart thudded in my chest, and I clung to my chair, my hands shaking.

“Tommy, it’s your grandpa!” called a familiar voice.

His voice was hoarse but unmistakable, with that clipped, rushed tone he always had when he was worried about something.

My grandma hurried to the door, relief on her face.

She wiped her eyes and straightened her apron, moving quicker than she had all week. Hope flickered in her eyes as she reached for the latch.

My mom muttered, “Why is he back so soon?”

She frowned, glancing at the clock. It hadn’t been long enough for him to visit all the neighbors. A cold shiver ran through me.

I followed my grandma to the door. She stopped halfway and pointed to the bottom of the wall. “Tommy, go check if it’s really your grandpa.”

She whispered the words, her eyes never leaving the door. I nodded and crouched down, heart pounding in my ears.

There was a little hole at the base of the porch wall—just like folks in the country use to check who’s at the door without opening it. Even though it was dark and foggy, it was close enough to see.

I pressed my eye to the hole, breath fogging the wood. I saw worn black work boots, tattered jeans, and the familiar smell of pipe tobacco drifted in. It was my grandpa, just as always.

Worn black work boots, tattered jeans, the strong smell of pipe tobacco. It was my grandpa.

I nodded to my grandma.

My grandpa called out, a little impatient, “Come on, open up—it’s just me.”

His voice had that familiar gruffness, but I could hear a hint of worry underneath.

Only then did my grandma open the door.

She unlatched it quickly, pulling it open just enough for him to slip inside. The cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of fog and something sharp, almost metallic.

Panting, my grandpa said, “I’m not coming in. Only Mrs. Carter’s family and ours got rice. No one answered at Blind Joe’s, and Old Ben didn’t even open the door—he said they didn’t get any rice. I still need to go to the Harris place to see what’s happening there. This fog is strange; that thing has probably come. Back when we escaped together, Harris’s dad was the smartest. I’ll talk to him. Let Daniel come up from the cellar—I’m not at ease leaving just you three here.”

He wiped sweat from his brow, eyes darting to the thickening fog. The urgency in his voice made my stomach twist. He gave Grandma’s hand a quick squeeze before stepping back onto the porch.

My grandma squeezed his hand. “Be careful, Earl. Come back soon.”

She held onto him a moment longer, her eyes wet. He nodded, then vanished into the fog.

After my grandpa left, my grandma shivered as she latched the door, then slid the bar across for good measure. As she walked back inside, she sighed, “Heavens, what are we going to do?”

Her voice was barely more than a whisper. She glanced at the window, then at the cellar door, as if weighing every possible escape. I wanted to tell her it would be alright, but my mouth just stayed shut. The words wouldn’t come.

Night fell, and the fog thickened from a light mist to a thick fog. From the house door to the gate was only a dozen steps, but now the mailbox at the end of the drive was gone in the fog.

The world outside vanished, swallowed by the white haze. Even the porch light barely made a dent in the fog. I pressed my face to the window, searching for any sign of Grandpa, but there was nothing but that thick, swirling fog.

It was eerily quiet outside. Because of the famine, all the cats and dogs in Maple Heights had been eaten; only the occasional cricket could be heard chirping.

The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint chirp of a cricket somewhere under the porch. The cold, damp air seeped in through the cracks, making me shiver.

The absence of barking dogs and meowing cats made the night feel even more unnatural, like the whole town was holding its breath, waiting for something awful.