Things That Wait

When I was twelve, my grandmother told me never to look too long into fog. She said something lives in it. Watches from just far enough away that you can't be sure it's real. I laughed. I was twelve. I didn't believe in things that wait. Then last winter, driving home past midnight, my headlights caught something standing at the treeline. Just standing. Hood up. Still. I told myself it was a person. A hunter, maybe. Someone lost. But people don't have eyes that glow red in the dark. And people don't turn to watch you drive away — and then somehow, be standing in your rearview mirror... closer than they should be. I don't drive that road anymore. But some nights, I still see fog rolling under my door. And I think... it found out where I live.