Into the Fog

I stand on the deck of my cottage barefoot, feeling the moisture of the wood from the dense fog. I feel the coolness of that fog against my skin, a counter to the sweltering summer eve that I went to bed to. I try to see farther than two feet in front of me, yet I cannot see a thing save a soft glow of light. But, oh, can I hear...

I hear the voices, almost singing, in a language I would say I do not know, yet I understand every, beautiful, haunting word said. The voices woke me from a pleasant dream, yet their timbre is more pleasant. Pleasant in a way I haven't felt in years. Pleasant in a way life was before becoming a hermit in my widower life.

I take a step, into the fog and the moisture from it starts to bead on my exposed skin, rivulets slowly forming. I can see even less, by my ears lead the way.

Wake up...

Don't sleep alone...

Let us remind you...

Of your true destiny...

There is a song in the words. They never say the same thing, yet they pull at me. Pull at my life to remember to live. Pull at my heart to pound like in a long-forgotten way. Pull at my soul out of it's jaded broken shell. Pull at my flesh...

I take another step. I have taken dozens. I feel a soft hand touch me. I hear a giggle that boils my blood. I feel another hand, and another. My soul tries to shake me, but the voices have a firm hold on my desire, on my want. I have been alone too long. I cannot tell how many hands there are, more than two. I feel lips press against my skin. I feel breasts damp, press against my arms, my hands, my back, my chest. I feel one press against my mouth and I suck, such sweet dew from warm flesh. I hear a illicit laugh in response.

I get smothered by the voices in the fog. By the forms my eyes are blind to but my body feels fully.

Take us...

Feed us...

Fill us...

The words are not in English, but I follow each plead, each request, each command. The more my body tires from the pleasures, the more they demand. I take, I give, I feed, I am fed, I fill and I fill and I fill again...

I wake suddenly in my bed, slick in sweat, in a sweltering summer night. My lungs a bellows, my sheets warm from my sweat and my seed. It has been decades since I had a dream that did that.

The days pass, and the dream in the fog mist away.

Until one night, as I sit on my porch, a fog rolls in, and then the voices. The sweet, sexual, foreign voices.

My body reacts, my heart lurches, my blood burns. This time though, I see a form step from the fog onto my deck, then another, then another. They almost look human, each more beautiful than the next. Each holding a baby. Each smiling at me. Except for the last.

You need to come...

Home with us...

Our children...

Need their father...

And Our Queen...

Needs to be given...

Her heir...

I follow their laughter into the fog. I am never seen from again. But, occasionally, the current owners of my nearly-forgotten cottage, can hear my laugh...and my children's too, when the fog rolls in. 

It frightens them so. I don't know why, because it is such a sweet, sweet, foreign sound.