Old Bones: A Collection of Short Stories by Steven L. Campbell Page B

other side.
    When he reached the hilltop, he saw that the
highway did indeed run along the valley, perhaps two hundred yards
away. He looked for houses, a farm, anywhere there might be people.
But this part of Ridgewood was desolate. His car, he estimated, was
two miles south—a long way to crawl.
    His cell phone still would not work. In his
shirt’s other pocket was his digital recorder that he had brought
along to take notes. The recorder worked now, which puzzled him.
What was so different between the two electronic devices that one
worked and the other didn’t?
    “The batteries,” he said “I’ll have to
experiment that.”
    As he began to put away the recorder, he saw
a column of silver fog settle upon the field between him and the
highway. It stood, almost opaque, part of it swirling, sometimes
pulsating with dim red light inside and yellow light along its
narrow top that at times looked almost like a human head surrounded
by a halo. Donohue pressed the record button. He said, “I speak
this alone somewhere within the outer bowels of Myers Ridge.
Hopefully I will survive the night to get this to publication.
    “Myers Ridge is a large succession of hills
outside of the town of Ridgewood. Recently, I became aware of
electrical problems here, mainly car engines stalling and cell
phones and digital cameras not working. At the same time, I heard
reports about mysterious fog formations and red and yellow lights
seen at night. My colleagues are, without evidence, claiming that
these formations are hallucinations, downright lies, or at best:
luminous protean clouds rising from deep within the hill.”
    The fog shifted. Donohue held his breath.
When nothing more happened, he said, “Long before Ridgewood was
founded, the indigenous people here told tales of a cloud person
with three red hearts and a head of gold that visited them after an
earthquake.
    “Another quake was recorded in 1702. A
European settler, when upon viewing a strange fog in his potato
field, killed his wife and two children and stuffed them in the
belly of a slaughtered cow.”
    The fog shifted again and stopped. It made no
advancement.
    “It’s been centuries since that earthquake
and the one we had earlier this year. I believe the fog and the
quakes are related somehow. Perhaps the fog was released from
underground by the quakes.”
    The fog shifted. Its red lights inside became
brighter until Donohue saw that the lights were three distinct
pulsating objects.
    “Like living organs,” he said. Then to his
recorder: “Daylight is almost gone. I am viewing now, as best as I
can, what I believe is one of these cloud creatures.” He stopped.
Why had he called it a creature? Why hadn’t he called it a
subject?
    “Are those hearts?” His hand holding the
recorder trembled. So did his shoulders, sending small wattages of
pain through his lower back and leg.
    “A chill is gripping me,” he said. “I need
warmth.” He once more tried his cell phone. This time he cursed,
his anger directed at the fog.
    “You’re the reason no advanced electrical
gadget will work. What are you? Speak to me, damn it. WHAT ARE
YOU?”
    The fog remained pulsating but otherwise
still.
    Donohue shivered and cried out from the pain.
He closed his eyes until the excruciation abated. When he looked
down the hill, the fog was still there, its red lights pulsating
faster, brighter. Around it, for several feet, the grass and ground
looked dry. More than that, it looked warm and inviting.
    Donohue shivered and cried out again. The he
crawled backward, inching his way to the warmth.
    The fog stood motionless, waiting.
    Donohue crawled to within a few feet from the
fog. Its heat felt like summer sunlight on a wintry day. It entered
his wet clothes, steamed his back and felt good.
    He inched closer. His hip stopped throbbing.
He felt his knee mending. He crawled closer still; he needed more
of what the creature was giving him. He crawled to within inches
from the fog, did a