"The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?"
—Edgar Allan Poe
Heretofore, the maritime tales of seamen are related to the eldritch legends lost in the inward depths of the ocean, whose names have remained a lingering mystery. For innumerable centuries, they have haunted the minds of the locals with a fear that has risen from a maddening quiescence, like the crescendo of the raging tides.
Through the caliginosity of the drear and dim shade of horror, the shadows of the spectral breath of the mist of death emerge. A death that is dauntless and inimitable in its ghastliness and pursuit. The subitaneous echoes of the waves embrace its arrival and the passage of time. Who shall dare to boldly go, where the waters meet the edges of this realm?
What shall be read of this expressed narrative, I can attest to its authentic veracity in nature and terror. Know that there is a secret boundary unknown, where death can traverse and return. The year was 1790, and there were evident signs of fluctuations in the inclement weather, where ships had gathered at the port of Salem that early morning.
It was bustling with activity, particularly the establishment of the China Trade. Salem at that time had a vast cod fishing industry, off the Newfoundland Banks. It exported codfish to Europe and had imported great amounts of sugar and molasses from the West Indies, tea from China.
Ever since the independence of the former colonies and the creation of the United States, the port had become significant to the east coast of the country. Ships that had entered Massachusetts Bay, as far as Africa, were arriving through the slave trade, and ships from the Mediterranean Sea came daily. My name is Jacob Morris, a Bostonian by birth and a merchant by trade.
Salem lay twenty-four kilometres northeast of Boston, twenty-six kilometres southwest of Gloucester. It was exuberant and crowded with people at the port, coming and going. My house was a particular three-storey wood-frame building sheathed in clapboards. It had a low-pitched hipped roof that was encompassed by a low balustrade at the cornice, with a central flat section that functioned as a roof deck.
It was also surrounded by a balustrade that had served as an open parapet. The corners of the house were decorated by certain fluted Doric pilasters that elevated the height of the house. The front entry was within the centre bay and was sheltered by a pedimented porch supported by Doric pillars set on a brownstone step.
There were huge twin chimneys rising through the interior of the house. The windows on the first two floors had featured six-over-six sashes, while the third floor had typical foreshortened three-over-six sashes that were descriptive in structure. The unique design of the house or architectural style was elegantly Georgian. It was the exact style that was of my predilection and admiration.
Behind the house was the carriage house or remise. Its fine symmetrical front façade was divided into three main sections, the centre one featuring a projecting triangular pediment. The flanking sections were as well pedimented and were thus punctuated by round-arched apertures topped by particular keystones.
My wife Esther at the time was staying in Boston with her immediate family on a trip, and I was alone, expecting to visit her there within the following week after I had finalized a business transaction. There was much I had been planning before the arrival of the mist. I had planned on making a trip abroad to Europe. Salem was an excellent place for merchants. It had provided me the luxury of making money and establishing a noteworthy reputation. Europe was vital to America, as America was to Europe.
That had not gone unnoticed by the other merchants or me. I never fathomed the ineluctable occurrence that had befallen Salem during that dreadful period. Who could ever predict such instability? I was at the comfort of my home on Chestnut Street when I noticed a peculiar mist of clouds approaching from afar so patently. The brume first surrounded the Misery Islands.
It then enveloped the spaces between the two harbours of Salem Neck and Winter Island, which were divided by Cat Cove and Juniper Cove. Ultimately, it would reach Collins Cove and the inlet to the North River by the end of the day. No one in Salem could have ever predicted or foreseen the perilous nature of the brumous air that would suffocate many people from the town. Upon that ineffaceable day, the inexplicable terror that would encompass Salem would be reflected in the minds of those individuals that had witnessed its frightening semblance.
I was one of the fortunate ones who would survive its lethiferous mass of death. There was no omen that had forewarned us—or foreshadowed the evil nature of the fog. From the beginning of that memorable morning, the ominous clouds had indicated the presence of a possible storm, and it was common to see them in the area during the heightened hurricane season.
What was unnatural would be the large mass of mist that would engulf Salem and swallow the souls of its inhabitants. Sailors had roamed the vast waters of the ocean and had arrived at the port for decades. It was known that countless ships were forsaken to the illimitable depths of the ocean and its puissant grasp. The unfolding events that would transpire in Salem on that day would be deemed then, the devil’s work by the righteous ones.
No one in Salem could ever imagine the terrible horror that had gripped the shivers of the dread of children and women. The town had seen the daunting evil of witchcraft, but this evil was beyond that in nature and comparison. It was an evil that had only one name and one resemblance—death. As the mist encroached upon the harbor, the first victims succumbed to its horrendous poison and choked to death. The immense size of the fog spread swiftly over the harbor in a manner that was unprecedented.
At first, it was a mere curiosity to the townsfolk, who had mistaken the mist for an approaching, raging storm. After several minutes had elapsed and seeing the deadly effect it had on the people, instant panic overwhelmed them into a screaming and frenzied mob. There were persons scurrying, while others had either fallen to their death in agony or jumped into the waters to escape the mist.
Many were unable to breathe, and they gasped. There was no oxygen to inhale. All they were inhaling was the shadowy mist that was killing them. From the plain view of my home, I was able to descry the horrific images of their demise. I could not understand what caused them to perish so oddly. They were not struck by lightning, nor by large balls of hail. It was the unnameable fog that was killing them all.
The mist was a few kilometres from my home when I suddenly reacted. My intrigue compelled me to step outside and examine the chaos at the port. The chaos then extended to the narrow streets of Salem. I attempted to assist the people, but it was futile and impossible, since the intractable mist was everywhere, coming from every direction. Thus, I was forced to leave and abandon my attempt. I had to eschew the immediate danger before I became its unwilling victim.
Among the victims were familiar countenances of acquaintances I had known, including my neighbour Mr. Hudson. Regrettably, he would be strangled by the poisonous vapor of the mist and perish so tragically. The stir of the pandemonium caused people to hide in their houses or take shelter inside buildings, where they felt that the mist could not reach them. Those that did, would in the end somehow survive.
I had managed to return to my house. I locked every door and window. While I had tried to effectuate that task, several individuals were pleading for me to let them inside the house. They had been searching for shelter far from their homes, from the inescapable fog. I was somewhat hesitant to open the door, fearing that the mist of clouds would enter the residence, but I could not bear the desperation in their eyes any longer.
They were eight persons in total, all frightened by the unknown terror that no one knew they were confronting. Two men, four women, and two small children. Among them, I recognised only Mr. Chesterfield and his wife. He was a banker. The rest were anonymous to my recollection. The poor children were the most terrified and vulnerable. They were shivering and had no clue about what was happening outside. All their mothers could do to assuage their fright was to console them in their warm embrace.
We had boarded all the windows and the bottom of the doors. We were aware that the mass of fog could not penetrate so easily through the thick walls of the house. Mr. Chesterfield, the gentleman I recognized, suggested that we did not separate at that time. I concurred with that recommendation, and we gathered near the chimney of the fireplace.
We were all conscious of the horrible effects of the mist. I was concerned not only with the safety of the persons in the house but with the safety of my beloved wife, who was away. Had the mist reached the city of Boston as well? If so, was she even alive? There were no tidings to confirm my doubts.
Mr. Chesterfield had told me that he had seen the mist first from the Forest River that flowed through the south end of the town, along with the Strong Water Brook in the southwest corner of Salem. No one knew from whence it had originally come. I had intimated that it had come from beyond the ocean, past the Misery Islands.
There was no actual horn to warn the townspeople, nor was there any obvious sign that the mass of clouds hovering above was lethal and unrelenting in its form. Everyone had assumed that it was only a precursor to a terrible storm that was approaching. The people of Salem had not witnessed such a chaotic scene or experienced such a threat since the War of Independence.
The birr of the wind blew mightily from the ocean as the waves billowed. I pondered how long this umbral shade of defunction would last. At best, I could only offer a calculated supposition.
Minutes turned into restless hours of grueling anticipation and anxiety. All of us, myself included, were exhibiting clear signs of fatigue and fretfulness. Outside, it was dismal. We had left a small orifice through which we could peer out plainly. What we saw was a horrendous view—an impending chasm of hell that had manifested so rapidly.
Anxiety soon gave way to utter trepidation, quickening our thoughts and nerves. The gnawing dread began to entrap our minds with consternation. Mr. Chesterfield and another man, Mr. Fennigan, whom I had only just met, consulted me about the feasibility of leaving the house in search of succor.
Though our rations were sufficient for a time, some of the women had begun to complain of nausea and the effects of being sequestered. Their distress was compounded by the decreasing oxygen levels caused by the sealed house.
It was August, and the humidity was unbearable. Normally, I would have left the windows open, but in this case, doing so would have allowed the mist to enter freely. We had hand fans, but they offered little comfort under such oppressive heat. Remaining locked indoors was nearly as dangerous as exposing ourselves to the mist—one promised instant death, the other, a slow descent into desperation.
The townspeople had fared no better in combating the mist. No tidings had come regarding their whereabouts, nor how many had been murdered by the killing vapor. Not even the militia, with all its might, could stop its advance.
It seemed invincible—its dire impact inconceivable. Some in the house began to whisper about witchcraft. Others claimed it was God’s wrath upon sinners. I held no such beliefs.
From my observations, I had surmised that the mist might be linked to an unknown sequence of weather-related events, though I could not entirely rule out the preternatural. Was this an infernal calamity or a residue of a fallen meteorite? I was no scientist, but I had heard bizarre tales of unnatural phenomena. Could I ever prove my hypothesis—and would I live long enough to confirm its truth?
There was no time for idle speculation. I needed to devise a plan for our survival, which would require full cooperation from everyone. The agonizing cries, the gasping screams, and the moans from outside still echoed in my ears. I kept envisioning my wife suffocating, struggling to breathe—an image too overwhelming to bear.
What truly stirred me to action, however, was the fear in the children’s eyes. While the women sought divine intervention, I contemplated our escape.
As the hours dragged on, I felt a strange presentiment that something would soon transcend this dire moment. I was uncertain of its nature or magnitude. All of Salem was now a hostage to the surrounding fog. Some had defied it in madness; others yielded to it in sheer terror. I, too, harbored uncertainty.
Of all my life experiences, this was by far the most terrifying. Only time would tell how long it would last. No one foresaw the arrival of the brume. It came unannounced, like a blatant foe. Whatever its origin, it had come to poison Salem with full force. Was it even possible to contain it? Or was it too late?
I wanted to believe it would drift away and never return. It was crucial we did not succumb to paranoia. We had to remain united. Evening came, and the wind blew stronger—a clear sign that the fog still lingered in Salem.
At six o’clock, the clock stopped. That startled us all, suggesting the fog was penetrating the house. Unfortunately, it had. It crept in through the cracks in the roof. Familiar with the house’s design, I noticed it before anyone else.
We attempted to seal the cracks upstairs before too much could enter, but it was futile. We gathered immediately in the safest room—one farthest from any door.
The intrusion of the fog unsettled everyone. It seemed inevitable that it would soon reach our room. Mr. Chesterfield asked if there was any other safer place in Salem. I told him it was pointless—the mist had enveloped the entire town.
He mentioned the rumored underground tunnels built by smugglers after the War of Independence. Though I had heard of them, I had never seen them. Still, he claimed they had an entrance and exit out of Salem. There was no guarantee they existed, but it was a risk some were willing to take.
If the mist disappeared by morning, time would be on our side. But if it did not, we were at the mercy of an hourglass offering no reprieve. The choice was theirs to make. Ultimately, only Mr. Chesterfield, his wife, and Mr. Fennigan chose to go. That meant exposing themselves to the mist.
They wrapped thick cloths around their faces, though we all knew that would not stop the poison. Still, they persisted. I often wondered how I would react when confronted by death. Truly, I doubt anyone is fully prepared.
I was more concerned about the children. They seemed to suffer the most. I could offer them only faint hope.
I could not stop thinking of those who left. I would later discover their fate was sealed. Evening deepened, but the mist did not fade. In darkness, it became even more haunting, indistinguishable in the night’s obscurity.
That made our fear grow. There was little we could do but wait—either for help or for the mist to finally recede. Hope for outside rescue diminished with every passing hour.
We had no means of communication to learn what was happening elsewhere in Salem or beyond. Time pressed on. The mist was a formidable foe, and we had to be formidable in return.
As night fell deeper, the fog again tried to enter our room. Fortunately, we had sealed every nook and cranny. But the question remained—how long could we resist?
We wore cloths over our mouths and noses, knowing the mist targeted the lungs and the breath we inhaled. Although it seemed shapeless, the fog was still matter. Its form varied, but its substance was invariable.
As I thought of ways to destroy it, I noticed that the room’s warm humidity was keeping it at bay. The heat seemed to prevent its intrusion.
This realization struck me: could air temperature—hot or cold—disrupt the fog’s moisture? I knew from experience at sea that fog formed when cool air met warm, moist air. Fog appeared as wisps of smoke over the ocean’s surface.
Had I found its weakness—perhaps even a means of elimination? To prove this, I would have to expose myself. I could not risk the others, especially the children. My lungs were stronger than theirs.
I spent the night thinking how to suffocate the mist. But even if I succeeded within the house, it would not be enough to destroy it entirely. It was far too vast.
Suddenly, there was a knock that echoed against the door, sharp and unexpected. We froze. No one had ventured near our refuge since the mist had descended. I stepped forward with hesitation, holding a blunt iron rod in one hand. The others watched, breaths held. With cautious effort, I pulled back the makeshift barricade.
Standing in the dimming light was a man in a heavy coat, eyes dark and wild. His face was streaked with soot and grime, and a thin trail of blood ran from his temple. He held up his hands. “I’m not sick,” he whispered hoarsely. “Please. Let me come inside."
Despite our apprehension, something about his voice—the despair, the fatigue—swayed me. We allowed him inside the house.
He introduced himself as Elias, a former cartographer. He’d been mapping the coastline when the fog rolled in like a monstrous tide. His boat was lost, the crew dead. “The mist,” he murmured, “it isn’t natural. It moves with purpose. I watched it avoid fire and chase movement. It hunts.”
His account was chilling, but it confirmed what we had sensed all along. Elias brought a map of Salem, marking old underground passageways and wells. His knowledge would prove invaluable.
But it was something else he carried that disturbed me more—a thin wooden box containing a sealed vial of a glowing, pale green liquid. “I found this in an abandoned lab in Misery Island,” he said. “I think...it reacts to the mist.”
We did not yet know if Elias had brought salvation or doom. He gathered with the others in the house.
To eradicate the heat we would accept a gigantic fan—or a wintry night. Neither was available. For now, I focused on surviving the night.
Despite the growing heat and our drenched bodies, we stayed alive. But problems increased. The children were getting sick. The women were exhausted. Patience wore thin.
Oxygen dwindled. Water supplies fell. The mist had begun seeping into the pipes. I felt hopeless. As the house’s proprietor, I had given them shelter, and now, I could barely offer more.
Then I remembered the old well beneath the room, over a riverbank. If needed, we could try to access it. I would rather die than see the mist take the others.
Suddenly, we heard activity outside. Voices. People in masks—some townsfolk, some outsiders—fleeing in carriages. They, too, wore protective cloths. Others followed suit and escaped.
They would not get far. The mist would catch them.
Perhaps it was the right time for us to attempt escape, too. But I dreaded the possibility of watching others perish in the open. That thought alone was no consolation.
We decided to wait until morning in the room, hoping we would survive the fog. It was the only thing that had kept us safe and alive—our fragile sanctuary. Exhaustion had overtaken us, and the need for sleep began to weaken our bodies, making us more susceptible.
I began to reminisce about the morning before the mist. How Salem had been full of vitality. The market bustled with voices, the scent of fresh bread wafted through the air. Children ran across cobbled streets while merchants hailed sailors at the dock. No one knew the horror that would descend by dusk.
I remember my wife’s laugh that morning. We had spoken of visiting Boston, of bringing back fine fabric and sweet dates. There was no dread, only the comfort of routine. At the chapel, an old widow had spoken of odd dreams—“gray clouds with faces,” she’d whispered. We had smiled politely.
That afternoon, strange news arrived: several birds had fallen midflight, their bodies stiff. Fishermen claimed the sea’s color had changed. Dogs howled without reason.
The first signs were subtle. A low, humming resonance filled the air around sunset. Most ignored it. I did not. I looked to the horizon and saw a thick line, darker than night, creeping in from the Misery Islands.
I told my neighbors to leave, to seek high ground. Few listened.
By nightfall, the mist had arrived.
The contrast between that day and what followed was unbearable. The world had transformed, and the laughter of Salem was replaced by silence and screams.
It was nerve-racking to be caught in such an unpredictable situation. Everything felt hopeless, as though we were reliving the same harrowing episode over and over. My lungs began to tighten, breath shortening. I sensed myself faltering under the pressure. My heart pounded rapidly, and I could feel the heavy thud within my chest. It was far from a pleasant sensation. I didn’t sleep until midnight.
We had uncovered the planks above the spot where the old well was believed to be. After persistent digging, we located it. It did not yield much clean water, but it provided cool moisture, enough to disrupt the suffocating rhythm of the fog.
After Elias confirmed the location of old tunnels beneath the house, we decided to investigate. Armed with lanterns and covered mouths, we lifted a rusted iron plate concealed under rotting floorboards. A staircase led into utter darkness.
The air was moist, heavy. Roots dangled like tendrils from the ceiling. The walls were carved from rough stone, etched with markings long forgotten. Elias believed they were from an older settlement, predating the Puritans.
We followed the tunnel deeper. After twenty minutes, we discovered a chamber lined with bones and artifacts—bowls, rusted blades, even an ancient book bound in thick hide. The air shimmered faintly near the walls.
That’s when we heard it—a sound like breathing, but massive and deliberate. The mist, somehow, was beneath as well. We retreated, heartbeats racing.
Before exiting, I scraped off part of the markings onto parchment. Elias took the book. Something had lived here long before us. Something ancient that had known the mist.
We sealed the entrance again—but the knowledge we uncovered could not be sealed so easily. We returned to where the others were gathered to tell them of the discovery of the tunnels.
There were troubling signs that the mist had tried to reenter the room, but the heat, combined with the cool moisture from the well, proved effective. I had no doubt—we had discovered how to neutralize it. The disappointment, however, was that we could not destroy it entirely. The mist lingered throughout the night. There was no way to predict its course or the extent of its damage. I could only imagine the horrific consequences.
It was disheartening to think of the people who had already died. The thought left me reflective and uncertain. The mist delivered one final fright—in the form of a nightmare. My body could no longer remain awake, and I fell asleep, indifferent to the danger. I didn’t know if I would wake or die in my sleep.
As the adults whispered about the tunnels and studied Elias’s strange vial, the children gathered quietly in a far corner of the room. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide and restless. Though we believed we had shielded them from the horror, they had seen more than we’d realized.
Sarah, the eldest among them, spoke first. “I saw it move,” she said, her voice trembling. “The mist. It came to the window when we sang.”
The others nodded solemnly. “It listens,” whispered a boy named Thomas. “When we were quiet, it waited. But when we cried... it came.”
The realization sent chills through me. The mist wasn’t merely reacting — it was aware.
Sarah pulled out a crumpled drawing from her coat. It was a crude sketch, but what it depicted froze the air in my lungs. A dark face in the mist. Hollow eyes. A gaping mouth. Not drawn from imagination—from memory.
“I saw him,” she said. “He smiled at me.”
I knelt before her, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Because he said not to,” she whispered.
I watched them sleep in a circle, clutching each other. Their dreams were not free of fear, but somehow, their bond gave them strength. In their eyes, I saw the first traces of a deeper understanding—one we adults feared to accept.
The mist had a face. It had intent.
In my nightmare, the fog had crept into the room and killed the others. They collapsed to the floor, writhing and gasping for air. The brumous vapor reached me too. I struggled to breathe, my pupils dilated, limbs stiffening. I tried to flee, but I couldn’t escape its terrible grip. It was choking me, entering my lungs. I coughed violently; blood spilled from my nose. The poisonous vapor was destroying me from within. Everyone else was dead—only I remained, the last to resist.
I began to gasp, my breath nearly gone, air forcing itself from my mouth in ragged desperation. The sensation was so vivid that when I awoke, I was drenched in sweat—but alive. From the hallway, I heard the clang of a distant clock. I didn’t know the exact hour, but a faint ray of sunlight pierced through a loose board.
The room was silent. Everyone else was still asleep. I checked them one by one. They were alive. No one in the room had died. I approached the light, peered through a small gap, and saw it was morning. Relief flooded me—we had survived. More incredible still, the mist had not only thinned—it had vanished. It was no longer present in Salem.
Immediately, I loosened the board to see better. Yes—the mist was gone. I woke the others and told them. Their joy was overwhelming. The women embraced their children and praised God. I remained pragmatic. I was thankful, yes—but at what cost?
We removed the barricades and, with cautious steps, ventured outside for the first time since our self-imposed isolation. What we saw was beyond anything we could have imagined. Utter horror spread before us. There were others who had survived, now wandering through the same grotesque aftermath.
The sight was unthinkable: a cloud had killed so many, in so little time. Yet there it was—thousands of lifeless bodies, eyes dried and bloodied, mouths agape and parched. From the port to the town’s streets, the dead lay strewn like fallen leaves. I would later learn that my beloved wife was unharmed. The mist had never reached Boston. For reasons unknown, it had manifested only in Salem and the Misery Islands.
Phenomena like this are rare—and words struggle to define them. What occurred in Salem was no ordinary event. Some claim it was the Devil’s work, others say it was divine punishment. Science will surely argue otherwise. But the truth must be told. There are mysteries in life and death so old, so primordial, that they surpass our understanding.
Death, like life, does not need to be understood. It simply exists. As a survivor of the mist’s horror, I say without doubt—what happened in Salem was real. It was terrifying beyond measure. I can never forget it.
There was a journal buried inside a chest beneath a collapsed armoire that was found.
Its pages were brittle but legible, penned in an elegant yet frantic hand. The author had been a doctor named Alistair Wren, who had lived in Salem over a century prior. His entries began with mundane accounts of local ailments, but quickly spiraled into more ominous notes:
“The air changes. There is a pulse to it. A rhythm not of this earth.”
“A mist rolls in from Misery Islands every 93 years. The last time, the town blamed plague. They were wrong.”
“The mist reacts to human fear. It feeds off breath, pulse, panic. It chooses who suffers most.”
Elias and I read the text, horrified and intrigued. According to Wren, the phenomenon was cyclical—a curse or a natural force, he could not say. He had once attempted to trap the mist using extreme heat and condensation chambers. It worked for a time—but never lasted.
More disturbing was his final entry:
“It spoke. Not in words, but in thought. It knows my name. I no longer believe in God or science. Only in the breath between silence and death.”
The journal added a chilling weight to our theories. The mist was not only real—it was ancient, cyclical, and aware.
That morning, as the sun rose in full, something miraculous occurred. Not only had the mist withdrawn—it had left a trail of dead grass, scorched air, and charred silence. But it had also left something else.
As we stepped cautiously into the street, we saw a ring of untouched space in the town square—a perfect circle. In its center was a stone slab, clean and new. On it, carved in fresh marks, was a message none of us could explain:
“Until breath fails again.”
The townsfolk—those who survived—stood in stunned silence. There was no smoke, no trace of fire, just the eerie stillness of that unnatural symbol. Some began to weep. Others fled. I stood, transfixed.
Elias approached the slab, knelt, and touched its surface. “It’s not over,” he said. “It will come again. Maybe not in our time, but in another.”
Later that day, we buried the dead in mass graves. There were too many to name. Too many to grieve for individually. But each of us carried their memory.
That evening, the sun set with uncharacteristic brilliance, as if the sky itself wept gold for Salem.
I never saw the mist again—not with my eyes. But often in sleep, I return to that gray suffocation. And every year, on the same day, I wake up at dawn, heart pounding.
Some part of me waits for it still.
Eventually, I resumed my life in Boston with my wife. But the trauma lingered. There were sleepless nights and restless days. I couldn’t shake the memory of those ominous clouds—how they formed into the deadly mist that devoured Salem.
Even now, in the quietude of my new life, far from the ruins of Salem, I often sit by the window during early fogs and listen—truly listen—to the silence between wind gusts. It is not mere memory that visits me, but presence. A breath, just beyond perception. A lingering hush that suggests the mist is not gone, only dormant. Waiting. And though I no longer speak of that day with others, I still mark it in my heart, a solemn reminder that nature—or something beyond it—holds secrets we dare not provoke again.
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