Salem's Mist

"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 depth 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 the fluctuations of the inclement weather, where the ships had gathered at the port of Salem that early morning. It was bustling with activity, in particular, the establishment of the China Trade. Salem at that time had a huge 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 the Massachusetts Bay, as far as Africa were arriving through the slave trade and ships from the Mediterranean Sea daily. My name is Jacob Morris, a Bostonian by birth and merchant by trade. Salem lied twenty-four kilometers northeast of Boston, twenty-six kilometers southwest of Gloucester. It was exuberant and crowded with people at the port that came and went.

My house was a particular three-story wood-frame building sheathed in clapboards. It had a low pitch hipped roof that was encompassed, by a low balustrade at the cornice that had 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 had elevated the height of the house. The front entry was within the center 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 a remise. Its fine symmetrical front façade was divided into three main sections, the center 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. I had a wife that at the time was staying in Boston, with her immediate family on a trip, and I was alone and had expected 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 to 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 upon Salem, during that dreadful period. Who could ever predict such instability?

I was at the comfort of my home on Chestnut Street, when I had noticed, a peculiar mist of clouds approaching from afar so patently. The brume first had surrounded the Misery Islands. It then had enveloped between the two harbors of Salem Neck and Winter Island, which were divided by Cat Cove and Juniper Cover. Ultimately, it would reach Collins Cove and the inlet to the North River at the end of the day. No one in Salem could have ever predicted nor 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 that would survive its lethiferous mass of death. There was no omen that had forewarned us—nor 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 the mist that would engulf Salem and swallow the souls of their 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 depth 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 has encroached upon the harbor, the first victims would succumb to its horrendous poison and choke to death. The immense size of the fog had spread over the harbor in a swift manner that was, unprecedented. At first, it was a mere curiosity to the townsfolk that 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 had overwhelmed them into a screaming and frenzied mob. They were persons scurrying, while others had either fallen to their death in agony or had jumped into the waters to escape the mist. Many were unable to breathe, and they had gasped. There was no oxygen to inhale. All they were inhaling was from 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 few kilometers from my home, when I had suddenly reacted. My intrigue had compelled me to step outside and examine the occurrence of the chaos at the port. The chaos had then extended to the narrow streets of Salem. I had 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 would become its unwilling victim. From among the victims were familiar countenances of acquaintances I had known, including my neighbor Mr. Hudson. Regrettably, he would be strangled by the poisonous vapor of the mist and perish so tragically. The stir of the pandemonium had caused the people to hide in their houses or take shelter inside buildings, where they felt that the mist would 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. From among them, I had recognized 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 the fog could not penetrate so easily, through the thick walls of the house. Mr. Chesterfield the gentleman I had recognized, suggested that we did not separate at that time. I had concurred with that recommendation, and we gathered, near the chimney of the fireplace. We were all conscious about 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 also? If so, then was she even alive? There were no tidings to confirm my doubts. Mr. Chesterfield had told me that he had seen first the mist 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 came from originally. I had intimated that it came from beyond the ocean, passed the Misery Islands.

There was no actual horn to warn the townspeople, or was there any obvious sign that the mass of clouds that had been 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 nigh. The people of Salem had not witnessed such a chaotic scene or experienced such threat, since the War of Independence. The birr of the wind was blowing mightily from the ocean, as the waves had billowed. The question that I had been pondering was for how long would this umbral shade of defunction last in its duration? I could only offer a calculated supposition, at best. The minutes became restless hours of grueling anticipation and anxiety. All of us including myself had demonstrated, a measure of fatigue and fretfulness. It was dismal outside, as we had glanced through a small orifice we had left, in order to see plainly. It was a horrendous view of the impending chasm of hell that had developed so rapidly.

The anxiety would soon turn into utter trepidation that would quicken afterwards, our minds. The gnawing anxiety would begin to entrap our thoughts, with consternation. Mr. Chesterfield and the other man that I had learned his name was Mr. Fennigan had consulted with me about the feasibility of leaving the house for succor. Our rations were enough to last for a period of time, but some of the women were complaining about being sequestered and nauseous. Their complaint was as well due to the lack of oxygen that was being reduced in the house, by having everything shut. It was August and the humidity was unbearable. I would often leave the windows open, but in this case I could not. To do that would permit the mist to enter the home freely. We had hand fans, yet they were of little consolation or comfort under the weather. The consequences of remaining locked up inside the house was as bad as exposing ourselves to the intimidating fog outside, except for the fact that one was instant death and the other was a gradual desperation.

The townspeople had not fared well enough to combat the mist neither on their own, and there were no tidings about the exact whereabouts of the people, or how many had been murdered by the killing vapor of the fog. Not even the militia could have stopped it, or its advance, with a full load of bullets. It had appeared to be invincible and inconceivable was its direful impact. The implication of the mist being associated to witchcraft had entered the fragile minds of some of the persons in the house. Others had declared it was God's wrath upon us the sinners. I had not shared in any of those opinions. From my studious observation of the situation, I had surmised that the mist was somehow connected to an unknown sequence of events that was related to the pattern of the weather, yet I could not rule out the preternatural. Was this an infernal calamity or was it something from outer space, a residue of a fallen meteorite?

I was not an expert on science, but I had heard of bizarre tales of abnormal phenomena that had occurred before. How could I prove my hypothesis and would I live to confirm its authenticity? There was not time to deal with mere suppositions on my part. I had to devise a plan with the others that would allow us to survive, and that meant their absolute cooperation that was paramount. The distinguishable sounds of agony that were accompanied by the gasping screams and moans were still audible to my ears. Once again, I harked back to my wife and had imagined her suffocating and struggling to breathe. The thought of that image was overwhelming and too surreal. Seeing the intense fear in the eyes of the children was what had impacted me and made me more resolute to find a way out of our dilemma. While the women had sought divine inspiration and intervention, I had contemplated the avoidance of our death.

As the hours passed, I had a strange presentiment that something would drastically transcend. At the time, I was unclear about its occurrence or magnitude. All of Salem was a wretched hostage to the surrounding fog. Some out of madness had defied it, while others had yielded to it out of sheer intimidation. I would be remiss, if I did not dare to acknowledge my uncertainty. From all my experiences in life, this was by far, the most challenging and terrifying. Only time would eventually tell, for how long these agonizing moments would last. No one in their right mind would say they knew or foresaw the arrival of the brume. It came undetected and unannounced, like a blatant foe. Wherever was its derivation, it had come to poison Salem with a full force to be reckoned. Was it even feasible to contain the spread of the mist, or was it simply too late? I had wanted to believe that it would drift away from Salem and never come back.

It was extremely vital that we did not exceed the state of paranoia and had maintained our cohesion, as a group. The evening had arrived, as the wind had continued to blow strongly. It was an evident demonstration that the fog was still present in Salem. The clock had informed us about the hour, but it would stop for some reason at six o'clock. The stoppage of the clock had spooked us to believe that the fog was penetrating the inner house. Unfortunately, the fog had indeed entered the house from outside. It had entered through the cracks of the roof above. Because I knew the design of the house better than the rest, I had noticed its entrance. We had attempted to close the cracks upstairs, before a great amount could enter then, but we could not keep it from entering. With immediacy, we all gathered in one place. The best room that was the safest was at the furthest from the door or back door.

The intrusion of the fog had unsettled everyone in the house. It had appeared it was only a matter of time, before it would reach the confines of our room. Mr. Chesterfield had asked me, if there was any other place in Salem that I knew, where we could be safer. I had responded by telling him that it was pointless, since the mist was in every place of the town by then. He had mentioned escaping onto the supposed underground tunnels that were built, by smugglers after the War of Independence. I had heard the numerous stories and rumors, yet I had never seen them in actuality. According to him, the tunnels had an entrance and an exit from Salem. There was no reassurance that the tunnels had even existed, and it was a perilous risk to embark on, not knowing what to expect. Time would seem to be on our side, if the mist would disappear in the morning, but if not, then time was fading into a hourglass of no surcease.

The option would be related to the others with a sense of candor, and they would decide whether to stay or to go. In the end, only Mr. Chesterfield, his wife and Mr. Fennigan would go. It had meant exposing themselves to the toxicity of the mist. It was a danger that they were willing to take. They had covered their mouths, with thick strands of cloths. Those that had remained bid them farewell and wished them luck. The cloths would not guarantee them that the fog would not penetrate them. Nevertheless, they had persisted and had prepared themselves for that possibility. I had often wondered in the peril of death, how I would react and confront it? Verily, I doubt that anyone is totally prepared for death. I was more concerned about the welfare of the children. They had seemed to be languishing more, amid the striven adversity. There was not much I could do to allay their fears and despair, except to offer a measure of token hope.

I could not help but think about the fate of those that had chosen to leave. I would discover afterwards that their fate would be sealed in time. With the coming of the evening, the mist did not appear to fade nor dissipate in its intensity. With the darkness of the night, it had blended and became even more haunting in nature. If the fog could be discerned to some capacity in the day, I had feared that in the tenebrous night it would be impossible to distinguish its extent nor size. That brought more apprehension to us in the house. There was not much we could do from inside, except be patient and wait, until either help arrived or the madness of the mist had gone for good. Help from the outside was looking more and more bleak and disconcerting. There was no actual form of communication afforded to us that we could utilize to know what was occurring in Salem or outside of the town. Time was an impending factor, and one that we could not avoid its passing. The mist was a formidable foe and we had to be formidable opponents to its horror.

With the night as well, the fog had attempted to enter the room where we were gathered. We were lucky that we had covered every nook and cranny. The question that was pending was, for how long could we resist the poisonous vapor? We all had cloths to cover our mouths and noses. I was aware that the mist affected the delicate lungs and ultimately, the breath that we inhaled. This was clear to the others too. Although we were dealing with a mass of vapor that had a broad density and seemed shapeless, it still was matter. Its form had varied, not its substance. That was invariable. As I cogitated in my mind, how to destroy the mist, I began to notice that the warm humidity in the room was making the fog not enter. I had realized that the heat of the air inside where we were positioned was preventing it from attacking us. Sensing that I had intuited something relevant to discover, I began to wonder if the fluctuation of the air being cold or hot would disrupt the essence of the moisture of the fog. I knew from being out at the ocean that fogs were the result of the cool air mixing with the warm moist air. Their appearance would be analogous to wisps of visible smoke rising off the edge of the surface of the ocean.

I wanted to believe that I had discovered not only the weakness of the fog, but its elimination. I had to prove my theory. That meant that I had to be bold enough to confront the mist and expose myself. I could not expose the others, especially the innocent children of tenuity to the brumous vapor. My lungs were stronger than theirs. I had spent the night thinking about the idea of suffocating the mist. I still did not know how I could achieve that task. Even if I was successful in debilitating the mist inside the house, it was not enough to destroy it in its entirety. It was simply impossible due to its sheer size. To get rid of it completely would require a gigantic fan or a wintry night. None of those two options were available on that day. Thus, I could only concern myself with surviving the night along with the others. Despite the heat that was incrementing by the hour and the deep perspiration that was affecting us, we had maintained ourselves alive. It did not signify that there were not added problems. The children were getting sick, and the women were growing wearisome.

Patience had begun to erode, as the night passed. The lack of oxygen and the humidity was stifling and overbearing. Water was beginning to run out gradually. The fog had begun to enter the water pipes and the water we had saved was running out as well. I had felt hopeless at that moment, knowing I was the proprietor of the house and had given them shelter. I had remembered that there was an old well that was over a river bank that was under the room we were located at. It was something to contemplate if necessary. I would have allowed the mist to have taken my life, before I had allowed it to take the lives of the others. From the room, we could hear some strange activity. It had sounded like the voices of people. Were they townsfolk or visitors from outside of Salem? They had appeared to be wearing some type of masks that were protecting them from the poisonous vapor. They were attempting to flee Salem in a carriage. Others in the same mask had fled their homes in rode off into their carriages away. These people would not get far. They would not escape the mist.

Perhaps, it was the ideal moment to leave the confined room of the house and try to escape too wearing masks. The thing I had dreaded occurring was seeing the others perish out in the open. Knowing that, was no consolation for me to accept. It was decided that we would wait until the morning in the room, hoping that we would survive the fog. It was the only thing that had kept us safe and alive together. Exhaustion had overtaken us and the need to sleep had begun to make our bodies weaker and susceptible. It was nerve-racking to be under such an unpredictable situation. It had seemed hopeless and comparable to repetitive episodes of the same quandary. Slowly, my lungs had felt a sudden shortage of breath. I had sensed that I was faltering, under the immense pressure. My heart had pounded fast, and I could feel its powerful thumping. It was not a pleasant feeling to experience. I did not sleep until midnight.

We had uncovered the planks above the exact spot, where the old well was believed to be at. After constant digging, we were successful in locating it. It did not provide much pure water, but it did allow the moisture of the water to be cool. That was sufficient to interrupt the menacing pattern of the fog. There were troubling signs that the mist had tried to regain its entrance into the room, but in every instance the heat along with the cool moisture that we had accumulated from the well were effective against it. There was no doubt in my mind that we had discovered how to neutralize the mist. The disappointment was that we could not destroy it entirely. The mist had lasted throughout the night. There was no way of knowing its ultimate course nor damage. I could only imagine its disturbing consequence. It was disheartening to think about the people that the mist had already killed. This consideration left one very pensive and uncertain. The mist would prepare me one last fright and that was in the form of a nightmare.

My body could no longer stay awake, and I fell asleep. It was indifferent to the peril of the mist. I did not know, if I would awake or die in my sleep. In my nightmare, I had seen how the mass of the fog had entered the room and killed the others. They had fallen to the floor agonizing and unable to breathe. The brumous vapor had reached me also, and I was struggling to breathe. My pupils were dilating and my legs and arms were stiffening. I had tried to escape it, but I was unable to avoid its terrible grip. It was choking me and killing me. The more that I struggled the more the mist had grasped my neck and entered my lungs. I was coughing heavily, and blood had come out of my nose. The poisonous vapor was quickly destroying me from inside. Everyone else in the room was dead, except me. I was the last to resist and bear the torment of the mist. I began to gasp as my breath was reaching its expiration, with the forcing air that came from my mouth. It was so intense that when I woke up, I was profusely sweating, yet I was alive.

Once awakened, I heard the clang of the clock in the hallway. I did not know the precise hour, but I had noticed that there was a ray of sunlight that had entered through one of the loose boards of the room. There was absolute silence at the time. Everyone except I, were deep asleep. I had checked on them to see if they were alive and they were. No one in the room would die from the mist. When I approached the light, I had peeked through a small orifice and saw that it was morning. I was thankful that we had survived the mist. The most incredible thing was that the mist had not only diminished, but it was gone. It was no longer present in Salem. Immediately, I began to crack the loose board to see better. Indeed, the mist was gone. I had awakened the others and informed them about my discovery. They were all joyous and grateful that we had survived the day and night in the room. The women hugged their children and had praised God for his benevolence. I was more pragmatic. I was thankful that the mist had left Salem, but at what cost?

We had removed the boards in the room and slowly with extreme caution, we began to observe outside for the first time, since we had secluded ourselves in the house. We would all be shocked to see what we had witnessed. It was utter horror what had appeared before our eyes. There were people outside observing the same carnage of strewn bodies that had succumbed to the vapor of the killing mist. They were the fortunate ones that had survived this onslaught. It was unthinkable that a mass of clouds could have killed so many people of Salem in little time, yet it was evident to see plainly. Thousands of perished bodies, with pouring blood coming from their dried eyes and parched mouths. I could not believe what had transpired. In one day and in one night, the mist had taken the lives of so many. From the port onto the streets of the town, the mass of dead bodies had laid. I would be informed afterwards that my dearest wife was not affected. The mist had not reached Boston. For some unexplained reason, it had only materialized in Salem and the Misery Islands.

I suppose that phenomena are rare and always difficult to explicate in words, but what had occurred in Salem was no ordinary event. There are some that will deem this event, as the sign of the Devil or the sign of God's wrath. Science will refute those claims. In the end, what must be told is the truth. There is so much about the atavistic mysteries of life and death that we know very little about their episodes, except that when they transcend reality, they are not at the mercy of our understanding. Death like life does not require a simplicity nor complexity. It merely exists. As a survivor of the horror of the mist, I can say with irrefutable facts that what took place in Salem was not fictitious. It was real and haunting. I could never forget its absolute terror. I had resumed my life in another place with my wife. Eventually, I had relocated to Boston. There were nights that were restless and days that were unnerving afterwards that I could not diverge in my vicissitudes. I was tormented at times, by the peculiar images of the mass of the clouds that had formed into the deadly mist of Salem.

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