Supper With the Fog

📜 The whole story (transcript)

Ohhh, my favourite. My very favourite. Listen now. There was once a small inn at the edge of the moor, run by a widow with hands like folded napkins. And every Thursday — without fail — she would set an extra place at the long oak table. A bowl. A spoon. A glass of cold milk. And a candle. 'For whom, Mrs Pell?' the village children would ask, peering through the steam. And she would only smile, and say, 'For the fog, of course. He gets dreadfully lonely.' Well. One Thursday a curious traveller — a tall fellow, all elbows — came in from the rain and sat himself, quite rudely, in the empty place. He drank the milk. He ate the bread. He laughed at the candle. 'Superstition!' he cried. 'There is no one here but us.' Mrs Pell said nothing. She only went to the window and opened it, just a little. And in came the fog. Slowly. Curiously. Curling about the table legs like a cat made of smoke. It wound around the traveller's wrists. It breathed in his ear. And then, very gently, it carried him out the door, across the moor, and… well. Nobody is quite sure where the fog put him. But the village postman swears that on still grey mornings, you can still hear a faint, distant voice politely asking for directions. Mrs Pell, for her part, simply set out a fresh bowl the following Thursday. And the candle, as always, burned a little brighter. Heh heh heh. Goodnight, my darling. Mind the windows.