THE FRET

It doesn't roll in like a normal fog.

 

There’s no slow drift. No warning. One minute the river’s clear. Next minute it isn’t.

It comes in all at once. Thick. Heavy. Quiet. And it doesn’t sit out on the water like you’d expect. It moves. Up the steps. Along the Quay. Into the streets. Like it’s been here before.

People don’t talk about it much. Not properly.

You’ll hear bits of it, usually late on, a couple of pints in. Someone will mention it. Someone else will say they’ve seen it. Then it gets brushed off.

“Just the sea air.”

“Just the weather.”

But the ones who’ve worked down here long enough know it’s not that.

Because of what gets left behind.

Doors not shut properly. Lights left on. Drinks still sat on tables. Half finished.

And sometimes… someone doesn’t turn up the next day.

No big panic. No police tape. Just a quiet question that does the rounds:

“Has anyone seen him?”

It doesn’t happen often. That’s the thing. Just enough that people remember. Not enough that anyone does anything about it.

There’s a story behind it. There’s always a story.

---

Years back, no one agrees how long, there was a storm. Bad one. The kind that turns the river black and pulls the tide harder than it should.

A few boats were still out. And for whatever reason… they weren’t called in.

Some say the warning never came. Some say it did and was ignored. Some say there was something wrong with the signal that night.

There used to be something on the Quay. A light. A marker. A bell. Something that told you where you were. Something that brought you back in.

It’s not there now.

The boats didn’t make it back. That part’s not a story. That part’s fact.

---

What came after… that’s where it changes depending on who you ask.

Some say the fog started not long after. Others say it took years. Waiting. Building.

But everyone agrees on one thing.

When it comes in… it’s not empty.

People have seen shapes in it. Not clearly. Never clearly. Just movement where there shouldn’t be any. Figures. Standing still.

And the strange thing is… they’re not out on the water.

They’re already on the Quay.

There’s been talk of footprints. Wet. Saltwater. Leading away from the river. Not towards it.

Lengths of rope left where no one remembers putting them. Coiled neatly. Like they’ve just been set down.

Doors found open in the morning. Not forced. Just… open.

And every now and then - something else. Nothing obvious. Nothing you could point at and say that’s what happened. Just enough to feel like something did.

---

If you’re out late enough, you might see it start. The fog. Rolling in faster than it should. Covering the river first. Then the edge of the Quay. Then everything else.

Most people head in when it does. Finish their drinks early. Call it a night. The ones who don’t… don’t tend to stay out much longer.

And if you ever find yourself down there when it comes in, when it really comes in, have a look toward the river. Take your time. Let your eyes adjust.

Because if you stand there long enough… you might see them. Just standing in the fog. Waiting.

Not moving. Not speaking.

And the strange thing is they’re not trying to get back to sea, they’re waiting for someone to come to them.