Ghosts

On the highway it felt as if I were driving into the end of the world. I was surrounded by a gray so solid only the occasional column of black could break through. Every vehicle, structure, and mountain was enveloped.

But in the woods the fog became mystique. The ghostly vision settled down and rolled silently along the snow. When I stepped forward to touch it, it disappeared then reappeared behind me or beside me, but never within my reach. It even smelled like a ghost. Or at least as I would imagine a ghost would smell: dank, musty, and cold.

On the highway, all I wanted to do was get the hell home. In the woods, all I wanted was to explore the eerie scene for as long as the twilight would let me.

Fog
Fog

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