A Morro Bay Fog-Mythos Story
The Elfin Forest was a lie.
The name suggested something whimsical, a place of soft moss and fairytale creatures. The reality was a stunted, spectral maze. It was a forest of pygmy oaks, their trunks and branches gnarled by the constant, salt-scoured wind, twisted into agonized-looking shapes that clawed at the sky. They grew on ancient, sandy dunes, a place where nothing should grow, and they looked resentful of the fact that they had.
It was a forest of grasping, skeletal hands.
And on a foggy night, it was a place to be buried.
“I can’t believe you’re letting us do this,” Kace said, his voice tight. He hated not being the one in control.
“It’s Charlee’s birthday, man. Relax,” Bryer mumbled, his face illuminated by the harsh blue light of his phone. He was already recording, narrating for a Social Media post that would get twelve views. “We’re here, live, at the Elfin Forest. It’s, like, one AM. And it’s spooky.”
“It’s not spooky, it’s stupid,” Kace snapped. “And we’re not in the forest. We’re in Los Osos. It’s a glorified park.”
“It’s the only place, Kace,” Charlee said in a low, excited whisper. She was the reason they were here.
Charlee was a disciple of the local darkness. She’d read every story in The Morro Bay Fog-Mythos collection. She’d read about the Takers, the Watchers, the Girl in the Window. And she’d read that the fog, the sentient fog, had one weakness: it was anchored to the bay. It couldn’t, or wouldn’t, come inland.
“It’s not that it can’t,” she’d explained in the car, her voice pulsing with the thrill of her own theory. “It’s that it hasn’t been invited. It needs a ‘shore.’ An ‘anchor.’ A ‘locket.’”
Tonight was the perfect night to test the theory. The “wrong” fog had rolled in, a bruising, charcoal-grey mass that had not only swallowed Morro Bay but had pressed inland, a tidal wave of mist that was now lapping at the edges of the Elfin Forest, held back as if by a membrane.
Chloe, huddled in the back seat, just wanted to go home. “Guys, I don’t like this. It smells… weird.”
“It’s called ‘low tide,’ Chloe,” Kace said, killing the engine. “That’s sulfur. You know, nature? Now, let’s get this over with.”
The four of them stepped out of the car. The fog was thick, ankle-deep, and tasted of old pennies. The air was dead. No crickets. No owls. The only sound was the distant, two-tone groan of the foghorn, miles away in Morro Bay.
Brummmm-Hoooooo.
“See? It’s way over there,” Kace said, grabbing a flashlight. “It can’t touch us.”
“That’s because we haven’t opened the door,” Charlee said. She pulled a cloth bag from her backpack. “This way.”
She led them onto the wooden boardwalk. It was a thin, raised ribbon of safety, the only solid path through the dunes and the grasping, pygmy oaks. The fog swirled around their knees, making it look as if they were wading through a cold, grey river.
They walked for ten minutes, deeper into the twisted maze, until they reached one of the circular viewing platforms.
“This is it,” Charlee said, her eyes glittering. “The ‘Sanctuary of the Blue-Grays.’ Perfect.”
“Sanctuary of the what?” Bryer said, panning his phone.
“Never mind. Just… film.”
From her bag, Charlee brought out the components of her ritual. Four thick, white candles. A lighter. And the “anchor.”
She’d found it on the sandspit, on a low-tide day. It was a single, heavy, oily-black stone, pitted like volcanic rock, and a large, rough shard of abalone shell, the calcified, ugly outside.
“Wait, I know those,” Chloe whispered, her eyes wide. “That’s… that’s from the story. ‘The Soundless Chime.’ Charlee, that’s not… funny.”
“It’s not a joke,” Charlee said, her voice dropping. “It’s an invitation. The rules say the fog needs an anchor. A locket. A chime. A memory. Well, I’m giving it one.”
She placed the black stone and the abalone shard in the dead center of the wooden platform. She set the four candles around it.
“This is so dumb,” Kace said, crossing his arms.
Charlee lit the first candle. Then the second, third, and fourth. The small flames flickered, casting huge, dancing shadows from the twisted oaks around them.
“Okay,” Charlee said, taking a deep breath. She stood in the center, by the anchor, and raised her arms.
“The Rock can’t see you here,” she intoned, her voice trembling with theatrical power.
“Oh my god, she’s doing the lines,” Kace groaned.
“The shore can’t hold you!” Charlee continued, louder.
“That’s the Watcher charm, you idiot!” Kace laughed. “You’re mixing up your lore!”
“It’s all the same fog, isn’t it!?” Charlee screamed into the mist. “It’s all the same god! So, I’m inviting you! Come ashore! Come ashore, you cowards!”
For a second, nothing happened. Just the sound of Kace’s laughter, which died quickly in the heavy, damp air.
“See?” Kace said. “Nothing. Can we go now?”
And then, Chloe, who hadn’t said a word, whispered: “Listen.”
They all went still.
The foghorn.
Brummmm-Hoooooo.
It wasn’t distant anymore. It wasn’t coming from the bay.
It was here.
It was loud, wet, and close. It sounded like it was right at the edge of the forest, just beyond the trees.
“That… that’s not possible,” Kace stammered.
The four candles, which had been flickering in the non-existent breeze, suddenly stilled. The flames snapped upright, burning with a cold, steady, blue-white light that didn’t cast any heat.
“Whoa,” Bryer said, zooming his phone in. “That’s a sick filter.”
The fog, which had been swirling at their knees, congealed. It stopped moving. The air became thick, gelatinous, and suffocating. The temperature dropped so fast, Chloe’s teeth began to chatter.
And then, the fog began to drip.
Thick, grey, oily tendrils of mist began to pour from the pygmy oaks, like wet paint, hitting the boardwalk with a soft, wet thud.
“Charlee,” Chloe breathed, her voice a terrified squeak. “What did you do?”
“I… I opened the door,” Charlee said, her bravado gone, replaced by a terrible, ecstatic awe.
SLAP-DRAG.
The sound was wet. And heavy. It came from the sandy mud, just off the boardwalk, ten feet away.
“What was that?” Kace yelped, shining his flashlight into the trees.
The beam hit nothing but a twisted oak trunk.
SLAP-DRAG. CHITTER.
It was closer
“Raccoon,” Kace said, his voice a full octave higher. “A big, gross, sick raccoon.”
“Raccoons don’t sound like that,” Bryer whispered, his phone’s night-vision on, panning wildly into the darkness. “Guys… guys, stop moving.”
“We’re not moving,” Charlee said.
“Then… what is…?”
Bryer turned his phone. He showed them the screen.
In the ghostly green-and-black of the night-vision, they saw it.
It was standing just off the boardwalk, its feet in the mud, half-hidden by a pygmy oak. It was tall. Eight feet. Glistening and grey, like a slug. Its limbs were too long, its shoulders too broad. It had no face, just a smooth, wet cone of flesh.
And in the hollows where its eyes should be, two tiny, cold, blue lights swirled like captured galaxies.
“It’s a Taker,” Chloe sobbed. “Oh my god, Charlee, it’s a Taker.”
The Taker took a step. SLAP-DRAG. It was moving with a strange, awkward, pained gait. It looked… wrong.
“It’s… it’s drying out,” Charlee whispered.
She was right. The Taker’s skin, usually glistening and wet, was flaking. Grey, papery pieces of it were sloughing off, dissolving into mist before they hit the ground. It was inland. It was away from its source. It was dying.
“It’s… it’s trapped,” Kace said, a new, ugly confidence in his voice. “We’re safe. It’s stuck in the mud. Let’s just… go. Walk, don’t run.”
He grabbed Chloe’s hand and started backing away, toward the path they’d come from.
The Taker moved.
It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t slow. It was a blur of grey, wet motion, a spider made of water. It shot through the trees, parallel to the boardwalk, and emerged onto the path ahead of them, blocking their exit.
It stood there, twenty feet away, its head tilting, the blue lights swirling faster. It raised a long, thin, grey arm and pointed. Not at them.
It was pointing at the anchor. The stone and the abalone shell.
CLICK-CLICK-CHITTER-CLICK!
The sound was inside their heads, a dry, insectile, alien rage.
“It wants the anchor!” Charlee yelled. “Maybe if we give it to them…!”
“It’s not asking,” Kace yelled back
The Taker took a step toward them on the boardwalk. It hissed. A cloud of steam rose from its “feet” as they touched the dry, treated wood. It was in agony. The boardwalk was a “shore.” It was dry land.
It retreated, back into the mud, its blue lights dimming with pain.
They were in a stalemate. The Taker was trapped in the mud, and they were trapped on the boardwalk.
“Okay,” Kace said, his mind racing. “It’s sick. It’s weak. It can’t come on the wood. We just… we just push past it. It’s one… thing. We’re four. Bryer, flashlight on it. Charlee, Chloe, grab onto me. We’re just… we’re just running.”
“Kace, no!” Charlee screamed.
But Kace was already moving. “It’s dying! Look at it!”
He was right. The Taker looked pathetic. It was leaning against a pygmy oak, its form “leaking” grey mist. It looked weak.
“It’s just a water-balloon, man!” Kace yelled, a surge of adrenaline-fueled stupidity. “It’s a big, dumb jellyfish!”
He sprinted forward.
“Kace!”
The Taker didn’t move. It just watched him come.
Kace was ten feet away. Five. He was right at the edge of the boardwalk, level with the creature. He laughed, a high-pitched, terrified sound.
“See? I told you! It’s—”
The Taker’s arm shot out. It moved faster than a snake. It didn’t grab Kace.
It touched him.
Its long, grey, wet fingers brushed his bare forearm.
Kace stopped. He froze, mid-stride.
“Kace?” Chloe whispered.
Kace looked down at his arm.
He didn’t bleed. He didn’t have a mark.
He was… drying.
The three of them watched in silent, frozen horror.
Where the Taker had touched him, a grey, papery patch of skin appeared. It spread. Up his arm, onto his neck, across his face. His skin turned the color of ash, cracking and flaking. His clothes, damp with the fog, went stiff and dry.
“Guys…” Kace whispered. His voice was a dry, sibilant rasp, the sound of sand on paper.
He raised his hand. It was a claw. A husk.
He collapsed. Not like a body. Like a pile of old leaves. He hit the boardwalk in a dry, papery woosh.
The Taker, which had been flaking and dying, stood up straight.
Its skin was no longer dry. It was glistening, wet, and strong. The grey mist from Kace’s body, his moisture, his life, was now coating the Taker, nourishing it.
The Taker turned. It looked down the boardwalk at the three remaining teenagers.
It took a step, its blue-lit eyes swirling with a sudden, terrible, starving intelligence.
It didn’t need the sea. It didn’t need the bay.
It just needed water.
And they were full of it.
By Pamela Beach
The fog holds more secrets…
“The Elfin Forest Door” is just one piece of the legend. Discover the other terrifying tales of the Watchers, the Takers, and the mist that consumes, in the full Morro Bay Fog-Mythos Collection.
The best way to know when the next story emerges from the mist is to subscribe to my newsletter!
As a thank-you for joining, you’ll get a free download of my exclusive subscriber-only short story, “Where the Fog Settles First,”—a spooky tale you can’t read anywhere else.
Pamela Beach is a multi-genre author, poet, and lyricist who writes from her home on California’s foggy Central Coast. She is the creator of the “Morro Bay fog-mythos” and author of The Unstoppable You. You can read more of her work and explore her complete “fog-mythos” collection at her blog, Beyond the Blog with Pamela Beach
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