(By Kat Tovslosky, main character in the Iconoclast Thriller series.)

We tell ourselves that growing up means leaving behind the terrors of childhood—the monsters under the bed, the shadows that whisper in the dark. We trade those fears for the weight of adult responsibilities, convincing ourselves that logic and reason can banish the unknown. But sometimes, all it takes is a single moment—a shift in the air, a flicker of something unnatural—to rip away that fragile armor and drag us back to the trembling child we thought we’d buried.

Today, I, Kat Tovslosky, was that child again, caught in the grip of a memory so vivid, so bone-chilling, it left me shivering in my own skin.

This morning began like any other. My to-do list was neatly scrawled, my boots laced, and I was ready to stride into town for my weekly indulgence—a mocha so rich it felt like a hug in a cup—and a quick stop at the general store. The world was mine to conquer, or so I thought. But when I flung open my door, the air itself turned against me. A thick, inky fog slithered across the Inlet, its tendrils curling like skeletal fingers, swallowing the crisp blue sky that had greeted me just moments before. The sight stopped me cold. My breath hitched, my heart pounded, and before I could think, I stumbled back into the safety of my home, the door slamming shut behind me.

Why did this fog unnerve me so deeply? It wasn’t just the weather—it was something primal, something that clawed at the edges of my mind. Was it Stephen King’s The Mist, which I’d read a few nights ago, its horrors still lingering like a bad dream? No. This was older, deeper, a fear stitched into the fabric of my being.

I peeled off my coat, sank into the sagging embrace of my overstuffed couch, and let my mind unravel, searching for the source of this dread. The fog. To my people, it was never just a weather event. It was a harbinger, a veil for ‘those who steal us.’

My grandmother’s voice echoed in my head, sharp and urgent, her eyes wide as she gripped my small hands. “Katrina, if the fog comes rolling in, you run home. You run, and you don’t look back.” As a child, I’d laughed it off, thinking it was just another of her tales to keep me in line, like stories of boogeymen or wolves in the woods.

But then came the day when I was ten, the day the fog took Jonathan Richard. He was a quiet boy, all freckles and nervous smiles, the kind who’d share his candy without being asked. One autumn afternoon, the fog came, heavy and sudden, blanketing our town in a silence so thick it felt like the world was holding its breath.

Jonathan was playing by the docks, tossing stones into the water. I saw him there, his red jacket a bright smear against the gray. Then the fog thickened, and he was gone. Vanished. No scream, no trace, just… gone. The adults searched for days, their faces drawn, their voices hushed as they whispered of ‘those who steal us.’ The official story was that he’d fallen into the icy waters of the Inlet, swept away by the current. A tragic accident, they said. But the little girl inside me knew better. She felt the truth in her bones: the fog had taken him. Sitting on my couch now, decades later, I tried to reason with that child. “It was an accident,” I told myself, my voice barely a whisper. “A boy got lost. That’s all.”

But the child inside me wasn’t listening. She was wide-eyed, her small voice trembling as it hissed, “They’ll take you too, Katrina. They’re still out there, waiting in the fog.” My adult logic crumbled under the weight of her fear. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, as if the fog had seeped through the walls, curling around me like a living thing. I pressed my hands to my face, my palms clammy, my pulse racing. What if she was right? What if there was something out there—a faceless, nameless presence that moved with the fog, hunting, stealing? I glanced at the window, half-expecting to see a face pressed against the glass, its eyes hollow, its mouth a silent scream. The fog was thicker now, a writhing wall of gray that pulsed with a rhythm I couldn’t name. It wasn’t just obscuring the world—it was erasing it. The trees, the road, the horizon—all gone, devoured by that endless, creeping void. And in that moment, I was ten years old again, standing on the docks, watching Jonathan’s red jacket fade into the mist. I could almost hear his voice, faint and pleading, carried on the wind: “Katrina, don’t let them take you.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to banish the image, but it only grew sharper. The fog wasn’t just outside—it was inside me, stirring memories I’d buried deep. I remembered the stories the elders told, their voices low and trembling, of figures that moved in the fog, their shapes never quite human, their whispers promising secrets no one should hear. They were the ones who stole us, the ones who took the unwary, the curious, the brave. And Jonathan had been brave, hadn’t he? Brave enough to linger by the water, to throw one last stone before the fog claimed him.

My breath came in shallow gasps now, the air in the room too thick, too cold. I wanted to laugh it off, to tell myself I was being ridiculous, but the child within me was louder, stronger. She was screaming, “Run, Katrina, run!”

But where could I go? The fog was everywhere, pressing against the windows, seeping under the door. I could feel it watching me, waiting for me to make a mistake, to step outside and let it swallow me whole. So I made a choice—a choice no rational adult would make, but one that felt like the only truth. I could be brave tomorrow. I could be logical tomorrow. Today, I would listen to the child inside me, the one who knew the fog wasn’t just fog. Today, I would stay here, safe behind my locked door, and let the mysteries of the world remain unanswered. Because some questions don’t have answers. Some truths are too heavy to carry.

As I sat there, curled on my couch, the fog rolling past my windows like a living tide, I let myself be that little girl again. I let myself feel the fear, the wonder, the bone-deep certainty that there are things in this world we’ll never understand.

And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the fog isn’t just a warning—it’s a reminder that the world is still wild, still full of shadows that move when we’re not looking. Maybe ‘those who steal us’ are out there, their voices carried on the wind, their stories waiting to be told. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll listen. But not today. Today, I’ll stay here, safe in the warmth of my home, and let the fog keep its secrets. Because some stories are too terrifying to hear.