When It's Time to Move On

Door 1 - Chapter 6 - Lost in the Mist

"You've got some nerve!" Harris began. The stranger didn't turn.

"Do you hear me?" He asked, louder than before yet the man remained stationary.

"Are you some kind of freak?" He asked, but the man still gave no response. "You know what? If you don't get off this spot right now, I'm going to hit you." He had hoped his threat would aggravate at least a hint of comprehension but was disappointed.

"Do you hear me?" He asked again, aghast at the stranger's inability to grasp his words. "Do you need help? Should I call someone?" Harris wondered if the man might react to kinder words.

"That's it, you're clearly a crackhead of some kind. I'm going to give you till morning. If you don't leave then I'm calling the police and they'll lug you out of here."

With that warning, he turned his heel. But he found his gaze wandering to the window as he climbed into bed, curious whether the stranger heeded his warning. Harris convinced himself the man had indeed listened as he closed his drowsy eyes, bringing an end to a highly peculiar day.

There was no sign of the stranger in the morning and a new day beckoned. Danny and Jennifer weren't ones to be missed, though, as the young couple scurried him off to another breakfast at the Corner Inn.

"What are you guys having today?"

"Sunny side up," Danny replied cheerfully. Harris felt his spirits sink, the answer wasn't unexpected, but it was a blow to his aspirations from the day. Curt, the barman, didn't even bother looking at him and brought the same order as Danny's.

"The same as before, huh?" asked Harris, looking down at his plate with disdain.

"Yeah, I hope you don't mind," said Danny. "I thought I'd order for you".

"If you didn't mind yesterday, then why would you today?" Harris asked sarcastically, which Danny didn't catch as he roared with laughter.

"Are you feeling all right today, Harris?" asked Jennifer, eyeing him. "You look a little off-color."

"Oh no, I just had to get some food in me. That's all", he answered, making an excuse, "You guys wouldn't be doing the same as yesterday, would you?"

"Yes we will be, we don't feel like going out."

"I'm sure you don't," Harris whispered as he left, not bothering to say goodbye. He was sure he'd find them by the beach again eventually. Stepping out, he saw the druggie kid again with his wide smile.

"Nice to see you again. How you doin' today?"

"Just fine," said Harris, untruthfully.

"I was jus' wonderin' how your breakfast went."

"Just fine," he repeated, giving the money to the youngster, who had eagerly stretched out his hand, and strode off happily. Harris shook his head and moved away, only to have another near miss with the boy on the bike.

"Gee sorry, Mister," the boy apologized hesitantly, "Oh, it's you again. Wanna race?"

"All right then, on the count of three," Harris sighed.

The boy took off with his bike while Harris ran in the opposite direction, thinking.

The same events, again? It didn't seem likely for these things to repeat themselves.

He decided he would go to an amusement park somewhere near. However, he failed to notice the group of people playing volleyball and found himself in another match. Harris intentionally held back to end the game sooner but, as before, the ball went out of bounds.

He went to retrieve it, encountering the stranger once again. This triggered a panic attack in Harris. The other players rushed over to help; they concluded that he was malnourished and needed something to eat, and took him out to dinner – at the same lavish restaurant he'd been going to. Harris' pleas fell upon deaf ears, but finally, the crab bisque – now tasting nowhere near as delicious as it had once before – was served.

When he arrived home, all he wanted to do was curl up in bed, when his eyes fell on the stranger yet again. Harris dashed inside, locking the doors and the windows, and endured a sleepless night.

And so it continued; for what felt like a year or more, Harris lived through each day more or less the same way. It didn't matter if he didn't step out of the house; circumstances forced him to run into his monotonous neighbors. The couple would whisk him away to the Corner Inn for the same omelet every day. He always ran into the druggie and the bicycle kid after breakfast, and the rest of the day was subjective on which route he took.

The end result was either the ice skating rink, bowling alley, or the cinema for the same movie. The restaurant would be the place for dinner, with the same serving of Crab bisque. Going back home meant either evading the volleyball players or joining in. Finally, it was the sight of the stranger that greeted him when he returned home. This strange man haunted him the most.

It wasn't his demeanor or his ragged appearance – or the ridiculous hat he wore, resembling a sombrero – not even the stench that surrounded him. Yet every night, Harris tried to figure out what it was to no avail. He'd even taken to examining the man for hours on end, oddly dozing off and waking up to find him gone.

Another night, Harris was about to doze off when he awoke with a start; the sound of a loud thud alerting him. Looking down he saw the ice cream box that had slipped from his weary hands and splattered on the ground when he realized the stranger had gone. Seizing this opportunity, Harris dashed out.

He ran all around the beach for the next couple of hours, unable to sight even the horrible hat of the stranger. A peculiar mist filled the air. Soon enough, he was lost but spotted someone sitting on a bench nearby.

"Excuse me," asked Harris, "could you tell me the way toward the beach houses?"

"Just keep heading straight to your right," came the reply.

"Thank you," Harris thanked him, but before he could move away something caught his eye. The hat; even through the mist was unmistakable. It was the stranger. And he'd responded.

"Can I ask you something?" He asked politely, all thoughts of heading back to the beach house vanished.

"Yes?" The stranger asked, turning towards Harris, who finally saw his face.

He was an extremely unkempt man around middle age. His clothes seemed to have worn themselves out with excessive use. He had a long, bristly beard, as if not having been trimmed in the slightest. His distinctive feature was his expression; the most defeated Harris had ever seen on anyone, it could only belong to someone who had lost everything in life. He instantly took pity on the man. 

With pity came a revelation; he had lived this before, back when he'd visited the town for the first time.

Back then, a nighttime stroll had become a search for sanctuary when he'd found himself lost in the mist and encountered this very man even then. On that occasion, he'd hurried off the moment the man gave him directions. Now, as he stood there facing the same person once more, Harris knew, through some otherworldly force, that he was supposed to talk to him.