The Fog

by James Herbert

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Foreword

  The Fog made me a lot of enemies. Fortunately, it also made me a lot of friends.

  It was first published in 1975 (written in 1974) when spy stories and historical romances were the vogue. In the United States, William Peter Blatty had made his definitive mark with the movie of The Exorcist, and word was going around about an interesting new writer by the name of Stephen King. In England a new kind of horror tale involving mutant rats on the loose in London’s East End, a story that held scant regard for conventional moderation in its depiction of violence and the consequences, had created something of a stir. It was a book that (literally, you might say) went straight for the jugular. The Rats was my first attempt at a novel. The Fog was my second.

  For better or worse, they were the initial part in a growing explicitness of narrative, stories that rarely balked at expressing horror’s true physical reality. Judging by the genre’s swift return to public attention, through both the novel and the screen, that reality had been suppressed far too long (whether or not the sudden healthy release has transmuted into an unhealthy fascination is another matter). Readers or moviegoers no longer wanted to be merely frightened, they wanted to be shocked rigid too.

  Yet, for all that, is The Fog, a tale of murder, madness and mayhem, as graphically horrific as its longlasting notoriety would suggest? By comparison with today’s standards, certainly not. But when it was first published in 1975? Well, even that’s debatable. Ramsey Campbell, perhaps one of the most respected authors of the genre, has said in a reappraisal: ‘The Fog contains remarkably few graphic acts of violence, though two are so horrible and painful that they pervade the book. Herbert concentrates rather on painting a landscape of (occasionally comic) nightmare, and most of the episodes are of terror rather than explicit violence.’ My point is – and this is an observation, not a defence – that much of the controversial extremism is in the mind of the beholder rather than on the page. I must confess, however, to being pleased with the effectiveness of its images.

  Nevertheless, with this new edition, the temptation was to rewrite, to smooth out the rougher edges, perhaps endow some of the characters with a little more depth. After all, a dozen novels on, and by the very nature of practice, I must have picked up a few more skills along the way.

  But by so doing, would I detract from the original? To me, The Fog provides an honest reflection of the transient mood of the horror genre in the seventies, being in some ways a throwback to the fifties and much earlier, whereby due homage (albeit subconsciously) is paid to Wells, Wyndham and Kneale – War of the Worlds, Day of the Triffids and Quatermass respectively – while advancing very firmly towards the eighties. And it’s sheer energy that carries the story through to the climactic finale; refinement might well sap its strength. I think change would be an unnecessary indulgence on my part.

  Besides, I like the beast the way it is.

  James Herbert

  Sussex 1988

  1

  The village slowly began to shake off its slumber and come to life. Slowly because nothing ever happened with speed in that part of Wiltshire; a mood of timelessness carefully cultivated by the villagers over the centuries prevailed. Newcomers had soon fallen into the leisurely pace and welcomed the security it created. Restless youngsters never stayed long but always remembered, and many missed, the protective quiet of the village. The occasional tourist discovered by accident and delighted in its weathered charm, but within minutes its quaintness would be explored to the full and the traveller would move on, sighing for the peace of it, but a little afraid of the boredom it might bring.

  Jessie opened her grocery shop at precisely 8.30 as she had been doing for the past twenty years. Her first customer, Mrs Thackery, wouldn’t be in till 8.45, but to break the routine of early opening would never be considered. Even when Tom, her late husband, had died, the shop had still been opened on the dot of 8.30 and two days later when he’d been buried it was only shut for an hour between 10.00 and 11.00. Jessie enjoyed her morning chat with Mrs Thackery, who always called whether she needed to buy something or not. She’d been a great comfort since Tom had died and never missed her morning cup of tea with Jessie. They never got bored by each other’s gossip; one topic could last two weeks and a death in the village would get them through three.

  She waved to Mr Papworth, the butcher across the street who was sweeping the pavement outside his shop. Nice man, Mr Papworth. Much nicer since his wife had left him. That had caused a stir in the village and no mistake, when she’d walked out after six years of marriage. She hadn’t been his sort anyway. Much too young for him, too flighty; couldn’t stand the quiet life. He’d brought her back from his holiday in Bournemouth and after all the years, when everybody had thought him a confirmed bachelor, had announced her as his bride. It could never have lasted, they all knew that at the outset, but he had tried. Still, all that was in the past. His visits from across the road were becoming more and more frequent and the whole village knew what was in the wind and that the butcher’s and grocery shop would eventually become a combined family business. There was no rush; things would take their course.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Bundock!’

  Her reverie was interrupted by two young voices in unison. She looked down and smiled at little Freddy Graves and his even smaller sister, Clara.

  ‘Hello, you two. Just off to school?’

  ‘Yep,’ replied Freddy, craning his neck to look at the jars of sweets on the shelves behind her.

  ‘And how are you, Clara?’ Jessie beamed at the five-year old who had only recently started school.

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ came the shy reply.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you two today. Saturday’s usually your pocket-money day, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yep. But we polished all Daddy’s boots yesterday, so he gave us a special treat,’ was Freddy’s bright-faced reply. Their father was a policeman whose station was in the next town. He was a gruff-spoken but pleasant man who adored his two children, but dealt with them strictly.

  ‘Well, what are you going to buy?’ Jessie asked, knowing they wouldn’t have much to spend. ‘You’d better hurry or you’ll miss your bus.’

  Clara pointed at the penny-chews and Freddy nodded his head in agreement. ‘Three each, please,’ he said.

  ‘Well now, penny chews are cheaper on Mondays. You get four each for six p today.’

  They beamed up at her as she reached for the jar and took out the sweets.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Clara as she put three in her pocket and began to unwrap the fourth. Freddy gave Jessie the money, took his four and followed his sister’s example.

  ‘Bye bye now. Have a nice day!’ she called after them as they ran from the shop, Freddy clutching Clara’s hand.

  ‘Morning Jessie.’ The postman was leaning his bike up outside the door.

  ‘Hello, Tom. Something for me?’

  ‘Airmail, ’spect it’s from your boy,’ he replied, entering the shop. ‘S’going to be another lovely day today. Beautiful clear sky out.’ He handed her the blue and red envelope, noticing the shadow of sadness that seemed to pass over her face. ‘Been in the army
nearly a year now, hasn’t he?’

  She nodded, studying the stamps on the envelope.

  ‘Ah well, Jessie, it was only to be expected. Young boy like that. Couldn’t stay cooped up in a village like this all his life, could he? Needed to see places, did Andy. Always liked to get about, always up to some mischief. Having the time of his life now, I reckon.’

  She nodded again, sighing as she began to open the envelope.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. But I do miss him. He was a good boy.’

  The postman shook his head once then shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Well, see you tomorrow, Jessie. Must be off.’

  ‘Yes. Bye, Tom.’ She unfolded the thin blue writing paper and began to read the letter, a smile spreading across her face as Andy’s natural boisterousness shone through the written words.

  Suddenly she felt giddy and lurched against the counter. She put her hand to her forehead, alarmed at the strange stomach-rising feeling. Then she heard a deep rumbling noise, a sound that came from below, under her feet. The floor began to quiver causing her to clutch at the counter again; the quiver became a trembling. Jars began to rattle on their shelves, cans began to tumble. The rumbling grew louder, deeper. It began to fill her head. She dropped her letter and clapped both hands to her ears. The ground shook. She lost her balance and fell to her knees. The whole shop seemed to be moving. The large glass window cracked and then fell in. Shelves collapsed. The noise became deafening. Jessie screamed and stumbled towards the doorway; every time she tried to rise she was thrown to her knees. She crawled to the entrance, terror of the building collapsing in on her forcing her on. Vibrations ran through her body, at times the shaking almost making her lose contact with the floor.

  She reached the door, and looked out at the road that ran through the village. She couldn’t believe what her eyes told her.

  The postman stood in the middle of the road holding on to his bike. A huge crack appeared at his feet and suddenly, as the ground opened up, he disappeared. The crack snaked along the length of the street to where young Freddy and Sara stood transfixed, clutching one another, and on towards Mrs Thackery who had been making her way to Jessie’s shop. Suddenly it seemed as though the whole village had been wrenched apart. The road disappeared as the ground opened up like a gigantic yawning mouth.

  Jessie looked across the road and just caught sight of the terrified face of Mr Papworth as he and the whole row of shops and houses on his side were swallowed up by the earth.

  2

  John Holman wearily changed gear to take the car around the bend in the narrow country road. He was unshaven and his clothes were still damp from the morning dew. He’d spent half the night trying to sleep inside a thicket out of sight of the army patrols that practised their manoeuvres on a large but secluded part of Salisbury Plain. The area was owned by the Ministry of Defence and trespassers were severely dealt with if caught. The grounds could never be entered by accident; high fences and many warning notices took care of that. The fences travelled many miles around the territory’s perimeter and a heavy screen of trees and undergrowth successfully concealed what lay beyond.

  Holman shook his head in disgust at the danger and discomfort he’d had to go through to maintain secrecy when he himself worked for the same government. It was idiotic that the two departments, the Ministry of Defence and the Department of the Environment, couldn’t work hand in hand, but held back information, guarded against intrusion, as if they were two different countries. He had been recruited into a new office specially formed by the Department of the Environment, to investigate anything from polluted rivers to outbreaks of disease. It was a special unit because nearly all the investigations were carried out secretly. If a company was suspected of illegally dumping dangerous waste product, be it into the sea, into a river, or on to a tip, but no proof could be found by direct methods, then Holman was sent in to probe further.

  He usually worked alone and often under a cover, more than once he’d taken on manual labour to get inside a factory to find the information needed. Hospitals, a mental home – even an experimental home-range factory farm; he’d worked in many places and, often as not, in government institutions to get at the source of suspected malpractice. His one big frustration was that the transgressions he unearthed were not always acted upon. When politics – business or governmental – became involved, he knew the chances of prosecution against the offenders were slim. At thirty-two, Holman was still young enough to be angered by the seeming lack of resolution shown by his superiors when he himself had taken great risks to ferret out the proof they had asked him to provide.

  However, he could also be quite unscrupulous in achieving his aims and more than once had seriously infringed the law, causing alarm among the few superiors who knew about his activities. At the moment his project was to investigate land owned by the Ministry of Defence, used by them for military purposes and protected for them by the Official Secrets Act. Vast areas of land, much of it appropriated during the Napoleonic war and more recently, World War II, was used as a training ground for the army. Most of it was in the south because of invasion fears. Holman knew that much of it was going to waste, areas of great natural beauty, rich arable soil being allowed to spoil. At a time when good land and open spaces were becoming more and more scarce, valuable country could not be allowed to be misused. The Ministry of Defence was holding tightly on to over 750,000 acres for training or test purposes and his department was demanding at least 30,000 of those acres be handed back to the people. There was every reason for the Ministry of Defence to retain a good part of this private land, but suspicions were that only a fraction of it was necessary.

  The Ministry had been approached, but a tight security net had been drawn over any enquiries. So Holman had been given the job of seeing just how much land was being used and if for valid purposes. The war between different government departments was ridiculous in his eyes, but he accepted it as a fact of life.

  He had spent two rigorous days dodging patrols, taking photographs, gathering information about the enormous woodland area owned by the Ministry on Salisbury Plain. Had he been caught the consequences could have been quite severe, but he knew the risk involved and even enjoyed it. His employers knew this and played on the streak in his character that demanded risk, an element of danger, a gamble.

  Now, as he rounded the bend, he saw a village ahead. One of the small, barely known villages that dotted the Plain, he decided. Maybe he could get some breakfast here.

  He drew nearer and suddenly became aware of a strange vibration running through the car, then of a deep rumbling noise as the vehicle began to shake. By the time he reached the main street running through the village his vision was becoming too blurred for him to travel further. And what he could see, he found hard to comprehend.

  A gigantic crack appeared directly ahead of him then grew longer and wider, reaching towards him in a jagged, fast-moving line. His shocked brain just had time to register two children and a woman, and beyond them a man with a bicycle, before the ground opened up and they disappeared into the black chasm it created. The shops on his left began to collapse into the widening hole. The noise was deafening as the earth was wrenched apart, climaxing in a sound like an explosive thunderclap. Through his horror he realized that the ground below his car was beginning to split. He opened the door but too late – the car lurched forward and began to fall. The door was forced shut and Holman was trapped inside.

  For a moment the car was stuck, but as the hole widened, it slid forward again. Panic seized him. He cried out in terror. Down it plunged at an acute angle, the rough sides of the earth preventing it from freefalling. After what must have been only a few sickening seconds, the car became wedged again and he found himself pressed up against the steering wheel, staring down into a frightening black void. His body was frozen, his mind almost paralysed with the horror of what was happening Slowly, his brain began to function. He must be at the end of the opening, where t
he sides were narrowest. If it widened further, the car would plunge into the black depths below. He tried to look up towards ground level but couldn’t see through the swirling dust.

  Panic drove him into action. He frantically pushed himself away from the steering wheel but the sudden movement caused the car to slide a terrifying two feet further down. He forced himself to keep calm, his breath coming in short gasps, the sounds of falling masonry, glass and dislodged earth filling his ears. More cautiously, he began to edge himself over into the back seat. He froze as the car shifted again, but this time the movement was fractional. He kept his position for a few tense moments then started to ease himself back again.

  Gaining the back seat, he turned round into a position where he could wind down a rear side window. He saw there was just sufficient gap between the car and the side of the chasm for him to squeeze through. Loose earth fell through the open window adding more weight to the precariously balanced vehicle.

  Abandoning caution, he scrambled through and clung to the crumpling wall of rock and earth, expecting to hear the wrenching sound of the car tearing itself loose to fall into the depths below. For a full five minutes he stayed there, his head tight against the earth, clutching desperately to the treacherous surface.

  The unsettled dust began to clear slightly and he looked around him fearfully. From the jagged outline above he guessed the eruption was at least five hundred yards long. The sides seemed steady now although shales of earth still showered down into what seemed a bottomless pit. He peered into the darkness below and shuddered at the awesome sight. It was as though the very bowels of the earth had opened up; the blackness seemed infinite.

  A slight tremor made him bury his hands and face into the earth, his heart pounding wildly, expecting at any moment to be dislodged from his insecure perch.

  A sudden cry forced his eyes open once more. He peered through the disturbed dust and saw what looked like a tiny figure lying on a narrow sloping ledge about fifty feet away on the opposite wall of earth. With shock, he realized it was one of the children he’d seen in the street above. The little girl. Of the boy who’d been with her, there was no sign. She began to whimper piteously.