Fingers in the Fog

Vincent missed the last shuttle bus home from work and was regretting it. Normally that wasn't a concern. He had walked home in blanket-thick fog before. But that was before his coworker's warning.

"I wouldn't work late tonight if I were you," Martha said to him. He had asked her why, she simply replied, "It's the Feast of the Fog." She hadn't elaborated, he hadn't asked.

He glimpsed a panicked flash of a dog that brushed against his leg as it ran by. Then he saw it and Vincent finally understood Martha's cryptic warning, but it was too late.