A dark crystaline myst wrapped its damnation upon the sleeping village of Jerome. Every business, every home, every living thing had been enveloped in its sweet cold touch. No one seemed to notice.
But the old woman saw it coming, for she could feel the ache of it as deeply in her soul, as in her aged, and fragile bones. It was just like before, only stronger now, she muttered to herself. She felt the pain of it seeping into her stomach as it glided across the farmer's fields, crossing Panther Creek. and White Oaks at the edge of town. It had finally crossed Spring Field and met the outskirts of Jerome. The clock struck Midnight.
She resisted at first, believing that she alone understood its nature. That somehow she would offer it some human friendship, some kind offering of thoughts in exchange for her soul.
It had taken her father, her mother, her sister, and her husband. It had come in the night for her before, but she had always outlasted it. At ninety nine years of age she saw her life hidden in the myst itself. Fear rose within her. While she did not fear death, she did not want to succumb to the myst. Not like the others.
Frantically, she crawled from bed making her way across the darkened room to the south facing window which looked out upon Alberta Lane. She peeled back the edge of the curtin. As she rose from her chair she began wiping beads of water from the cold glass making slow deliberate circles. Her arms were feeble now, withered by her years, and the bone tumors which had riddled her arms. Pulling herself up, she craned her neck, softly pushing her fragile skull up to the edge of the sill, and with her eyes wide open she peered out into the myst.
A glowing green point of light appeared in the distance. She pulled back, and then looked again as if in disbelief, her look then turned to horror. Flinging her hands to her face in terror she let out a gasp before collapsing into her chair. It was just as it had been before, she screamed. She quickly yanked the curtin shut, and drew back across the room. Slamming her wheelchair into the night table she crawled into her bed, pulled her nightclothes over her head, and died.
The next morning a village deputy was called to investigate what one resident had reported as a loud whaling sound. A blood curdling cry which many in the village had heard that night, but which most had been too frightened, too drunk, or too apathetic to report.