“Xebico Sept. 16 CP BULLETIN
“The heaviest mist in the history of the city settled over the town at 4 o’clock yesterday afternoon. All traffic has stopped and the mist hangs like a pall over everything. Lights of ordinary intensity fail to pierce the fog, which is constantly growing heavier.
“Scientists here are unable to agree as to the cause, and the local weather bureau states that the like has never occurred before in the history of the city.
“At 7 p. m. last night municipal authorities—(more)”
That was all there was. Nothing out of the ordinary at a bureau headquarters, but, as I say, I noticed the story because of the name of the town.
It must have been fifteen minutes later that I went over for another batch of copy. Morgan was slumped down in his chair and had switched his green electric light shade so that the gleam missed his eyes and hit only the top of the two typewriters.
Only the usual stuff was in the right hand pile, but the left hand batch carried another story from “Xebico.” All press dispatches come in “takes,” meaning that parts of many different stories are strung along together, perhaps with but a few paragraphs of each coming through at a time. This second story was marked “add fog.” Here is the copy:
“At 7 p. m. the fog had increased noticeably. All lights were now invisible and the town was shrouded in pitch darkness.
“As a peculiarity of the phenomenon, the fog is accompanied by a sickly odor, comparable to nothing yet experienced here.”
Below that in customary press fashion was the hour, 3:27, and the initials of the operator, JM.
There was only one other story in the pile from the second wire. Here it is:
“2nd add Xebico Fog
“Accounts as to the origin of the mist differ greatly. Among the most unusual is that of the sexton of the local church, who groped his way to headquarters in a hysterical condition and declared that the fog originated in the village churchyard.
“‘It was first visible in the shape of a soft gray blanket clinging to the earth above the graves,’ he stated. ‘Then it began to rise, higher and higher. A subterranean breeze seemed to blow it in billows, which split up and then joined together again.
“‘Fog phantoms, writhing in anguish, twisted the mist into queer forms and figures. And then—in the very thick midst of the mass—something moved.
“‘I turned and ran from the accursed spot. Behind me I heard screams coming from the houses bordering on the graveyard.’
“Although the sexton’s story is generally discredited, a party has left to investigate. Immediately after telling his story, the sexton collapsed and is now in a local hospital, unconscious.”
Queer story, wasn’t it? Not that we aren’t used to it, for a lot of unusual stories come in over the wire. But for some reason or other, perhaps because it was so quiet that night, the report of the fog made a great impression on me.
It was almost with dread that I went over to the waiting piles of copy. Morgan did not move and the only sound in the room was the tap-tap of the sounders. It was ominous, nerve-racking.