The fog did not lift again.
“The yard is not a place. It is a hinge. I am the hinge. You have walked my bounds for three days. Now you must choose: step through, or stay and become a post.” Yog-Sothoth-s Yard
Ezekiel fretted anyway. He was a practical man, a retired surveyor who believed in boundary lines and right angles. The yard, however, refused to obey either. His GPS spun wildly whenever he crossed the fence line. His measuring tape, stretched between two oaks, came back with different lengths each time—twelve feet, then thirty, then a length that seemed to fold into itself like a swallowed sob. The fog did not lift again