It didn’t take long for Ben to realize why his house was so cheap. It seemed perfect, high up in Daly City, minutes from work in San Francisco and a slice of the ocean from the upstairs bedroom window. It was a working class neighborhood, but a nice one, with shopping within walking distance. But he saw it and fell in love with it in early spring. Then spring started to give way to summer.

He quickly discovered that for half the year there was almost no visibility. The signals on Skyline Drive, his road to the city, had flashing signs to warn that the signals were changing. The fog was thick, blowing damp and cold. It was hard to see across the street, let alone the ocean.

Still, it was convenient, if not ideal for back yard barbecues.  Schools were close enough and work was fifteen minutes. He settled in with his family, doing what people do in suburbia.

Jenny, his wife, also worked in the city, and they often drove together, after dropping the kids at school. With the exception of the weather, it was anytown, USA.  But then he looked into the abyss.

Around the corner the streets ended at the bluff. Far below was the beach. There used to be a road to Pacifica somewhere down there, but it had crumbled away years ago. The bluffs were unstable, and Ben was glad his house didn’t back up to the crumbling sandy cliffs.

One day, a few months after moving in, he walked around the corner to the little park on the edge of the bluff. Wanting to see if the beach was visible, he walked to the railing and looked over. He couldn’t keep his eyes open, the gales of fog blowing straight up into his face. He tried to look down for even a few moments into a great swirling gray mass. It was the strangest feeling he’d ever had. Pulling his head back, a thought crossed his mind: “The icy bowels of hell.”  There was something mysterious and somewhat creepy about this mass of unforgiving fog. 

Soon this became part of his routine. He’d come home from work, pick up the kids, change out of his suit and walk to the park to peer over the edge. The more he did this, the more it fascinated him in a strangely compulsive way. The view, or lack of it, would set his imagination free, and he could picture all sorts of odd scenarios brewing in that hidden swirl.