The fog did not lift. It thickened.
Walter stood at the edge of the gray. The mist rolled in from the sea, cold and wet, smelling of salt and rot. It swallowed the village of St. Jude’s whole. One moment the stone cottages were there, huddled against the cliffs. The next, only the fog remained. And the tower.
The tower stood alone. It was black. It was tall. It had no door.
Walter looked at his...
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