What the Ground Eats
The thing sat in Dale Rostow's north pasture like a black dinner plate pressed into the dirt. It had been there three years, since the Tuesday in November when a green flash lit up the cornfield and the thing appeared, quiet as a dropped book. Dale stood at the edge of it with Sheriff Bud Hinkle and watched it eat the fence post. "It's on the move," Dale said. "Could be the worms," Bud said....
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