The Pale Mist
The autumn fog did not arrive so much as it settled, a heavy, grey blanket that suffocated the iron gates of Ashworth Manor and swallowed the gravel drive whole, leaving the world outside in a state of suspended animation while the house within remained rigidly, stubbornly awake in its darkness. Sir Arthur Pendelton, a man whose spine had long since surrendered its youthful rigidity to the...
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