The Pale Mist
The bell did not ring. It screamed. A high, thin shriek that tore through the fog. Old Silas dropped his chisel. The stone dust hung in the air. It did not settle. It waited. Silas did not move. His hands trembled. Not from cold. From fear. The church was quiet. Too quiet. The pews were empty. The candles were dead. Only the mist remained. It seeped under the door. White. Thick. Alive. Silas...
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