The Pale Path
The first thing you notice is not the blood, but the silence. It is a thick, wet silence, the kind that hangs in the air after a heavy rain has stopped, smelling of wet stone and crushed lavender. You are standing in the kitchen of the house on Elm Street, the one with the peeling blue paint, and you are holding a knife that is not yours. Or perhaps it is yours now. The distinction has become...
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