The Golden Song
The air in the Appalachian foothills did not smell of pine, as the old maps suggested, but of wet stone and the metallic tang of impending rain, a scent that crept into the lungs of Dr. Elias Thorne as he trudged up the muddy switchback of Blackwood Ridge. He was a man of precise habits and sharper intellect, a scholar of folklore who had spent three decades cataloging the ghost stories of...
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