The Pale Shadows
The gate was rusted, a skeletal thing of iron and decay that stood at the edge of the town like a broken tooth in the mouth of the earth. Clara stood before it, her fingers white-knuckled around the strap of her bag, listening to the silence that wasn't quite silent. It was a heavy, wet quiet, the kind that presses against the eardrums before a storm breaks, or after a funeral. The town of...
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