The Pale Mist
The hall smelled of roasting goose and damp wool, a thick, cloying scent that hung in the air like a shroud. Outside the tall, leaded windows of the St. Jude’s Community Center, the November rain lashed against the pavement, blurring the streetlamps into halos of bruised yellow. Inside, however, the air was dry and hot, charged with the electric tension of expectation. Margaret Holloway stood...
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