The Pale Door
The road into the valley of St. Jude’s was not a path so much as a wound in the earth, a ragged scar of red clay that cut through the dense, whispering pines and opened onto a flat, grey expanse of stone and silence. It was a place that seemed to have been forgotten by the sun, a pocket of the world where the air hung heavy and still, thick with the scent of damp moss and old, dried leaves that...
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