The Pale Shadows
The rifle stock was slick with the cold sweat of my palms, and the air tasted of ozone and burnt hair. I did not see a monster. I saw a geometry of bone and shadow, a twisting silhouette that defied the flat landscape of the Nevada high desert. It stood at the edge of the wash, where the sagebrush had turned to ash, and it looked at me with an eye that was not an eye, but a void that sucked the...
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