The Pale Mist
The shadow had weight. It pressed against Elias’s sternum like a wet sack of grain, and he pushed back with his shoulders, his boots slipping on the damp stone of the cellar floor. He was twelve years old, and he was strong enough to hold it for three more minutes. He counted them in the dark, the only light coming from the single bare bulb that flickered above the root cellar shelves, casting...
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