The Distant Ghost
The mud on the road to Oakhaven was not merely wet; it was a thick, sucking slurry that pulled at your boots with every step, a physical resistance that seemed to mirror the heaviness of the letter clutched in your trembling hand, the paper damp and softening from the rain that had been falling since dawn. You were twelve years old, Thomas Bradshaw, and you walked with the singular, terrifying...
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