The Pale Tale
The vial in Elias’s hand trembled, not from the cold that seeped through the floorboards of the Thorne house, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that had settled over the coastal town of Harrowgate. For six years, the pale fungus had grown in the cellar, a slow, rhythmic pulse of white light that fed on the ambient grief of the family, turning sorrow into a thick, iridescent...
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