The Pale Shadows
The timber fell not with a crash but with a wet, tearing sound that seemed to come from inside my own chest, and before I could even register the white-hot spike of agony, my father was already screaming at me to move. I was twelve years old, standing in the black mud of the hollow where the creek ran brown and thick, my left hand hanging by a thread of skin and splintered bone, the blood...
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