The Pale Mist
The fog in the Blackwood Valley did not behave like weather; it behaved like a living thing, a viscous, pale substance that clung to the cobblestones and the rusted iron of the textile mills, pressing against the glass of the factory windows with a slow, deliberate hunger. Elias Thorne, Sergeant of the County Constabulary, stood at the threshold of the abandoned Vane Mill, his hand resting on...
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