The Distant Affair
The mud was black and thick, sucking at Elias Thorne’s boots with a wet, rhythmic pull. He stood in the clearing, the forest pressing in from all sides, the trees leaning forward as if to listen. In his left hand, he held a severed finger. It was rotting, the skin sloughing off to reveal the white bone beneath, and it trembled against his palm. Elias was thirty-two, a postal inspector for the...
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