The Pale Mist
The engine coughed, a dry, rattling sound that echoed off the empty dashboard, and Eleanor Vance gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled precision, her knuckles popping in the cold morning air. She had packed the car with the ruthless efficiency of a woman preparing for war, leaving behind the silence of her house on Elm Street, a silence that had grown so thick over the past three...
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