The wind was a whisper, a ghostly breath that stirred the dead leaves along the cracked stone paths of the Whispering Pines Cemetery. It was an old graveyard, one that had long since fallen into neglect, its fences sagging, tombstones leaning at drunken angles, and the air thick with the scent of decay and forgotten memories. It sat on the outskirts of the small town of Ravensbrook, a place no o ...
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