The wind whistles through the bare branches, scratching, scratching, rising the hair on the back of your neck. As you stand at the crossroads, the foul mist creeping over your toes and up your legs, eyes peer out of the gloom and you know you're being watched. Which way to go? Where can you find shelter on this night, the veil between worlds thin and nebulous?
What lurks in the swamp, is that a shack you see hiding behind the great mossy...
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