By Phil Rossi
Darkness has encouraged worry considering that mankind first watched the sunlight pass down. undesirable issues conceal at nighttime feral beasts with mouths jam-packed with razors looking ahead to a flavor of flesh. yet now, the darkness is stirring with a lifetime of its personal. Crescent Station is the final bastion of civilization, floating within the chilly, outer platforms the place colonized area offers solution to the sparser settlements of the Frontier. just like the growth cities of far-off Earth s outdated American West, Crescent Station is a gateway to strength, wealth, and chance for a person who isn t afraid to get his or her arms soiled. yet deep in the station s bowels, in Crescent s darkest and so much mystery locations, an historic evil is awakening and hungry, and it threatens the very textile of house and time. Will the citizens of Crescent Station be able to prevent it ahead of the phobia drives them insane? Or is it already too past due?
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Ashley missed the answer due to static, which was probably from dropping her headset and/or the battery pack once too often. She jiggled the wire that connected them, and by then somebody else was off on a different joke—evidence, if she had needed it, that Dan's joke hadn't led to uncontrollable laughter. "Here comes the rain," Nikko announced, and in another moment it started, as suddenly as someone turning on the shower, sharp and distinct-sounding, like an infinite number of thrown pebbles.
Sixteen years of living in Farnham was enough to make anyone's brain begin to slumber, but Martin was determined not to let this happen to him, as it had so obviously happened to all the elders of the village, and to so many of his kinsfolk, and was now beginning to happen to his age-mates. Even his cousin Raleigh, who had always been good for thinking up schemes and pranks and ways to get out of working any more than was absolutely necessary, even Raleigh was no longer fun. Lately he was taken with Lissa, the blacksmith's daughter, and all of a sudden he was concerned about not looking foolish, or lazy, and he was absorbed with searching out opportunities to talk with her, and—failing that—to talking about her.
But why was his spirit—his ghost, whatever (she felt silly even thinking the words to herself)—still here? Something must be wrong. Well, duh. Something beyond that he'd been killed in a terrible way. All the boys had been killed in a terrible way. Why was this one still here—she again cringed at the wording—haunting? No matter where Roehmar killed them—and the police suspected it hadn't been at the house—afterward he brought the bodies back to the farm, cut them into manageable pieces, wrapped them in plastic bags, and shoved them into the basement's crawl space.
Crescent by Phil Rossi