Behold, The Wicked Wind
By: A.P. Miller
Wolf Rocks, Appalachian Mountains – Halloween, 1910.
Bad magic usually comes with a few rules: utmost faith and keeping your mouth shut about what you had seen is usually chief amongst the unwritten regulations to be followed. Keeping that in mind, the long line of people waiting to get inside of the cabin was much longer than should be, if everyone had been abiding by the rules. The night was thick with unseasonable humidity, a bad moon had cast a wicked glow over everyone that was waiting, and a dense mist was rising from the stream that flowed nearby. The combination of cool grass underfoot and the beads of sweat pouring from the brow was a tad disorienting.
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