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Narrated by M.K. Hobson.
Every night since I crouched with Mama beneath that upturned hull, I have dreamt of Alder Mere, of Mama's wet hands and sleeves, of my own blood dripping into the water, of something shifting and moving in the murky depths. Something growing, something wrapped in mud and shadow. Something hungry. Something that has learned to lurk and wait. The same as me.
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Read “The Whisper of That Blood” by Maria Haskins, in Issue #382
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