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Weekly Contest #8
Years later, when Jeff thought back to the summer of 1958, the first thing he would remember was the fog. Every morning and every night, great white sheets of it rolled in from the ocean, smothering the town in a misty blanket so thick a person standing five feet in front of you would all but disappear. The fog always seemed to be saying something, as if by flowing over the rooftops, towers, and church steeples it was speaking some alien language that no human would ever understand. Jeff included. Some twelve miles off the coast of Rho...
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