Old Finnigan, weathered as the gnarled oak at the crossroads, swore on his rusted compass it started with whispers. Wispy things, carried on the chill that clung to the valley like a damp shroud. At first, just a tickle in the ears, like secrets shared by dying embers.
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But soon, the Murmur in the Mist, as the village folk called it, grew bolder. Inky black tendrils of fog swirled around the ramshackle houses, and the whispers swelled to a chorus of rasping voices, promising nightmares spun from shadow and teeth. Fear, thicker than the mist itself, choked the air. No lamplight dared pierce the gloom, and children huddled beneath ragged blankets, eyes wide with dread. For the Murmur promised oblivion, a slow, creeping hunger that gnawed at sanity and left behind only hollow husks, eyes reflecting the malevolent embers that danced in the swirling fog.
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