I was born and raised in the last village on The Bedford Turnpike. Despite its fancy name it was a ragged dirt road that went nowhere. A couple miles past the village the road disappeared into the highland mist. Nobody ever came back from there.
My neighbor Cassandra took her name to heart and sat in her old wooden chair at the end of town telling people to turn back. Nobody ever listened to her. She knew they wouldn’t. Still, she had to fulfill her duty. The warnings absolved her. Their fate was their own, and whatever lived up there.
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