Carver was a creature of the night. Often on frosty, corpse-chilled midnights like this, when few people dared to walk in the open and brave the primal resurrections of their childhood fears, he felt a thrum of pride from high in his gut, from that same place where people felt the screeching nails of terror pulsing up with every sound out of the brush, because he knew that there was nothing really in the shadows that was dangerous as him.
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