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The Pale TaleThe stone house stood. It stood against the wind. It stood against the rain. It stood while I was gone. I returned to find it unchanged. The mortar was the same. The windows were the same. But the air inside was different. It tasted of copper. It tasted of old blood. I am a builder. My hands know stone. My hands know weight. But they do not know this silence. My name is Thomas. I built this...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant LegendThe fern was dead. It sat in a plastic pot on the corner of the desk. Brown. Crispy. It had been that way for three weeks. Elias stared at it. He adjusted his tie. The fabric itched. The office was cold. The air conditioning hummed a low, sick note. His name is Elias Thorne. He is twenty-two years old. He works in the Department of Agricultural Integrity. He is a junior auditor. His job is to...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful AsylumWe were not supposed to speak of the walls. This was the first rule, the one Brother Aldous beat into us with a palm that smelled of dried lavender and old blood. We were children, you see, or we were being made into them. In the year of the Lord 1342, or perhaps it was 1343, time had become a soup of incense and damp stone. I was seven. My name was Thomas, though the brothers called me Little...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded PhotographYou are seven years old, and the fog is not merely weather; it is a living thing, a pale, breathless entity that swallows the stone walls of Ashworth Hall until only the window remains, a singular eye staring out into the gray. Your father, a man of such rigid posture that he seems carved from the same cold granite as the floor, stands before you. He does not look at you. He looks through you,...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MeridianThe ink on the ledger had dried into a crust, a flaking residue that smelled of iron and old dust, and I held the book open in the dim light of the scriptorium, feeling the weight of the centuries pressing down on my fingers. I was not a monk, nor a scribe, but an investigator of the intangible, a man who sought the truth in the spaces between the words, and the truth I sought was written here...0 Comments 0 Shares 10 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AtticThe dust did not settle in the attic. It hung there, a suspended galaxy of gray motes, drifting in the stale air like the breath of the dead. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the room. He was a man of fifty-four, though his face bore the map of eighty. The lines around his eyes were deep trenches. His hands trembled. They always trembled now. He looked at the box. It was oak. Heavy. Bound...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorYou wake in the cold, sterile light of the cafeteria, the hum of the ventilation system a low, constant drone that vibrates in the marrow of your bones. The air smells of burnt toast and industrial sanitizer, a scent that has become inextricably linked to the taste of your own exile. You are standing before a long, stainless-steel counter, your hands gripping the edge of a porcelain bowl so...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale PathThe rain had been falling for three days, a steady, gray curtain that turned the mud of the estate into a slick, brown mirror. I stood by the window of the study, watching the water streak down the glass, while the smell of wet wool and old paper hung heavy in the air. Outside, the wind howled through the bare branches of the oak trees, a sound that seemed to vibrate in my bones. It was late...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful GridThe rain does not fall so much as it presses against the glass, a relentless, grey thumb pushing through the world, and you stand in the center of the dining room, holding a glass of whiskey that has long since gone warm, watching the water drip from the eaves onto the flagstones below where the ferns are dying. It is the evening of the anniversary, the fifth year since you took over the...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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