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The Distant JourneyYou wake in a house that does not exist, or rather, a house that has forgotten how to be a house, its walls breathing with the slow, tidal rhythm of a lung that has ceased to serve a living body. The air is thick with the scent of lavender and wet stone, a perfume so heavy it feels like a physical weight pressing against your eardrums, a cloying sweetness that masks the underlying rot of...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale Bridge"You need to file the requisition." "Today?" "Before noon." The voice belonged to the clerk. He sat behind a desk made of white oak. The wood was smooth. It reflected the light from the window. The window was high. Dust motes danced in the beam. They moved slowly. They did not hurry. I looked at the paper in my hand. It was thick. Cream-colored. It smelled of vanilla and old ink. I had held it...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden SongThe rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, gray mist that settled into the pores of the skin and the fibers of the wool coat, a persistent dampness that seemed to originate not from the sky but from the very marrow of the house, a house that had stood on the edge of the moor for three centuries, its stone walls thick enough to hold the cold out and the memories in, and in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MistThe fog did not roll in; it exhaled. It rose from the streets of Chicago like a living breath, thick and gray, swallowing the steel ribs of the city until only the highest spires poked through the milk-white air. I stood on the fire escape of my fourth-floor walk-up, my fingers cold against the rusted railing, watching the mist consume the world. It was a beautiful, terrible thing, this slow...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant ThresholdThe rain had not stopped for three days, turning the muddy road that wound up from the valley floor into a slick, treacherous ribbon of brown sludge that clung to the soles of my boots and sucked at my weight with every step, a persistent, viscous grip that made me feel as though the earth itself were trying to hold me down, to keep me from reaching the stone gate of the Abbey of St. Jude which...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Faded AtticThe fog rolled in thick as wool. It tasted of iron and old rain. I woke with the scent of ash on my tongue. The dream was sharp. A glass shattering. Not on the floor. In my hand. The shards were warm. They bit deep. I could not let go. The pain was a song. A low, humming chord. I opened my eyes. The ceiling was white. Stained. Like a bruise. This was my room. Above the mill. Above the silence....0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale ShadowsThe road to the Citadel was not a road at all, but a scar of packed earth that wound up the spine of the mountain, choked by the grey lichen of centuries. It was a journey of ascent, a physical labor that required the mind to be quiet so the body might breathe. Sir Elias Thorne walked with a gait that had once been a march, now softened by the damp chill that seeped into the joints of his...0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale MeridianThe bell did not ring; it screamed, a jagged iron shriek that tore through the velvet silence of the Hall of Echoes and lodged itself in the marrow of young Arthur’s bones. He stood frozen on the black marble floor, his small hands trembling at his sides, while above him, on the dais of polished obsidian, the Magistrate sat with his face obscured by a mask of white porcelain, smooth and...0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant PromiseThe iron gate of the Blackwood Asylum did not creak so much as it groaned, a deep, resonant thrum that traveled up the cobblestones and into the bones of those who walked beneath its arch, a sound that seemed to predate the very stone itself, vibrating with a low-frequency sorrow that no amount of oil or maintenance could ever fully silence. Thomas Bradshaw stood before it, his hand resting on...0 Comments 0 Shares 28 Views 0 Reviews
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