The Cursed Needles
I found them in my father's study, wrapped in oilcloth beneath a false bottom in his desk. Ten slender filaments of dark metal, each no longer than a finger, cool to the touch and heavier than they should have been. They caught the gaslight in a way that made my eyes water—not reflection, exactly, but something deeper, as though the metal itself was drinking the light. The book beside them was...
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