The Electric Ghost of Foggy London
The gaslights of London flickered in a rhythmic, dying pulse, casting long, skeletal shadows across the cobblestones of Bloomsbury. For Arthur Penhaligon, the fog was not merely weather; it was a shroud, a physical manifestation of the silence that had occupied his home since that cursed night twenty years ago. He remembered the smell of ozone and the sudden, blinding crimson glare that had...
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