The House by the Blackwater
I was fourteen when I first stepped into the Blackwood house, and the first thing I noticed was the smell. Not the damp rot that clings to every building in Whitechapel, but something sharper underneath it -- formaldehyde, like the apothecary on Commercial Road, mixed with brine even though we were three miles from the Thames. The fog that night was thick enough to chew, yellow at the edges...
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