The Warden of Blackwood Asylum
The steamer cut through the North Sea like a blade through fog, and when Eileen Hartley stepped onto the wooden pier at Blackwood Manor, the salt wind carried with it the smell of old bones. The manor rose from the cliffs like a tooth—grey stone, pointed towers, windows that stared down at the churning water below. It had been a private asylum for thirty years, though the locals called it by a...
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