The Wax in the Veins
I. The journal arrived on a Tuesday, wrapped in oilcloth and tied with twine. Elias Thornwood found it in the attic of Thornwood Hall, where dust had settled for thirty years and the last living soul had not walked. The house was dying around him—floorboards groaning, plaster flaking, the great rooms echoing with the hollow sound of wind through broken windows. He was twenty-four, pale, and...
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