The Iron Kitchen of Blackmoor Hall
PART I: THE DESCENT The carriage wheels crunched over frost-bitten gravel as Arthur Winters was dragged from the vehicle, his wrists bound with rough hemp rope that bit into skin already raw from three days of captivity. The Yorkshire moors stretched before him like a wound in the earth, grey and bleeding mist. And there, rising from the heath like a rotten tooth, stood Blackmoor Hall. The...
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