The Bolt of Blackwood

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2026-06-18 21:03:44 -

I The night my parents died, the sky over Yorkshire was the colour of bruised iron. I was ten years old. I stood at the window of our bedroom on the second floor of Blackwood Manor, watching the storm roll in across the moors. The rain lashed against the glass in sheets. Thunder cracked like cannon fire, and the whole house shuddered in its foundations. Then the light came. It was not lightning...

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