The Distant Ghost
Julian Mercer did not believe in ghosts. Not until the ghost of his sister Eleanor appeared on the fogged glass of his Bloomsbury flat's west-facing window, leaving a handprint that was neither condensation nor smudge but a precise, deliberate signature of five fingers and a palm pressed against something on the other side of the glass. It was 3:47 AM on a Tuesday in November—the kind of hour...
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