The Tarantula of Glenmoriston
The storm had been building since afternoon, a low bruising of clouds gathering over the Glenmoriston valley like a wound that would not close. By evening, the wind was throwing itself against the stone walls of Dr. Alistair MacKenzie's cottage with the fury of something that had been kept out for too long and had decided to come in anyway. Alistair sat at his workbench, the lamplight throwing...
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