The Golden Myth
The house was not a structure so much as a fracture in the air, a jagged tear in the fabric of the suburban night that seemed to pulse with a sickly, golden light which bled through the cracked windowpanes and pooled on the dusty floorboards like spilled honey. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the living room, his hands trembling so violently that the heavy oak door he held felt weightless,...
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