The Pale Altar
The air in the basement of the St. Jude’s Community Center smelled of wet wool, stale tobacco, and the metallic tang of fear that had settled into the drywall like dampness, a pervasive and cloying scent that Edmund Blackwood had tried to scrub from his nostrils for three days without success, though the building itself seemed to breathe it in and exhale it in rhythmic, heavy gusts that rattled...
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