The Pale Altar
The house stood on the hill like a broken tooth. I sat in the study. The air was still. Dust motes danced in the single beam of afternoon light. I held the pen. My hand trembled. Not from age. From cold. Or perhaps from fear. I am a man of reason. I have spent forty years cataloguing the dead. I have written monographs on the decline of the aristocracy. I have lectured on the structural...
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