The Distant Nightmare
The rain lashed against the high, arched windows of the Whitmore estate, a rhythmic, mechanical drumming that seemed to vibrate through the very bones of the house, a house that had stood on the cliffside for three generations, enduring the salt air and the shifting sands of time with a stoic, architectural indifference. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and old paper, a...
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