The Golden Myth
The iron gate of the Blackwood Asylum for the Insane did not so much open as it accepted us, the heavy hinges groaning a low, mournful note that seemed to vibrate directly in the marrow of my bones. We were a procession of the condemned, or so the world outside believed, shuffling forward in our coarse woolen garments, our heads bowed against the relentless, industrial rain that slicked the...
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