The Pale Altar
The iron gate of the Sanatorium for the Correction of Moral Deviations did not creak, because it had been oiled with the rendered fat of the last three men who had refused to surrender their identities, a thick, pale grease that slicked the hinges into a silent, perpetual rotation, allowing the door to swing open with the smooth, mechanical indifference of a jaw unhinging, while Sergeant Elias...
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