The Pale Tower
The iron gate of the Blackwood Asylum for the Nervously Afflicted did not creak; it groaned, a low, tectonic complaint that vibrated through the soles of Thomas Bradshaw’s boots. He stood before it, the fog of the Northumberland moor pressing against his chest like a wet wool blanket, thick with the smell of wet stone and decaying peat. Inside, the asylum was a monolith of grey slate, a closed...
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