The Faded Alibi
The mortar in the bowl was not merely a mixture of flour and water, but a viscous, living thing, a grey paste that seemed to breathe with the slow, rhythmic pulsation of a heart that had long since stopped beating, and as Margaret Holloway stood at the center of the sterile, white-tiled laboratory, her hands submerged to the wrists in the cold, damp mass, she felt the familiar, terrifying...
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