The Golden Scar
The furnace in the basement of the Holloway estate had not been lit in thirty years, yet when I descended the spiral iron staircase on that Tuesday morning, the air was thick with the metallic taste of ozone and the heavy, cloying scent of burnt sugar. I am not a man given to the supernatural, nor do I find comfort in the metaphysical, but the machine that stood in the center of the cellar...
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