The Pale Shadows
The gaslight in the attic of the Whitmore textile mill had flickered for three days without ceasing, a pale, trembling eye that watched us from the corner of the ceiling where the shadows pooled like stagnant water. We were three men, bound not by kinship but by the suffocating, heavy air of the place, and we sat in the circle of that unnatural light, our hands resting on the table that was...
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