The Pale Altar

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2026-08-19 08:37:34 -

The Pale Altar

The house was burning. Not the fire of passion. Not the clean, bright blaze of a hearth. This was a slow, wet rot. It ate the floorboards. It drank the wallpaper. It sat in the marrow of the beams like a cold stone. Eleanor stood in the hallway. She held a key. It was iron. Cold. Heavy. It cut into her palm. She did not look at the walls. She looked at the floor. The wood was black. It curled....

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