The Pale Letter
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray weeping that turned the cobblestones of the village into a mirror of the bruised sky above, and you stood in the doorway of the old manor house, your fingers raw from the cold iron of the gate, trying to remember why you had come back to a place that had already swallowed you whole once before. The house, Ashworth Hall, was not truly...
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