The Pale Door
The bell in the steeple of St. Jude’s did not ring for the hour. It tolled for the end. You knew this because the sound was wrong, a low, mournful thrum that vibrated in the marrow of your bones rather than the air. You stood in the nave, alone, surrounded by the cold stone and the scent of damp moss and old wax. Your hands were clasped before you, fingers interlaced so tightly the knuckles...
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