The Golden Ritual
The chandelier was made of teeth. Not human. Not quite. They were ivory-white, translucent, arranged in a spiral that descended from the ceiling like a frozen tornado. It hung in the center of the room. The room was small. Square. Concrete walls. No windows. I stood beneath it. My hands trembled. I looked at them. They were steady. Only the fingers shook. Margaret stood beside me. She wore a...
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