The Pale Letter
The rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the low, bruised sky, a persistent, cold mist that seeped through the cracks in the boarded-up window frames of the cellar where I sat, huddled beneath a coat that smelled of wet wool and the distinct, metallic tang of old fear. I had been in this house, a sprawling and rotting Victorian manor on the outskirts of a nameless European town, for...
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