The Pale Tale
You are standing in the hallway of a house that does not belong to you, holding a clock that does not tell the time. The walls are stripped of their wallpaper, revealing the raw plaster beneath, a skin peeled back to show the bone of the structure. It is 1924, or perhaps 1930, the dates have blurred in your mind like a double-exposed photograph, but the air smells of wet wool and coal smoke,...
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