The Pale Altar
The banquet hall of the Ashworth estate, a sprawling Victorian monstrosity of iron girders and gaslight, thrummed with a low, electric hum that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of your bones, a sound as pervasive and insistent as the tick of the grandfather clock that stood sentinel by the door, its pendulum swinging with a heavy, metronomic precision that counted out the seconds of your life,...
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