The Pale Altar
The iron bell of St. Jude’s did not ring; it screamed. It was a sound that tore the morning air, a jagged shard of noise that split the sky over the valley. It hung there, suspended in the high tower, a black and brutal thing against the pale stone. To the children of the orphanage, it was not a symbol of faith. It was a mouth. It was a thing that ate silence and exhaled fear. Thomas stood in...
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