The Pale Letter
The dream began, as it always did in the deep, freezing quiet of the winter solstice, not with a sound but with a sensation of terrible, absolute weight, a sensation that pressed down upon the chest of young Julian Vane as if the air itself had solidified into a slab of lead, and he lay there in the narrow, iron-framed bed of the Sanatorium for Nervous Ailments, his eyes wide open to the...
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