The Wistful Crossroads
The bell rang. Not once. Twice. Three times. The sound was wet. Thick. It tasted of copper on the tongue. I stood by the window. The glass was cold. My breath fogged it. I wiped it away. My hands shook. "Margaret," the voice said. It was not a name. It was a weight. It pressed against my chest. "Margaret." I turned. The room was dark. The candle guttered. The flame was blue. "Who is there?" I...
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