The Pale Garden
The banquet hall smells of roasted pork, stale wine, and the metallic tang of old fear, a scent that has seeped into the very plaster of the walls of the St. Jude’s Correctional Facility for the Mentally Deranged, a place where the living are kept safe from their own minds and the dead are kept in the archives. You are sitting at the head of a long table, your hands trembling slightly under the...
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