The Pale Mist
The house breathes around you, a slow, rhythmic exhalation of dust and decay that you have come to mistake for your own pulse. You are standing in the center of the grand foyer, your bare feet sinking slightly into the warped oak floorboards, which have swollen and groaned over the decades until they form a topography of small, jagged hills. The air is thick, heavy with the scent of dried...
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