The Golden Cellar
The wind did not howl so much as it remembered, a low, grinding recollection of stones rubbing against one another in the dark, and it was this memory that first tore the roof from the house of Arthur Pendelton, sending shingles and splintered oak flying into the void like the scattered teeth of a broken jaw. Margaret stood in the center of the ruined living room, her dress torn at the hem, her...
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