The Pale Exile
The air in the basement of the Whitmore Estate did not smell of dust or mildew, as one might expect of a cellar buried deep beneath the rolling hills of rural Vermont, but rather of wet wool and the metallic tang of old blood, a scent that clung to the back of my throat and refused to be washed away by the cold, stale wind that whistled through the cracks in the foundation stones. I sat on the...
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