The Pale Protocol
The house breathes in the dark. You can hear it. A low, wet exhalation from the walls, the floorboards, the very air that clings to your skin. You have lived here for thirty years, or perhaps three. Time has become a liquid, viscous and slow, pooling in the corners of the attic where the dust motes dance in the sliver of light that cuts through the boarded-up window. You are here because you...
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