The Golden Ritual
The bell in the steeple did not ring for the hour, but rather for the arrival of the something that had no name, a sound that seemed to vibrate not in the air but in the marrow of the bones, a low, thrumming resonance that made the dust settle in the corners of the room and the light from the single oil lamp flicker with a sickly, jaundiced hue. I stood before the mirror, my hands trembling so...
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