The Distant Whispers
The house did not breathe, but it held its breath, a suspension of air so thick and cold it felt like a physical weight pressing against the ribs, a stagnation that Margaret Holloway had come to accept as the natural state of the world, a silence that was not empty but full, packed with the unseen motions of things that waited in the corners, in the rafters, in the very grain of the wood that...
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