The Pale Verdict
The door was open. It had always been open, or so it seemed in the dream. The hinges groaned, a dry, wooden complaint that echoed in the empty hall. Thomas stood in the doorway. His hands were shaking. Not from cold. The air was still. It was the silence that made them tremble. Inside, the house waited. The wallpaper, a faded yellow with tiny blue vines, peeling in long strips. The floorboards,...
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