The Distant Affair
"You are late." The voice did not come from the room. It came from the stone. It rose from the floorboards, from the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of afternoon light, from the very air that tasted of wet wool and old blood. You stood in the hallway of the house. It was a large house. Too large. The walls seemed to lean inward, pressing against your temples. The wallpaper was peeling,...
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