The Pale Altar
It was a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday, the kind of grey, wet day that seeps into the marrow and turns the air into a thick, cold soup, when Professor Arthur Penhaligon stood in the center of the lecture hall at St. Jude’s Academy for Advanced Linguistics and felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle with a fear that was not his own. The room was silent, a heavy, suffocating silence that...
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