The Distant Ghost
The bread had begun to rot, a slow and sweet decay that filled the air of the cellar with a cloying, fungal perfume, thick as the fog that usually rolled off the Thames and settled into the cobblestones of Whitechapel like a wet wool blanket. I stood in the dim, oil-lamp light, holding the loaf in my hands, feeling the cold, dampness of the mold seep through the parchment paper and into the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews