The Pale Altar
The boiler in the basement of the Ashworth House did not hum; it roared. It was a great, iron beast, half-swallowed by the damp earth of the cellar, and I had been its keeper for three years. I liked the job. I liked the smell of wet coal and the rhythmic thud of the pump. It was honest work. If you fed it, it worked. If you ignored it, it broke. Simple. I told myself that was the way of...
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