The Distant Threshold
The ink in your pen freezes before the words do, a small, crystalline bloom that signifies the breath of the building has settled into the room, and you, Arthur Vane, watch the black vitreous star form on the tip of the nib while the silence of the Blackwood Asylum presses against the windowpanes like a living thing seeking entry. It is November of 1924, and you have been the night watchman for...
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