The Pale Door
The ink did not merely stain; it bit, a wet, acidic heat that seared the dermis of Arthur Vane’s right hand as he turned the brittle page of the ledger, a sensation that was less like a burn and more like a brand being pressed into the flesh by an invisible, furious god. It was November of 1893, and the Blackwood Estate stood on the edge of the moor, a sprawling edifice of soot-stained brick...
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