The Distant Threshold
October 14, 1924 The cellar door was not locked, but it was heavy, and Thomas’s weight against the floorboards below had settled the dust into a fine, grey powder that now coats my fingers. I am writing this by the light of a tallow candle, the flame trembling not from the draft, but from the sheer, suffocating silence of the house. He fell while chasing a shadow, the constable said, a shadow...
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