The Wistful Letter
The ledger held forty-three pages, each one weighed down by the damp that seeped from the floorboards of the east wing. Arthur Vane counted the entries twice, his finger tracing the ink until the smell of iron and old paper filled his throat. He was a clerk, not a ghost hunter, but the house had other ideas. For three weeks, the doors had opened on their own, the hinges groaning in the...
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