The Pale Fracture
I was prying the back cover off the *Encyclopedia of Municipal Zoning* when the static started, a low, wet hiss that smelled of ozone and burnt sugar, filling the small, damp air of my office until the hair on my forearms stood up in protest. The porcelain doll, small enough to fit in the palm of a man’s hand, sat in the hollowed-out spine, its glass eyes fixed on the corner of the room where...
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