The Wistful Letter
The ink was still wet on the page when the plaster began to hum. I was cataloging the third volume of *Hawthorne’s Complete Works* when the sound started, a low, grinding vibration that traveled up through the oak desk and into the bones of my wrist. It was not a ghost, or at least, not in the way the village folk described them. It was a pressure. A weight. I pressed my palm flat against the...
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