The Distant Ghost
The rope was already tied around Elias Thorne’s neck, a cold, fibrous noose that bit into the skin of his throat. He stood in the center of the gallows platform, the wind off the Iron Peaks tugging at his prison shirt, while the crowd below chanted in a low, rhythmic drone. It was 1893, and the dawn was a bruised purple across the valley, promising a day that Elias Thorne would not see. He had...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews