The Pale Letter
The shadows in the reading room do not obey the light. I have watched them for three months, tracing the edges of the oak desks and the heavy velvet drapes, and they move with a slow, deliberate independence that makes my skin prickle. It is a subtle thing, a stretching of darkness toward the corners when the gas lamps flicker, but it is there, a presence that watches without speaking. I am...
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