The Pale Shadows
The deed was a folded rectangle of heavy cream paper, its edges soft as cloth from the way Elias Thorne had turned it over and over in his hands all night. He stood in the center of the parlor of the Blackwood estate, the floorboards groaning under the weight of his boots, while the air around him thickened into a cold, viscous fog that smelled of wet ash and old iron. It was 1904, and the year...
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