The Distant Nightmare
Elias Thorne’s fingers, stained black to the second knuckle, pressed a damp cloth against the spine of a leather-bound volume, wiping away the fresh, viscous ink that had wept from the binding like a slow hemorrhage. He was forty-two, a senior archivist at the Blackwood Institute, and his hands were the only things in the sub-basement that did not tremble, though the air itself seemed to...
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