The Pale Path
The walls moved again, and the light from the hallway lamp caught the new angle of the skirting board, a sharp, white line that had not been there at midnight. I wrote the time on my pad, 3:14 AM, and noted the shift in the east wing, a displacement of three inches that felt less like architecture and more like a slow, deliberate exhalation. I had been the night watchman at Halloway Estate for...
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