The Pale Shadows
The iron key was cold. Elias Thorne held it in his left hand, the metal biting into his palm. He stood in the center of the hallway, the air in the old house thick with dust and the smell of decay. A cough seized him, violent and wet, tearing through his chest. He doubled over, gasping for air that did not come. The lung disease had been a quiet thief for two years, stealing his breath in small...
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