The Distant Threshold
I was scraping the rust off the iron clasp when the smell hit me. It was a sharp, metallic tang, like old blood mixed with wet chalk, rising from the damp concrete floor of the basement archives. My fingers were raw, the skin split and bleeding slightly where the pumice stone had rubbed too hard. I held the clasp up to the flickering bulb overhead. It was a heavy, rectangular thing, worn smooth...
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