The Pale Altar
The ledger on the desk weighed exactly four pounds, a number Elias Thorne had counted three times before he dared to lift it. The paper was thin, cheap stock that smelled of damp cellar and machine oil, and the ink in the columns was a faded violet that bled slightly where the pen had pressed too hard. He had come to Blackwood Asylum with a discharge order in his breast pocket, a document...
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