The Faded Masquerade
The rain hammered the slate roof of the Wynn house, a relentless, industrial percussion that drowned out the ticking of the hallway clock and the soft, wet rattle of Margaret’s breathing in the next room. Arthur Wynn lay awake, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, the nightmare still clinging to him: a sheet of glass shattering, not into shards, but into letters, black ink...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews