The Pale Tower
The iron key in Elias Thorne’s pocket was cold, a weight that seemed to pull his center of gravity down toward the earth, and he walked through the black mud of the Blackwood Asylum grounds with the heavy, deliberate tread of a man who had spent thirty years carrying the burden of the law. It was 1893, and the autumn wind carried the scent of wet leaves and the sharp, chemical tang of the...
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