The Wistful Asylum
Thorne, get out of there. The voice was not one of the living, but it carried the specific, guttural rasp of Head Warden Halloway, who had died of a stroke in the winter of 1909, leaving his office chair still warm for three days before the orderlies finally moved it. I am writing this from the small, windowless room I have claimed as my study within the Blackwood Asylum, a place of rusted iron...
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