The Pale Door
The pneumatic hiss of the Blackwood Asylum’s main gate was a sound Elias Thorne had heard a thousand times, yet tonight it sounded like a dying breath. He stood before the rotting iron bars, his uniform soaked in the November rain, his service pistol cold in his hand. The year was 1912, and the institution loomed against the sky like a tomb of brick and glass, its windows glowing with the...
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