The Faded Guest
The ink on the deed was still wet when I signed my name, the nib scratching against the heavy parchment with a sound like a bone breaking. I did not look up. I could not look up. The lamp on the desk burned low, its flame a trembling yellow eye in the gloom of the study, casting long, distorted shapes against the wallpaper. The pattern was a faded damask, once red, now the color of dried blood,...
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