The Golden Suspect
The plaster trowel slipped from my hand, clattering against the baseboards with a sound that seemed too loud for the empty hall. I picked it up, my fingers numb from the cold seeping through the floorboards of Vane House, and looked at the wall where the wallpaper had curled away to reveal bare lath. It was 1912, and I was forty years old, a man who had spent the last decade chasing ghosts in...
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