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  • The Archivist's Guardian
    The New York Public Library was a cathedral of silence, and Arthur Penhaligon was its high priest. As the chief archivist of the Rare Manuscripts Division, Arthur lived in the subterranean depths of the building, a world of climate-controlled vaults and the smell of vanilla-scented decay. He was a man of precision, his life measured in the thickness of acid-free folders and the careful...
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  • Traces in the Dust Bowl
    The dust does not discriminate. It enters through window cracks the width of a knife blade. It settles on bedspreads that were laundered that morning. It finds teeth. It finds the spaces between fingers that have been washed six times. It is in Oklahoma in 1933 and it is in everything and everything is in it and the distinction between inside and outside has been erased by a particle so small...
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  • The Southern Eye
    The basement beneath the abandoned cotton plantation smelled of damp earth and old wood and something else—something that Silas Duran could not name but recognized immediately, the way you recognize the smell of a place you have not visited in twenty years. It was the smell of memory. Not metaphorical memory. Physical memory. The electromagnetic imprints of everything that had happened in this...
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  • The Curse of Hollow Creek
    The summer of 1868 was the hottest anyone in Hollow Creek could remember. The kind of heat that makes the flies drunk and the dirt crack like gunshots and the old men sit on their porches and stare at nothing because moving makes you sweat. Dr. William de Montfort had come back to Hollow Creek three months ago, after the war, after the amputation, after the long gray months in a field hospital...
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  • The Red Clay Dirge
    The humidity of the Mississippi Delta was not a weather condition; it was a physical weight, a wet shroud that clung to the skin and dampened the soul. For Silas, the world had shrunk to the borders of the Blackwood estate—a sprawling, decaying monument to a grandeur that had vanished two generations ago. The house, a skeletal structure of white pillars and peeling paint, sat amidst a sea of...
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  • RUST AND BONE
    The radio was broken. It had been broken for six months. Tony Ferguson knew this because he had tried to fix it three times and failed each time, and each failure was slightly more embarrassing than the last because his father kept asking him about it. "It's just a connection," Tony said the third time, holding the back panel in one hand and a screwdriver in the other, neither of which was...
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  • The corner of seventh
    The thing about Brooklyn is that nobody notices when it ends. Not because it ends loudly. Because it ends the way a neighborhood ends when the rent goes up too high and the bodega becomes a boutique and the bodega guy moves to Queens and the street where you grew up has a new name that nobody uses. Quietly. Systematically. Without anyone throwing a punch. Eliot Rosenberg lived on the corner of...
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  • THE EXPERIMENT
    I. The bone did not belong to anything on earth. Elias Voss knew this with the absolute certainty of a man who had spent forty-one years studying the structure of life at its most fundamental level. He held the specimen under the electron microscope at his lab at UC Berkeley, adjusting the focus with hands that had grown slightly unsteady since the controversy, and he watched as the spiral...
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  • The Gentleman from London
    The fog swallowed Whitecliff Asylum whole, as London fogs had a habit of doing. Arthur Pendelton pulled his coat tighter and quickened his pace along the gravel path, his boots crunching on the frost-hardened ground. The asylum loomed before him, a great Victorian edifice of red brick and blackened stone, its windows like blind eyes staring out over the Thames. Lord Windsor had been very...
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  • The Muse Of Decay
    The Muse of Decay Act I London in 1897 was a city that had discovered it was beautiful and had not yet learned that beauty without morality is just a more elegant form of decay. The gas lamps lit the fog with a yellow glow that made the streets look like paintings, which was appropriate because London had always preferred its reality rendered in oil and canvas. Julian Vane moved through this...
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  • The Raven's Ledger
    The raven sat in the window of Whitmore's Emporium of Curiosities and watched the world pass by with an expression that Jonathan Whitfield could only describe as contempt. It was a large raven, larger than any raven had any right to be, with feathers the color of a winter sky and eyes like polished obsidian. It sat on a perch inside a cage of wrought iron and glass, and every morning at...
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  • The Black Lake
    The Blackwood Estate was a place where the air tasted of damp earth and old secrets. The house was a sprawling, decaying gothic monster, its windows like blind eyes watching the surrounding marshes. Amelia had come to the estate as a bride, but she soon realized she was actually a prisoner in a gilded cage of ancestral madness. Silas, her husband, was a man obsessed with the "hidden geometries"...
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