The Engine House: A Black Beacons Murder Msytery Rhys Dylan
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Our home is cold inside. Drapes and blinds are closed tightly, keeping out the pale light from the full moon. I awaken suddenly, hearing the sound of the fireplace crackling as the wood burns down to ashes. The bed under my body feels cold. A warm, abundant flow of liquid moves toward me. I feel a syrup-like substance, the texture warm and smooth.
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Hljóðbók: 29 september 2022
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