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roads  into  the  surrounding  woods.  The  sound of  strange
            industry and muted conversations could be overheard from
            the basements and attics of no small number of houses. It
            also appeared  the  people  had renamed  their  township for
            some reason, as I found the name Lastrygone written upon a
            large sign set out by the only road connecting the city with
            the rest of the world. Overall, I found the little hamlet quite
            likable.
               At  last,  just  before  dawn,  I  arrived  at  the  abandoned
            residence of Martin Crook, the first recorded victim of Miss
            Patience. There were few occupied buildings near it, as if
            the  structure  had  been  ostracized.  I  entered  the  decaying
            Dutch Colonial—which looked untended since the murder,
            some ten or fifteen years ago—immediately touched by the
            cold echo of past atrocity.  The gloom tangibly thickened
            as  I  neared  the  cellar  door,  and  the  basement  stairs  held
            surprisingly firm as I descended them. The flesh of the house
            may have all but rotted away, yet the bones of its dead body
            remained strong—no doubt reinforced by the wicked deed’s
            refusal to abandon its home, preferring to keep the light of
            that wickedness alive and burning.
               The basement was small and earthen, which of course was
            why Miss Patience had chosen it. Surprisingly, the large hole
            in the floor leading to her underground tunnels was meager
            by way of adornments, despite its historical significance—
            unless you counted stolen dreams, in which case this was
            far  from  her  first  documented  kill.  I  looked  more  closely
            at the edges of the pit, and I noticed a small collection of
            teeth protruding from the inside rim, as if the opening were
            indeed designed to resemble a kind of mouth. I’m sure it
            was only the first of many mouths that ended up swallowing
            Mr. Crook that fateful night. The collection was comprised
            of mostly human and animal, though a smaller assortment
            were  beyond  my  ability  to  identify.  Nevertheless,  I  was
            fairly certain I was gazing upon fragments of the Tower of
            Teeth. I wasn’t sure what they signified, if anything. They
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