Forgotten

Now, I suppose, you know who I am . . . when I lived in London, many years ago, I called myself Varelli. I use another name these days, to be forgotten. Are you surprised to hear my voice? I can speak only with this. I've built the house, which became their eyes and ears. Then I buried myself here. This building has become my body, its bricks my soul, its passageways my veins, and its horror my very heart. Come closer . . . so I can whisper.

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