A biting chill, sharp as a stiletto, slips through the observatory's stone louvres, carrying the heavy, resinous breath of pine and the sodden rot of autumn leaves. The mercury bar…
A pall of storm clouds, heavy and dark as a raven's wing, smothers the heavens above Scarlet Ridge, permitting not a single star to pierce the gloom. The new moon, hidden and silen…
A breathless, brooding stillness enshrouds the high crags, as though the Carpathian peaks themselves have drawn in a solemn breath and dare not exhale. The firmament above is a pat…
The mercury within its Torricellian tube has begun its slow, inexorable descent—twenty-nine inches and eight-tenths, and still slipping downward with the stealth of a grave-robber.…
A biting chill, sharp as a blade drawn across the throat, clings to every stone of Scarlet Ridge, and the air hangs heavy with the resinous breath of pines and the sodden decay of …
A spectral luminosity, neither dawn's promise nor noon's clarity, pervades the gorge this tenth day of October, 1841. The valley river fog, dense as a burial shroud, clings to the …
The mercury in my barometer stands at 29.97 inches, motionless as a tombstone, while the thermometer registers 47 degrees Fahrenheit—a chill that seeps through wool and flesh alike…
The Torricellian column within its brass housing has descended to nine and eighty-four hundredths inches, and still it creeps downward with the stealth of a grave-worm, while the h…
The Torricellian column within its brass housing has begun its fateful descent, the quicksilver slipping from 29.74 inches with each passing quarter-hour, as though the very atmosp…