The Shadow of the Great House
The humidity in the Lowcountry didn't just hang; it suffocated. It was a thick, wet blanket that smelled of ploughed earth, rotting jasmine, and the slow, inevitable decay of the Blackwood Estate. The house itself was a skeletal ruin of white columns and peeling paint, leaning precariously toward the swamp as if it were trying to drown itself. I spent my days in the periphery, a ghost in a...
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