The house on Cotton Row Road had been dying longer than any of us had been alive.
It sat on a patch of land that used to be a plantation before the war, before the cotton gave way to weeds, before the weeds gave way to something worse—forgetting. The porch sagged like a jaw missing teeth. The paint peeled in long strips, like sunburned skin. And in the basement, behind a wall of rotting cypress logs, was a door that led down into something that was not a basement but a...
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