The Blood Harvest of Magnolia Hall
Magnolia Hall did not decay so much as it breathed. It inhaled the Mississippi humidity and exhaled the smell of rotting wood and magnolia blossoms, and on certain nights, when the moon was low and the cotton fields were still, it seemed to exhale something else entirely: a sound like a woman humming a hymn that had been forgotten by everyone except the house itself. Eleanor Durand stood on the...
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