Title: The Root of the Rot
The humidity in the cellar was a physical weight, a wet blanket that smelled of sulfur, river silt, and the slow, inevitable decay of the South. I was nailed to a cross of cypress wood, the grain of the timber biting into my shoulders. Around me, the walls wept a black, viscous fluid that seemed to pulse in time with the distant croaking of bullfrogs in the Mississippi bayou. I thought I was...
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