The House on Forge Lane
The bayou did not whisper. It breathed. A slow, wet, suffocating breath that rose and fell with the humidity and the heat and the weight of a hundred years of secrets buried in the mud. Thomas Beauregard stood in his forge at three in the morning, as he did every night, hammering a piece of steel that glowed orange in the darkness. The forge was in the backyard of the Beauregard mansion, a...
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