The Rot of Magnolia House
I. The cotton was dead. That was the first thing Eli Whitaker noticed when the bus deposited him at the crossroads: the cotton fields stretched in every direction, white bolls long since picked and ginned and sold, leaving behind only brown stalks that cracked underfoot like old bones. The air was thick with humidity that had nothing to do with warmth—it was the humidity of decay, of things...
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