The House of Blackwood Creek
I. The house had been rotting since before anyone alive could remember, and it was not a metaphor. The walls were soft in places, like fruit that had been left on the counter too long. When you pressed your hand against the plaster, it yielded slightly, and if you pressed hard enough, your fingers would come away with a thin layer of history—paint from the 1890s, wallpaper from the 1920s, the...
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