Shadows at Beaumont
The oak trees at Beaumont Plantation had been growing for three hundred years, and their branches hung over the property like the arms of old men who have forgotten how to let go. Caleb Mercer stood at the edge of the driveway — a cracked ribbon of limestone half-swallowed by ivy — and looked up at the main house. It was a vast, crumbling thing of grey brick and white columns, with windows like...
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