The Magnolia Abattoir
I. The cellar door had been locked for as long as Pauline DuBois could remember, which was twenty years, three months, and twelve days. She counted because counting was something you could do without asking permission, and in the Welch manor, permission was the one thing they never gave. The lock was old—rust eating at the iron teeth, the keyhole clogged with decades of Mississippi humidity....
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