The Mud-Man of Blackwood Manor
The air in the Lowcountry of South Carolina is not air; it is a warm, wet blanket that smells of salt, decay, and the slow death of old things. Blackwood Manor sat at the edge of a cypress swamp, its white columns peeling like sunburnt skin, its gardens overgrown with vines that looked like strangling fingers. Silas, the last of the Blackwood line, lived there in a state of elegant rot, a man...
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