What the Water Keeps, What the Water Takes
The house sank an inch the night I found the journal. I know this because I measured it. There is a mark on the parlor wall, a scratch my Uncle Jules made with his pocketknife five years ago when he first noticed the tilt in the floorboards, when the east wing of Beaumont Manor began its slow genuflection toward the bayou. He scratched a line at the height of the cypress waterline outside the...
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