The house sat on the bluff above the Mississippi like a tooth that had survived too long in a rotten mouth.
Julian Beauregard stood at the gate and looked up at it. Five years old, he had run through these same grounds with his cousins, chasing each other around the columns that now leaned at angles that suggested they might fall at any moment. The white paint had peeled away in long strips, revealing the grey wood beneath like exposed bone. Ivy had climbed every surface, thick and green and...
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