The house had been dying for sixty years, and Silas Blackwood was its undertaker.
Mississippi heat pressed down on the Delta like a hand on the back of your neck, relentless and suffocating. The cotton fields that had once made the Blackwood family rich were overgrown with briar and kudzu, and the manor house—Blackwood House, three stories of peeling white paint and sagging porch—stood at the center of it all like a skeleton at a feast. Silas was twenty-eight, the last of...
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