The Black Widow of Whitfield Manor
The rain had been falling on Whitfield Manor for three days. Not the dramatic, cinematic rain of storybooks, but the slow, persistent rain of Georgia in late autumn, the kind that seeps into the walls and the floorboards and the bones of the house until the house itself begins to weep. Whitfield Manor had been weeping for a hundred and forty years, since the day my grandfather built it on a...
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