The Golden Visit
You hear the scratching first. It is a dry, rhythmic sound, like a fingernail dragging across the spine of an old book, or the shell of a walnut splitting under a hammer. It comes from the walls of the manor, that vast, decaying beast of a house where you have lived for thirty years, since the day your father brought you here, a child with mud on your knees and a box of clothes in your hand....
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