The Golden Suspect
The orchid in the hallway is dead, its leaves turned to brittle black ribbons that curl inward like closed fists. You notice it first, before you notice the cold, before you notice the way the air in the house has thickened, becoming viscous and heavy with a silence that is not empty but full, like a throat before a scream. The house is yours, or it was. It is a large, Victorian structure of...
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