The Wistful Dinner
The house was bleeding again, a slow, viscous oozing of rust-colored damp that seeped up from the cellar floor and stained the whitewashed walls like old, dried blood. I stood in the center of the kitchen, the only room in the sprawling, rotting Victorian manor that still held a semblance of structural integrity, and watched the water spread across the linoleum in a pattern that resembled the...
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