The Golden Cellar
The cellar door was not so much opened as surrendered, groaning against the weight of decades of silence and the damp rot that clung to the limestone walls like a second skin. Thomas Bradshaw stood at the threshold, his boots slipping on the slick flagstones, his breath coming in short, ragged hitches that echoed in the dark space below the house. He was a man who had learned to hide his fear...
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