The Golden Cellar
The cellar door was heavy, oak-banded and swollen with the damp that had seeped into the foundation for three generations, and I remember the specific, metallic taste of the air that rose from it when I finally forced the latch open. It was not the smell of rot, as my colleagues at the university had predicted, nor the scent of mildew that one associates with forgotten places. It was a scent of...
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