The Faded Guest
The hammer bit into the frame of the west wing door, and you watched the wood splinter with a sound like a dry bone breaking. You were forty-two years old, and your hands were steady, though the air in the hallway of Blackwood Manor felt thick and wet, as if the summer heat had condensed into a physical weight that pressed against your eardrums. You had come to sell the house, to settle the...
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