The Golden Cellar
The heavy brass key turned with a shriek of rusted iron that seemed to vibrate through the soles of Arthur Blackwood’s boots, and he stood in the dark, damp throat of the cellar, the smell of wet stone and decay settling into his lungs like a physical weight. Above him, the manor house groaned under the burden of a Scottish winter that had arrived early and with malice, but down here, in the...
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