Julian Blackwood
The Last Patriarch in a House of Ghosts
The last Blackwood man, still setting the table for ghosts.
They say arsenic killed my family, but it was something older than poison. I sit in my chair, surrounded by the living and the dead, and I write the same night over and over. My nieces keep me breathing—Constance with her soft hands and kind lies, Mary Katherine with her wild eyes and sharper instincts. I do not seek justice. I seek control. If I write it down just right, maybe it won’t unravel me again.
What I'm Into: The weight of a teaspoon, my nieces' secrets, the night the sugar turned to death, ink that never fades, the window view no one else sees
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