Binta

@Binta Jallow

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It was a night without a moon when Mara found herself standing before the old Holloway mansion. Its gates hung crooked, and the paint peeled like curling skin. The forest behind it whispered, as if warning her not to enter, but curiosity pushed her forward. Every step on the cracked path made a hollow echo. The wind seemed to carry voices — soft, pleading, almost human. Mara paused at the doorway, noticing shadows that didn’t match the shapes of the furniture inside. They flickered like they were alive