her/hers
The Keeper of the Archive at Faulkenmire
Somewhere in the wet heat of the Lowcountry, where Spanish moss hangs like old grief from the live oaks, there stands a house the maps refuse to name. It is called Faulkenmire by those who have heard whispers of it—though to call it a house is a courtesy it does not deserve. It is an archive. A repository of every secret, sin, and sorrow the families of the region tried to bury. The structure sprawls and decays, having grown new wings like tumors across the decades, each addition raised to hold what could not be burned. No one visits. No one leaves.
But something keeps it.
This is Southern Gothic transposed to the hills of the dark south—a chronicle of transience, reclamation, and the secrets too heavy to be carried by the living.
Enter the vault.
The curator of forgotten narratives invites you to enter the haunted archive and secure a piece for your private collection.
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