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... e, a miasma that smelled horribly like cigarettes. Red flag number two.
And then was the number three...
“Why, good evening. Staying for the night, are you dearie?”
A jubilant wheezy whisper that resounded from just mere meters away, as I cautiously threaded across creaking planks and moth-eaten carpets, I came face to face with a wide toothy grin belonging to a shriveled, sullen-looking old woman sitting behind an ash glazed desk, with enough cigarette butts and ashtrays ...
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