Gemotions

He’d always loved the old Victorian, the way the sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows. Now, the stained glass seemed to watch him. He’d learned the details of the crime through a dusty local newspaper archive: a brutal stabbing in the master bedroom, the very room where he now slept.

He stopped taking his usual evening walks. Instead, he started checking the locks on the doors, the windows. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm whenever a car drove past.

One night, a floorboard in the hallway groaned. He froze, his breath catching in his throat. He grabbed the baseball bat he’d impulsively bought that afternoon, clutching it tight as he slowly crept towards the noise.