Gemotions

The realtor’s words, a cheery little ditty about the house’s history, suddenly felt like a punch to the gut. *“Built in the late 1920s, very sturdy construction, a few owners over the years…”* Her voice faded as the realtor mentioned a “previous incident” and a police investigation. My heart thrummed, a frantic bird trapped in my chest. I excused myself, needing air, and fled to the backyard, the meticulously manicured lawn now seeming sinister.

The thought of someone… something… happening in the same space I now called home made my skin crawl. I pictured the living room, the newly painted walls, the antique furniture I’d carefully chosen, and then overlaid it with a different scene, a darker one. My stomach lurched, and I leaned against the oak tree, trying to steady myself. The sunlight felt wrong, too bright.

I called my husband, my voice shaking. "We need to talk," I said, my throat suddenly dry. The words caught in the back of my throat, barely audible over the sudden rush of blood in my ears. The pleasantness of the afternoon had vanished, replaced by an unsettling sense of dread.