Gemotions

The old Victorian house loomed, a dark silhouette against the twilight sky. Inside, Clara wrapped her arms around herself, trying to ward off the chill that had settled deep in her bones. The discovery – a young artist, murdered by a jealous rival in the studio room she now used as her bedroom – had stolen her joy.

She walked through the house, the floorboards groaning under her weight. She ran her fingers across the walls, feeling the texture of the plaster, the coolness of the paint. The house felt like a living thing, breathing, watching.

She turned on the lights, each bulb casting a harsh, unforgiving glare. She went into the studio, feeling a strange mix of dread and morbid fascination. She felt a pull, a dark current she couldn't name.