Gemotions

The realtor, a relentlessly chipper woman named Brenda, gestured towards the wall behind the dusty bookshelf. "And this, dear, is where the magic happens!" I arched an eyebrow. Magic. Right. The house was a dilapidated Victorian, crammed with hideous wallpaper and a persistent odor of mothballs. Brenda, however, was determined to sell me on its "charm."

I sighed audibly. "Let's get this over with," I muttered, moving the bookshelf with more force than necessary. My fingers grazed a concealed latch. The wall clicked.

The hidden room was small, windowless, and smelled of something rotting. A single cobweb clung to a tarnished mirror reflecting my increasingly irritated face. This whole purchase was a colossal waste of time and money, but, of course, the bank wouldn't care.