Gemotions

The musty air hit Amelia like a physical blow. She recoiled, pressing a hand to her mouth as she stumbled backward from the newly revealed doorway in the basement. The smell—a cloying blend of decay and something indefinable, acrid—clung to her nostrils. She wanted to scrub her face raw.

“Well, this is… charming,” she managed, her voice thin, almost a whisper. Her husband, Mark, beamed, oblivious.

He’d always loved renovations. He gestured expansively at the room, cobwebs brushing against his arm. Amelia felt a cold dread creep up her spine. The wallpaper, a sickly floral pattern, was peeling away, revealing patches of damp, stained plaster beneath.

She didn't want to touch anything. She thought the room would be a good place to keep the Christmas decorations.