Gemotions

The morning light felt abrasive against Eleanor's eyelids. It was already eleven, but she hadn’t the energy to pull herself from the covers. Her limbs felt heavy, and the world seemed to be moving at a speed she couldn't match. She'd been meaning to paint the kitchen for weeks, but the thought of it sent a cold dread through her.

A realtor’s email landed with a thud in her inbox. It concerned the history of her house. She scrolled through the PDF, expecting the usual platitudes about "historical charm." But then she saw it: "Previous owner, deceased in residence, suspected homicide." Eleanor felt the blood drain from her face.

The air in the house suddenly seemed thick, stagnant. She looked around, at the freshly painted walls, the cheerful curtains. It was all so…wrong. How could she live here, sleep here, knowing what had transpired within these walls? She felt a chill crawl up her spine. The sun, once so unwelcome, now felt like a cruel spotlight, illuminating the unseen corners, the shadowed secrets of her home.