Gemotions

Michael slumped onto the worn couch, a sigh escaping his lips that carried the weight of a week's worth of inertia. He had a mountain of laundry to fold, groceries to buy, and a novel he’d been wanting to read for months. But the couch was a black hole, and he was stuck in its orbit.

His phone buzzed. A text from his neighbor, Mrs. Gable: “Did you know about the last residents? Tragic, really.” He tapped the link she sent, a local news article from decades ago. “Brutal murder… in this very house.”

He felt a sudden, oppressive pressure in his chest. The air in the room felt stale. He stared at the fireplace, imagining the scene described in the article. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to deepen, to take on new, unsettling forms. He pushed himself off the couch, his limbs feeling like lead. He wanted to leave, to be anywhere but here, in the place where violence had once taken root.