Gemotions

The antique dealer had just left, and Martha bounced on the balls of her feet in the entryway. A thrill surged through her, a palpable buzz. She gripped the crumbling edge of the original blueprint, the ink faded but still legible. "Murder on Elm Street," the dealer had croaked, his voice gravelly, pointing to a tiny, barely-there asterisk. Now she understood the ridiculously low price she'd paid for the Victorian.

A giggle escaped her lips. She practically vibrated. She had always wanted a house with a history, a real, juicy, scandalous history. This was better than she could have ever hoped for. The air in the hallway felt suddenly charged, alive with unseen stories.

She dashed into the parlor, already plotting renovations. The stained glass window would look even more dramatic with the right lighting. Maybe she’d even host a murder mystery dinner party. She imagined guests gasping, their faces lit by candlelight. Her stomach was doing flips, and she had to sit down to catch her breath.