Gemotions

The realtor’s saccharine smile had curdled in Amelia's stomach weeks ago. Now, staring at the peeling wallpaper of the supposed "sunroom," a tremor of pure, unadulterated *something* ran down her spine. The house, a sprawling Victorian monstrosity, had been her escape from *him*. Escape, it appeared, was a lie.

She slammed her fist against the wall, the flimsy plaster giving way to a hollow thud. A distinct draft kissed her knuckles. This damned house, with its creaking floorboards and shadowy corners, was a tomb.

Amelia grabbed a kitchen knife, the steel cold against her skin. The wallpaper tore easily, revealing a dark rectangle. A door, meticulously concealed. Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a furious drumbeat echoing the tempest raging inside.