Gemotions

The realtor, a grinning, sickeningly cheerful man, had practically skipped through the newly purchased Victorian, gushing about its "charm." Amelia loathed the charm. She hated the chipped paint, the sagging porch, the way the sunlight hit the dust motes dancing in the air, mocking her. "It's perfect for you!" he'd chirped. Perfect. She slammed the door to the master bedroom, the force rattling the ancient windowpanes. She wasn't feeling particularly welcoming.

She stalked across the room, her boots heavy on the creaking floorboards, and kicked at a loose floorboard near the fireplace. It sprang up with a protesting groan, revealing a dark, musty space below. Curiosity, the insidious little beast, pricked at her. She grabbed a flashlight from her cluttered moving box and jammed it into the opening.

The beam of light cut through the gloom, illuminating a small, stone-lined room. An old, tarnished metal trunk sat in the center. She didn't want to know what was inside. She’d rip the damned thing open and then leave everything to rot.