Gemotions

The realtor’s saccharine smile felt like a physical assault. “Isn’t it charming? So much history!” she’d chirped, gesturing towards the peeling wallpaper. Now, the “history” was a cold case homicide. A woman, butchered in what was now his master bedroom. He slammed the phone down, the plastic receiver cracking against the wood table. He’d spent his life savings on this house, a supposed fixer-upper. Now, it was a tomb.

His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white. He kicked at a loose floorboard in the hall, sending splinters flying. Sunlight streamed in the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, mocking the tranquility he’d envisioned. The realtor hadn't even given him a heads up. He'd found out from a gossiping neighbor.

He stalked through the house, each room a reminder of the deceit. The thought of sleeping, of living, in a place where a life had ended was a knot in his stomach. He ripped the “Sold!” sign from the lawn, tearing the cardboard into ragged pieces. He’d be calling his lawyer. Tomorrow.