Gemotions

The realtor’s words, a cheery little bird song, still echoed in Clara’s ears. “Perfect starter home! So much potential!” Now, standing in the cramped kitchen, the linoleum worn thin, a cold dread coiled in her stomach. The police report, hastily scanned that morning, detailed a brutal stabbing in this very room, years before. Her breath hitched. She ran a hand through her hair, a nervous gesture she hadn't realized she was making. The scent of stale disinfectant clung to the air, a phantom odor she couldn't shake. Her vision swam.

She slammed the report closed, the sound sharp in the silent house. Panic tightened her chest. A cold sweat slicked her palms. She wanted to bolt, to run from the suffocating walls, from the knowledge that seeped into the very foundation. She found herself clutching the countertop, knuckles white, as if to anchor herself. Her head throbbed.

Clara stared at the blood-stained stain under the table leg, that she had previously overlooked. The light through the kitchen window had a menacing feel to it. It seemed to illuminate every shadowy corner, highlighting the violence that had once unfolded here. She had to sit down.