Gemotions

Michael checked the locks on every single window, even the ones on the second story. He did this every night since he'd discovered the house's history. The flimsy metal latches seemed woefully inadequate, a pathetic barrier against… whatever. A chill snaked up his spine, despite the thermostat reading a steady 72 degrees.

His eyes darted across the living room, always landing on the same spot: the faint, almost imperceptible stain on the rug that the cleaners hadn't been able to remove. He had called the police again that week, asking them to come investigate, though there was no reason to. They said there was nothing to worry about. He was certain they were hiding something.

He paced the living room, hands clenching and unclenching. He pulled the curtains shut, plunging the space into darkness, and the darkness only made it worse. He jumped at a crackle from the fireplace. His heart hammered in his chest.