Gemotions

The realtor, a woman named Agnes with a smile that felt like a permanent fixture, was explaining the joys of the original hardwood floors. "They've seen a lot," she said, her voice lilting, "and you can still feel the history." Sarah, tracing the grain with a fingertip, simply nodded. She'd already had the inspection, knew the plumbing was a nightmare, the wiring a fire hazard. But she'd wanted this house, a rambling Victorian with a wraparound porch, for years. A small tremor went through her as Agnes continued to describe the charming quirks, the "character" of the place. Sarah pictured herself, later, ripping out the rotting floorboards and replacing them with something modern.

That evening, the phone rang. It was Detective Miller, his voice gravelly, informing her of a detail glossed over by the previous owners. "There was an incident," he admitted, "a rather unfortunate one, back in '88." Her stomach dipped. She had a sudden, overwhelming urge to sit.