Gemotions

He stared at the attic door, the paint peeling away in thick, curling flakes. The detective had mentioned the attic. That's where they'd found the… well, he wouldn't think about that. He didn't want to. John leaned against the wall, his chest heavy.

He had spent weeks restoring this place, sanding floors, painting walls, transforming it into the home he always dreamed of. Now, the joy of creation had been tainted. Every nail he hammered, every brushstroke he made felt… wrong.

He pictured the previous owner, a woman, and the last time she walked in the door. He felt a shiver run through him. He reached up and touched the door frame, finding it difficult to stay. He wanted to run, to escape the shadows that seemed to cling to the house.