Gemotions

The antique clock in the hallway ticked with irritating slowness. Amelia paced the length of the living room, her fingers drumming an erratic rhythm against her thigh. She’d always loved the house, its creaky floors and the way the sunlight slanted through the old windows. Today, though, it felt confining, the walls pressing in. She needed air, something different. She grabbed her keys, a nervous energy thrumming beneath her skin. This feeling was a familiar ache, a need to escape.

Amelia found herself drawn to the local historical society, the chipped paint and peeling wallpaper of the building offering a strange solace. Inside, she sifted through dusty documents, hoping to find some distraction. A volunteer, a woman with kind eyes and a name tag that read “Ethel,” noticed her fidgeting. Ethel, mistaking her for a new arrival in town, told her about a series of gruesome murders in the neighborhood a century ago, the details lurid. Amelia felt a cold sweat break out across her forehead as she was informed her house was the site of the final tragedy.