Gemotions

The key scraped against the lock, a sound that echoed unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet. Clara swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. Sunlight, filtering through the dust-coated windows, painted stripes across the floral wallpaper of the hallway. Each shadow seemed to lengthen, to twist into unfamiliar shapes. She clutched her brother’s arm, her fingers digging in. "Maybe we should come back tomorrow," she mumbled, her voice barely audible.

His gaze flicked from her to the darkened living room beyond. "Nonsense. Grandma would hate us for being cowards." His words, meant to be encouraging, felt brittle. He pushed the door open, the hinges groaning in protest.

A chill, deeper than the autumn air, settled on Clara's skin. She rubbed her arms, her eyes darting from corner to corner. The scent of mothballs and something else, something indefinable and stale, hung heavy in the air. Each creak of the floorboards under her brother's weight sent a jolt of alarm through her.